God's Words Upside Down

In one of my college art history classes, I remember seeing a lovely medieval painting in which God was speaking to someone. You could tell it was God speaking, because the text was upside down. The positioning, according to our professor, symbolized not only God’s place “up there,” but also the difficulty that we have understanding God.

Could this symbolism help us live more comfortably with our scriptures?

Right now, I’m in a phase where nothing about the Bible makes sense. I reread passages whose meaning I’ve “understood” for 20 years—and I see something different in them. (Some of these lessons have blessed me mightily, so it’s not all bad.) Turns of phrase that once seemed drop-dead clear are now maddeningly obscure. Don’t even get me started on the outright contradictions.

And my 21^st-century mind is sorely tempted to ask, “What’s wrong with you writers? Why can’t you be clear and consistent?”

To be sure, we’re reading texts written millennia ago by multiple writers with multiple viewpoints, and that’s part of the issue. But I think there’s more to it: namely, the impossibility of explaining ultimate reality directly. No wonder God’s words are upside down: in a sense, they cannot be any other way.

I see the same struggle to express reality outside the texts of faith traditions. In Ulysses, James Joyce takes 700-odd pages—some of them nearly incomprehensible—to present a three-dimensional portrait of one man on one day. Cubist portraits translate 3D onto a flat surface by displaying each feature of the subject on its own plane; the result is a more complete presentation of the elusive reality than a standard portrait could be.

In short, reality will not be nailed down.

What does this mean for us? Maybe it means the pressure is off. We don’t have to pinpoint exactly who Jesus was, or define God in a neat way, or be “right” about details. The pursuit of truth becomes less pursuit and more exploration. Humility gets the chance to flourish in our souls. We can hold what we’ve learned lightly, in case we learn something else to turn those lessons upside down.

And without the need to be “right,” we can turn more of our attention to God, where we will find far more truth anyway—and the love we desperately need to leaven it.

Is Mary for Everyone?

A monk friend of mine (Episcopalian) has been heard to say, “I don’t do Mary.” To be sure, a lot of people outside Roman Catholicism feel the same way. For me, though, a devotion to Mary has added substantial depth and color to the spiritual journey.

Perhaps a bit of background is in order. Maybe 10 years ago, I started wondering exactly what Catholics saw in Mary, so I went to the only source I knew: the Gospel of Luke. Here’s some of what I found:

• In the sixth month the angel Gabriel…came to her and said, “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be. (Luke 1:26-29) Notice something about Mary’s reaction. She’s perplexed, she’s pondering, but she’s not scared out of her wits, as most people would be when confronted with an angel. This tells me that the world of angels—more generally, the world of God—is well known to her. She shows a spiritual awareness exceptional in a young teenage girl.
• Then Mary said, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” (Luke 1:38) The angel Gabriel has just turned her world upside down: she’s about to become an unwed teenage mother in a culture that could very well put her to death for it. And yet, at such tremendous personal risk, she yields herself to the Divine will.
• But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. (Luke 2:19; see also v. 51) A apt description of a contemplative spirit, yes?
  

So in these first two chapters, I found a portrait of a reflective, spiritually precocious young woman that deeply moved me. This was someone I could model myself after.

It was also someone I wanted to talk with. And so I have.

I don’t think that’s unusual. A good friend and fellow parishioner is profoundly skeptical of the mystical side of Christianity; he doesn’t believe in a literal Resurrection, let alone literal miracles, etc. And yet, in a time of deep personal crisis, he suddenly found himself saying the Hail Mary.

There is something very deep, very ancient, to which we connect when we connect with Mary. Perhaps it’s the simple yet timeless comfort of a mother—an especially strong pull for those of us who didn’t have perfect childhoods. Maybe it’s the deep sense of interrelatedness that seems to spring naturally from the feminine. Maybe it’s the wisdom of the archetypal wise woman. I couldn’t tell you.

The strange thing is, whenever I use Marian prayers or simply contemplate Mary, I always find myself moving on eventually to God. The Catholics know this experience well: they take Mary’s direction at the Cana wedding—do whatever he tells you (John 2:5)—as a universal sign that she always points to Christ.

None of this means I subscribe to all the various church doctrines about Mary. But I don’t think such a dogmatic belief is necessary. If that is indeed the case, then devotion to Mary can fit comfortably in many faith traditions. For me, at least, its value is inestimable. Maybe the same is true for you too.

Explaining the Unexplainable

How do you explain faith to people who have no specific faith?

It’s anything but easy. The language of the faith traditions is utterly foreign to these folks. Many of them are cynical by nature. They find more reasonable explanations in the world of science, the everyday, or the closed loop of human society (often with good reason). It doesn’t help that aggressive evangelists have made faith talk synonymous with the ol’ hard sell—and alienated many people into an outright refusal to consider faith at all.

This question certainly daunted Henri Nouwen, the Dutch priest, psychologist, and contemplative. In fact, he wrote a brilliant book (Life of the Beloved) to answer it; unfortunately, for his secular friends, it didn’t work.

And yet, God has given us this unutterably rich experience of life, and we want to share it so others can taste of its richness as well. But how can we do so in their language?

One answer came from a close friend who is deeply spiritual and just as deeply alienated from any specific faith tradition. As we discussed matters of faith one day, she explained her view of the Divine: “Just look around us. This all doesn’t just happen.”

In that spirit, maybe the following might help skeptics take one step closer to the Divine. Consider that, in a world without God:

· The universe makes sense. The earth does not.

· Function makes sense. Beauty does not.

· Cooperation makes sense. Love does not.

And yet the earth thrives. Beauty abounds. Love persists. Life, to quote Jurassic Park, finds a way. How is that possible when all things should naturally tend toward entropy and decay?

What else doesn’t make sense without God? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

What Is Truth? And Should We Care?

Truth is one of those words, like humility and virtue, that has fallen by the wayside. To the extent you hear any talk about truth these days, it tends to fall into one of two lines of thought:

1. Everything is relative. In our gloriously diverse, post-Christian society, who are we to judge others’ opinions of reality? Can we really say there’s a right or wrong? If not, doesn’t that make talk of “truth” obsolete? There’s so much to be said in favor of this approach: it can lead to tolerance, listening, mutual respect, and authentic dialogue.

And yet the problem with “there’s no right or wrong” is that ultimately it’s, um, well, wrong.

Consider the myriad of sincere, intelligent Christians in ages past who believed that the Bible condoned slavery, or anti-Semitism, or the mistreatment of women. The consensus in today’s Christendom (let alone the secular world) would call these interpretations wrong. That opens the door for an unsettling doubt: are there beliefs today that we take for granted but future generations will see as clearly wrong?

And if the answer is yes, wouldn’t that make the pursuit of truth—whatever that is—worthwhile?

2. I have the truth. We’ve all seen how much danger lies in claims to exclusive truth. If we have the truth, why engage in dialogue with those who disagree? Why not, rather, do anything we can to convince them of our belief? This so often devolves into many of the conflicts that plague our world today, from debased dialogue and insensitivity to outright violence.

But is there another way to think about truth?

I think there is, and perhaps the clearest exposition is in the Gospel of John. On the face of it, the gospel’s pages include both lines of thought we just explored. In the relativist corner, Pontius Pilate looks Jesus in the eye during his trial and dismissively asks, “What is truth?” (John 18:38). For the absolutist view, look at Jesus’ own saying: “If you follow my word, you are truly my disciples, and you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free” (John 8:31-32).

Now look more closely. I wonder whether, in both stories, the gospel writer is trying to make a point. Pilate asks the question “What is truth?” and receives no answer—because he’s looking at it. Jesus speaks of the truth, not as a set of assertions, but as his word and indeed (John 14:6) as himself.

In both cases, we are presented with truth as a person.

Here’s the rub. People take a lifetime to get to know. People have myriad facets, sometimes paradoxical. If truth is like this too, the pursuit of truth becomes so much more than a quest for the right viewpoint or the correct proposition. Rather, it involves both an appreciation for the unfathomable complexity of truth and an unrelenting curiosity to seek it—no matter how inconvenient it may be.

In this view, truth is not to be mastered, but to be treated with reverence. We pursue it not with the goal of learning The Truth, but with the humility of knowing we can’t. We become like the blind men with the elephant: each grasping a small slice of the truth, yet needing one another to appreciate it more deeply.

A pursuit of truth that leads to humility, reverence, and interdependence of neighbors? Just imagine the good fruit that could bear.

"There Is Something Afoot in the Universe"

Every now and then, I run across an insight that takes my breath away. It happened again this Advent season. In an eloquent editorial, Father Andrew Greeley offered a quote (from Pierre Teilhard de Chardin) that puts the heart of the Christmas message in the language of mystery it deserves:

“There is something afoot in the universe, something that looks like gestation and birth.”

This is not just about a baby in a manger. It is, rather, a cosmic reality that makes our lives pregnant with meaning and hope. The Utterly Unknowable becomes not only knowable, but personal. In the process, he makes the ultimate effort to know us…by becoming one of us.

It is a story that can change lives.

I pray that this Christmas season—and the new year to come—bring you even more of the Unknowable in your midst. Blessings and peace.

Getting Ready for the Second Coming

Recently I suggested a different perspective on “Christ will come again”: maybe, just maybe, this statement does not so much affirm an actual future event as express a longing for (and faith in) restoration. The whole discussion reminded me of a quandary that plagued me during my fundamentalist days: the gospels seem to indicate that we should “get ready” for the Second Coming—but how?

A recent trip through Matthew 24-25 surprised me with a straightforward answer. In this passage, Jesus presents four parables that deal with “getting ready.” Here’s what struck me:

• The servant left in charge of the master’s households (Matthew 24:45-51). If the servant gives “the other slaves their allowance of food at the proper time,” he is blessed; if he beats the servants and “eats with drunkards,” he is punished. The moral: treat other people with justice and respect.
• The wise and foolish maidens (25:1-12). Five of the maidens run out of oil for their lamps, so they cannot meet the bridegroom when he returns at night. The other five have prepared and are (here’s that word again) ready for the bridegroom. I may be reading too much into this, but I believe it expresses the need to cultivate and feed the interior life—to “keep the flame alive,” as it were.
• The parable of the talents (25:14-30). The master leaves three servants with money. Two of them invest the money and earn back double what they invested; the master commends them. One, saying that the master is a “harsh man” and being afraid of his wrath, buried it in the ground—to keep it “safe”—and was rebuked. The moral here involves stewardship: manage wisely your gifts and talents, and use them to bear fruit.
• The sheep and the goats (25:31-46). At the Second Coming, the king separates people as one would separate sheep and goats. The “sheep” go to eternal life; the “goats” go to hell. What separates them? How they treated the sick, the hungry, the naked, and those in prison.
  

So, in summary, how does one “get ready” for the Second Coming? By practicing justice, acting as wise stewards of God’s gifts, fostering the life of the Spirit within us, and serving the very least among us. Or as the prophet Micah puts it (Micah 6:8), “What does the Lord require of you, but to do justice, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?”

In other words, we get ready for the return of Christ by doing what we’re called to do every day of our lives.

This is why I think—whether you believe in a literal Second Coming or not—that we need not pay a great deal of attention to it directly. Our job is simply to do what God calls us to do, day in and day out. By fulfilling God’s will, we make ourselves ready for God’s coming, regardless of what that means.

Living in the Mystic Now

Mysticism confuses people. When they hear the word, they often think of wild visions or ecstatic trances or whirling dervishes. And sometimes that comes with the territory, or so mystic writers (like St. Teresa of Avila) testify.

I’m experiencing something different.

Lately, I have felt driven not into ecstasy, but deep into real, everyday life. Just by paying attention to what’s happening around me, I’ve learned some essential lessons. For instance, as I’ve dealt with the people who cross my path every day, I’ve run up against my capacity to hurt and be hurt. I’ve seen that I’m just as fallible and occasionally noble as anyone else: no more, no less. I’ve noted how God weaves himself sublimely, almost invisibly, through the day.

None of this is earth-shattering, of course, and much of it seems pathetically obvious. But maybe that is a key practice of mysticism: to draw simple yet life-changing lessons from the reality around us.

Many spiritual traditions look at it that way. Zen calls its practitioners to be present to the moment. Spiritual writer Eckhart Tolle exhorts us to “be here now.”

I believe that quiet, constant attention, that “being here now,” works its magic in us. Not only do we learn about reality, we start to align our lives around it. When we see what is, we see our own feelings and prejudices for what they are—and can reach beyond them to what is beyond us. Our compassion for others expands. Most miraculously, we begin to sense the presence of the Divine like a constant hum throughout the day.

The beauty of Christianity, I think, lies right there: in the constant presence of a loving God permeating this everyday life, working with the messes we often make—and the good we sometimes do—to weave the human cosmos together in ways far beyond our imagining. This God, I think, is our hope that, as we live purposefully in the here and now, our lives take purpose well beyond.

Where Vocation Lives

We were spending a week with my aging parents in Florida, and our 10-year-old was bored and restless. Try as she might, she could not figure out what she wanted to do. There weren’t many choices: go to the pool, read, or…what?

So I asked her to try something that’s worked for me. She quieted her mind, focused inward, and tried to listen for anything that bubbled to the surface. After a minute or so, she said, “I think I want to play with pipe cleaners.”

So, much to the bemusement of my parents, we went out and bought pipe cleaners. And she was happy and engaged for the rest of our stay.

I wonder if vocation is like that.

Saturday’s religion section includes a story of a woman who was on track to become an attorney. When her mother took ill, however, she came back to our region to care for her—and found a part-time job as a youth minister. “It was then,” she wrote, “that I realized working with teens and sharing my faith has always been my passion.”

Note: has always been my passion.

I suspect vocation is like that. The calling lives in us all along; our challenge is to discover it—to sort through the many facets of ourselves and find the one thing that strikes right to the heart of who we are.

Not that the path to this discovery is entirely introspective. Nowadays, we get our kids involved in all manner of activities. The purpose is not (I hope!) to push them into a particular activity, or teach them to become overachievers; we’re simply giving them the chance to see what really ignites them.

In other words, we’re helping them find their vocation.

That trial and error is important (in moderation). More important, however, is what we do during the trial and error: we pay attention to our souls. We ask ourselves: What happens when I do x? Do I sense a peace, a purpose, when I do y? What passion sits at the base of my being?

Simple attention drew our daughter to the one thing that would fulfill her during that vacation. Simple attention can help us find our own vocation in life, then pursue it for what it is: the will of God for us.

Second Thoughts on the Second Coming

“Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.”

We Episcopalians often say this splendid confession of faith during the liturgy of the Eucharist. But what are we saying, really, when we affirm that “Christ will come again”?

And if it’s not the traditional answer, could it be something just as deep and compelling?

As a former fundamentalist, I have always assumed the affirmation meant what it said: that Jesus would return from heaven at the end of time and usher in the Last Judgment. There are ample scriptural references to this event: whole chapters (Matthew 24), even whole books (Revelation), are devoted to this topic.

Or are they?

A closer reading causes me to wonder. From all appearances, the New Testament writers fully expected the return of Christ within their lifetimes. St. Paul writes, for example, that “the appointed time has grown very short…. For the form of this world is passing away” (1 Corinthians 7:29, 31b). The writer of Hebrews exhorts readers to meet together regularly, “and all the more as you see the Day drawing near” (Hebrews 10:25).

One small problem: it didn’t happen.

Then you look at the apocalyptic passages in the gospels and realize they could be talking about any era. “You will hear wars and rumors of wars”: happens in every age. “There will be famines and earthquakes in various places”: same thing. In fact, these could be referring to the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple in the first century. Given that Revelation is written to “the seven churches that are in Asia,” might not that book also be referring to first-century events?

Now, none of this necessarily means that there won’t be a final return of Jesus and an “end of the age.” Still, when I read scriptural affirmations of such a return—especially when coupled with harrowing accounts of the end times—I hear something distinctly different: a deep, almost unutterable yearning for restoration and healing after a cataclysm. In that sense, the passage echoes the most moving passages from the Old Testament prophets, in which they bewail the destruction and captivity of Israel—then bring the good news of a future return.

In a post-9/11 world, don’t we need this message more than ever? For us in the modern era, “Christ will come again” becomes a stirring message of hope in the restorative love of a God who, all evidence to the contrary, has not abandoned us—and never will.

Yes, “Christ will come again.” Count on it.

Spiritual but Not Religious?

You hear this from a lot of people these days. Many of them, I suspect, mean they have an appreciation, even a reverence, for the things of the spirit, but they find themselves repelled by the trappings of institutional faith. (Given the history of institutional faith, who can blame them?)

In many cases, as our parish’s interim rector said in his sermon this past Sunday, this hunger for spirit expresses itself in a most eclectic way. The small shrine at our dog’s favorite kennel includes all manner of spiritual objects, including statues of Buddha and the Virgin Mary nearly side by side. “Spiritual but not religious” people might place Emerson in with Krishna in with St. Francis of Assisi and Zoroaster in one religious stew.

Is this necessarily a bad thing? I don’t think so. Truth is hardly restricted to one faith tradition. On the whole, at least from what I’ve read and seen, I think Eastern religions have gone far deeper than Christianity in matters of meditation and mysticism. On the other hand, there’s a depth of meaning in the Incarnation—God “lived and died as one of us,” so surely he knows our failings—that I believe is unique among faith traditions.

Here’s the one thing that worries me about “spiritual but not religious”: I suspect that, without a single established core to one’s spirituality, it becomes tempting to adopt those elements of faith that offer comfort but not challenge. In that guise, non-religious spirituality fails to do what spirituality at its highest level does: make us grow toward the Divine—and toward one another.

An example from the tradition I know best: Christianity, like the other Abrahamic faith traditions, calls its followers to live out their faith in flesh-and-blood communities, in this case the church. When you participate in a church with other people, however, some of them are bound to rub you the wrong way. The solution, according to modern society, is to leave. The solution, according to the Christian faith, is to stay—and even learn to love (though not necessarily like) those people. Why? Because it forces us outside ourselves, leavens our perspective with those of others, and fosters our growth in love.

In the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, we ask God to “deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table [the Eucharist] for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal.” This, I suspect, is what happens when we commit ourselves to a spiritual tradition: we enjoy the comforts even as we take up the challenges to which God calls us. Following that path is an adventure like no other.

Who Is God That We Should Submit?

I am God, and there is no other. By myself I have sworn…: “To me every knee shall bow, every tongue shall swear.” (Isaiah 45:22-23)

On the face of it, this passage seems exceptionally self-serving: it makes God sound like an autocratic medieval king. But there’s at least one good reason to “bow the knee” that has nothing to do with accumulation of glory.

To understand this, start with a definition of God that is disarming in its simplicity: God is love (1 John 4:8). It’s easy to gloss over those three little words, but their effect on our understanding of God can be life-changing. The image of God as the big judge in the sky fades; in its place, we are left with God as the ground of self-giving, a wellspring of extravagant love bestowed upon the universe.

If that’s the case, what are we doing when we “bow the knee” to God? Not just yielding our will to a larger will, but imitating that self-giving love. By doing so on a daily basis, we become more and more like Love himself—and from there it is an easy step to give of ourselves to others.

Perhaps this new perspective could make an impact far beyond us as well. If our primary view of God ceases to be the big judge in the sky, perhaps we stop seeking to judge and drawing dogmatic distinctions. If we relate to God as the ground of self-giving, perhaps we focus more on our own self-giving. If, as in traditional Christian thought, we see Jesus as God fully identifying with the human race, perhaps we too seek to identify with and understand the other. That might lead to more compassion and more peace.

Can God be reduced to three little words? Of course not. From what I’ve seen in the scriptures and my own life, God is so infinitely complex—and so impenetrably mysterious—that no words can capture the divine essence. Still, God is love, I suspect, gives us a glimpse into that very essence. And if we place that glimpse at the core of our understanding of God, we just might bear more of the fruit that the world so desperately needs.

The Four Seasons and How to Tolerate Them

A few years ago, I found myself complaining about the weather all too frequently. I decided I needed to restrict my kvetching to just one season. So I chose my least favorite: summer.

Now I may even have to repent of that.

In a recent posting on his weekly blog, Br. Bede Thomas Mudge, the prior of Holy Cross Monastery, discussed the need to accept the seasons for what they are—and the energy that comes from doing simply that. The idea is to let go of the complaining and the steeling oneself against (in my case) the unremitting heat and humidity and the unpleasant person it makes me.

And unpleasant is the word for it. My concentration dwindles to zero, often making prayer a joke. My irritability goes through the roof. My lethargy leaves me not caring whether those work projects get done by the due date. Et cetera.

So if I simply accept summer—and my reaction to it—what happens?

Suddenly my perspective changes. Maybe it’s a good thing to go through times like this. Every year, like clockwork (or maybe thermometerwork), I get to see the unpleasant side of me, which breeds humility. Even more, I get to embrace the irritability and the lethargy and the et cetera, not as good things, but simply as part of who I am. It gives me a clearer vision of myself—and what is humility if not that?

Of course, this experience is hardly unique—as anyone familiar with St. Paul can attest. To keep me from being too elated, a thorn was given me in the flesh, a messenger of Satan to torment me…. Three times I appealed to the Lord about this, that it would leave me, but he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:7-9)

For me at least, it’s one thing to read about these experiences; it’s quite another to discover them at work in my own life—and to start recognizing them for the blessings they are.

P.S. None of this stops me from running the air conditioner when the temp hits 90. Got to keep that irritability from getting out of hand.

The Siren Song of "I Need It Now"

Since committing myself to Holy Cross’s Rule for Associates, I’ve tried to live more in balance: less time at work, more space for quiet, more routine ensconced in prayer. So much fruit has come from this—and some of it is most visible during those times when, Rule or no Rule, work and other commitments still get out of hand.

The last two weeks, for instance—which included a gigantic work project on ridiculous deadlines—have reminded me just what it feels like to live out of balance. The frenetic pace robs me of my ability to pray, concentrate, or reflect deeply. I have neither the time nor the energy to step back and gain perspective. I suspect this is why people call you for information you’ve already provided in an e-mail, or they repeat back something to you that they think you said, but you really didn’t: they’re moving so fast that they haven’t been able to pay attention.

I can’t live this way for more than a couple of weeks. The pace is insane. It is also, however, strangely seductive. To pull it off, I have to restrict myself to a certain level of input, sealing off perspectives that might intrude on my own sphere. As long as I stay in that zone, I’m OK…or so I think. It makes life easier. It gives at least the illusion of control in a culture that drowns us in information and false urgency.

This isn’t necessarily bad in the short run. Sometimes it’s all you can do to cope with what’s at hand. But when this becomes a long-term strategy for dealing with the world, it closes us off to the essentials: to God, to the deep workings of the universe, to one another, to plight of those who are poor, to listening. It keeps us from the abundant life that God holds out to us to savor and engage.

I wonder if this is why we so often have epiphanies during a crisis or catastrophe. In those moments, life breaks through the illusion of control and forces us to waken to something larger. It may not be that “this catastrophe happened for a reason”: maybe it just happened, and for better or worse, it now presents an opportunity to see beyond our limited sphere.

It’s an opportunity worth seizing, within crisis or without. The life beyond modern culture’s frantic pace—especially life with the Divine Presence—is rich beyond measure. May we embrace it with both arms.

Three Words to Promote Healing

No, not those three words. To be sure, I love you goes a long way toward building solid relationships and healing broken ones. But three other words might help the healing process as well.

I don’t know.

Something in our DNA compels us toward knowledge. Perhaps it’s the thirst for understanding: where would science be today without it? Maybe, less beneficially, it’s the desire for control. Or the drive to hold on to something concrete amid constant change: such a drive, I suspect, has contributed mightily to the rise of fundamentalism.

One tiny problem: certainty eludes us. The cosmos isn’t built for it. Look at the mind-boggling uncertainty at the subatomic level; you can’t even tell where a particle is with any certainty. On the human level, we have studied the psyche for thousands of years—and yet there is still so much about our inner life that is mysterious.

This is all the more true of God. Even the Bible speaks of a God who changes course and sometimes seems to act in a contradictory manner. In our everyday lives, God stuns us just when we think we’ve got him—wait, her?—figured out.

If we could embrace such uncertainty—if we could hold our ideas about God and the world lightly—we would be more at peace with the nature of things. But in so many ways, we insist on certainty. That, in turn, means that we clash with others who cling to their certainty. We cannot afford to listen and dialogue because our certainty might be threatened.

Conversely, the more we embrace I don’t know as our fundamental orientation, the more we open to the thoughts and insights of others—even others with whom we disagree. That enables us to move into dialogue, into respect for other people and their own experiences of God, into appreciation for those experiences and what they can teach us.

In a world where so many people and cultures clash with one another over their conflicting “certainties,” the simple admission of I don’t know could be the dialogical equivalent of laying down one’s arms—the first step to peace and to healing.

Does God Intervene?

The reality of unanswered prayers is a huge problem. Think of all the people who prayed for deliverance from the Holocaust, all the people who prayed for peace and safety in the midst of war, all the people who prayed for healing—and whose prayers were not answered.... I do not and cannot believe that God is an interventionist.

—Marcus Borg, The Heart of Christianity

Recently I’ve run across a couple of deep religious thinkers who express the same reservations. And they are unquestionably on to something. The normal responses to such thinking—like “God always answers prayer, but sometimes the answer is no”—are hopelessly glib and inadequate in the face of the Holocaust or 9/11. In these and many other cases, God seems exasperatingly silent.

So is Borg right, then? Not so fast. I see some real problems with a non-interventionist God as well:

1. What do you do with those instances where, from all appearances, someone has prayed and actually received a concrete response? You could chalk up the biblical examples to a spiritual dramatization of actual events. But what about modern-day healings? Not all of them can be attributed to natural causes, like the change in emotional state that prayer sometimes brings.
2. How do we explain the concept of vocation—not just to ministry, but to anything? Isn’t the act of calling someone to do something an intervention in itself?
3. To take it one step further, how do we explain any divine influence on the human soul? Certainly, neuroscience and psychology explain a lot. Still, I have found that by opening myself to the divine presence, I find myself thinking and doing things that I never would have imagined. I’m not saying God is doing brain surgery on us, but can we truly say that God is not involved at all?
   

That still doesn’t make instances of an interventionist God’s non-intervention any less horrifying or impossible to explain. It simply means both viewpoints leave way too many questions unanswered—and unanswerable.

So what do we do? I see no reason why we can’t treat this as we do so many other aspects of God: simply revere it as an ineffable mystery and go about our lives. Even Borg, despite his belief, continues to pray for a variety of reasons—one being that it’s arrogant to refuse to do something because you can’t imagine how it works. And again, in some mysterious way, the practice of prayer seems to open us to God’s presence—and that presence has an equally mysterious way of transforming us from the inside out. That alone is reason to pray all the more.

Evil and the Mystery Within Us

Whenever we face a horrific event like the Virginia Tech shootings, I find myself devouring every bit of news I can find—all to answer the question that, I’m sure, plagues many people:

Why?

Specifically, what on earth brings people to do such things? And what does it say about us, the human race?

A segment on PBS’s NewsHour (“Experts Explore the Mind and Motivation of a Mass Killer”) shed some light on the perpetrators of mass shootings. They tend to be loners, shunned by their cohort, controlling, secretive. They follow a fairly predictable path of escalation, from angry writings to angry actions to threats. Some of them, like the Virginia Tech shooter, seem troubled almost from the very beginning.

What is that trouble, though? We often use the word sick to describe them. Where does mental illness end and evil begin?

Evil is not a word we should ever use lightly, especially with people. It instantly separates us from whomever we call evil—and makes compassion for them very difficult indeed. It is a very small step from using the word for certain groups and doing violence to them.

And yet, if you live in the world for any length of time, you see too much evidence of evil to deny its existence. It’s most obvious, I think, in its institutional form: when governments massacre their own people (as in Darfur), or when rebel groups force children to join their cause.

Even with institutions, though, it’s not always easy to draw the line between truly evil, unjust, and simply stupid. (For stupid, thinks Starbucks’ attempt to charge for water near Ground Zero in the aftermath of 9/11.) In individuals, the line between illness and evil is similarly hard to draw.

And that brings me back to the utter mystery within us. Even with the mind-boggling strides in psychology, neuroscience, and other fields—and they are wonderful indeed—there is still so much about the human race, about even our very selves, that is beyond our understanding.

So how do we respond? Maybe like this: With humility, because we don’t know all the answers. With compassion, because I cannot imagine the pain that the shooters have suffered, let alone that of the victims’ loved ones. And, maybe, with awe at the One who knows our very depths—and still has compassion on us.

The Worst Verse in the Bible

Several posts ago, I ruminated about the Bible’s offensive passages, and what (if anything) we can draw from them. The question came to mind again while I was driving today, and I started reflecting on the scriptures’ most horrifying verse:

Happy shall he be who takes your little ones and dashes them against the rock! (Psalm 137:9)

What on earth do we do with this—especially in a culture where we go to great lengths to protect children?

First, a little context. This verse comes at the end of a psalm that, in heartrending fashion, expresses the utter desolation of ancient Israel in exile—far from the land that, for them, was so closely tied to the presence of God. The verse simply lashes out in the most hurtful way possible, the way we can easily do when in despair.

Though extreme for the psalms, it is hardly unique. Look at the book as a whole, and you see a drop-dead honest expression of the vast range of human emotion. The psalms are raw, they’re unvarnished, they pull no punches.

As such, they present a challenge to us. Can we allow ourselves to feel so honestly? Do we actually believe that God will embrace us if we admit to such horrifying feelings?

Maybe the psalms—and especially this verse—testify that God does, in fact, embrace us, with all our baggage. Which makes God a safe place in which to feel even the ugliest emotions and face even the most unlovable parts of ourselves. If we have such a place, we are freed to reflect on all of it—and do the work of healing.

If we can draw insights like this from one extreme verse, what else can the Bible’s offensive passages teach us?

Pronouns

Are you still in flux with using pronouns for God? I thought I had it figured out to my satisfaction, but then something happened.

Like many folks of my persuasion, I’ve been substituting God for he wherever possible, while avoiding clunky constructions like God sits on God’s holy throne. For me, this approach still works in many instances.

Lately, though, it’s lost some of its luster, because it takes me away from the personal. There is something profoundly, unutterably personal about the divine presence—at least I perceive it that way—and I need to express it. So I tried something hardly new, but still controversial.

I threw in a few shes.

The effect was unexpected. The feminine pronoun suddenly opened me to ways of thinking about God that I hadn’t known existed. There’s something mind-expanding about “She shall judge between the nations, and impose terms on many peoples,” or “She comes to rule the earth.”

Praying these passages gives me a sense that God does not transcend gender so much as God encompasses gender—both genders—in the same way God encompasses, and is within, everything. I can also see, once more, the power of language to shape our thinking.

As my wise sister-in-law says, “Words mean things.” May we always be attentive to their transformative power.

Another Reason Not to Fear Death

Maybe death isn’t as big a deal as we think. Part of believing that, of course, hinges on believing in the afterlife.

But maybe part of it doesn’t.

Think of it this way. God calls each of us to a life of service—of working with God to make a better world. You respond to that call where you are, serving with the gifts and influence you have. In doing so, you add your efforts to the millions of others who are responding to the same call.

Of course, as one person, you can only do so much. When you realize this limitation, you can easily see that the world becomes a better place primarily through we, not me. To mangle the well-worn proverb, it takes a village to do just about anything.

So what happens when we die? The creation of a better world goes on. The we still exists. Many others pick up where we leave off. Certainly—certainly—our contributions matter, and we have not lived in vain.

Sort of takes the edge off death, doesn’t it?

This is not to make light of death’s profound impact on the living. Live in the world for any length of time, and you’re going to affect people deeply. We’re all so interconnected that the loss of any one of us is profoundly painful. But I wonder whether seeing ourselves as part of that larger, interconnected whole removes the sting from our own death, much as the resurrection does.

Adopting a perspective like this, of course, requires a move away from self-absorption. In our culture, making that move is a constant battle. Thankfully, we have with us the constant presence of God, tirelessly drawing us out of ourselves. If we respond, we can become more fully who God intended us to be…and join with God in re-creating the world.

Wrestling with Everything

One of my more recent posts (“When the Bible Offends”) got me thinking.

Maybe the scriptures aren’t the only thing we need to wrestle with. Maybe that wrestling needs to take place with everything we encounter: every person, every experience, every thought.

Of course, no one has time or energy for all that wrestling. So maybe wrestling isn’t the right metaphor. Perhaps there’s another way to draw insight and lessons from every situation.

I (and many others) have found such attentiveness to be a fruit of the contemplative life: contemplative not in its popular connotation of thoughtful, but to describe a life that is continually open to the divine presence in the here and now. When we live in a contemplative way, we remain open to each situation—and listen carefully for what it has to bring us.

Here’s an example. Like everyone, I often find myself in dull conversations, wishing I could excuse myself. In some of those situations, however—when I’m awake enough—I take a mental step back and just observe. Why has God put me here, now? What is there in this moment that speaks to me? What can I offer to this moment?

Not that there’s a clear answer in every case. But sometimes the required attentiveness is enough to refresh my soul all by itself. And quite often, that person—whom I considered so dull—has something to say that I desperately need to hear.

Joan Chittister, in her book Called to Question, sees a blessed interconnectedness among all such moments in our lives: “Isn’t everything that happens in life simply seeding something to come—and isn’t all of it God? But if that’s true, the question is, then, Are all our thoughts new seeds of life to be pursued?”

I think this type of contemplative approach comes through constancy in prayer and meditation. As we open ourselves to God, we become open to God all around us. That, in turn, makes us anticipate—eagerly—God’s presence and voice wherever, and with whomever, we find ourselves.