November 11, 2009
I’ve been reading and thinking a great deal lately about how we go about thinking theologically in the church and the way we live out our theology in the church community. More and more as a pastor, I’ve become aware of the horrible tensions between what we say and what we do because, as a “company man”, the institution of the church requires my absolute allegiance to theological formulations I am acutely aware the church neither believes nor lives out in our daily life. And as a Christ follower committed to the Truth, Life, and Way of Jesus, I find it increasingly unbearable to live as a pastor as if this tension does not exist.
In other places, I have called this exploration a “Quest”, and wondered whether or not the motivation for such a quest comes from merely selfish or more altruistic intentions. But increasingly I sense that my position in the church as a pastor places a heavy responsibility on me to speak not only for myself but for the communion of the saints, living and ancestral. And it is in this communion of faith where I sense the gulf between our creedal statements of faith and our practical understanding of God and way of life devoted to God and to each other, particularly as we understand that way of life as the one we call Messiah lived it.
I see this gulf everywhere in the life of the church. Social researchers have long exposed the lack of any significant social distinction between Christians, in particular, and other communities of human beings, though there are many notable individual exceptions, and perhaps a few communal exceptions, like the Mennonite and Amish communities of faith. But what I have observed as pastor runs far deeper than these social manifestations of Christian faith. Parker Palmer has called the way Christians approach God in postmodern life “functional atheism”, a term that describes the theology of a people who live as if God makes no real claim on their lives (Let Your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation, Jossey-Bass, 1999).
Functional atheism manifests in ways that go far beyond holiness or righteous living. As a pastor, I have lamented not only the profound level of scriptural illiteracy in the Christian church, but also the many ways in which sociological realities and concerns trump any real form of theological struggle among those of us who claim to follow Christ. The reason we do not know how to engage in theological discernment stems in large measure not from apathy or ignorance, but from our very real fear of where such discernment might lead us.
Lay persons abdicate all responsibility for theological reflection to the clergy (only performed after the fact, if at all, in order to justify our preconceived notions and ideology). And if they disagree with the clergy, they simply find a pastor who espouses a theology more conducive to their way of thinking, rather than engaging the offending pastor in a dialogue that could be fruitful or transformative for the relationship. Clergy are only too happy to accept this no-contest plea from laity, at least until we realize the tyranny of popularism requires us to seek not the truth but a justification of the current social reality.
As a backdrop to this morbid dance, we idolize some imaginary divine ally who puts paid to all who argue against us – not that we would actually have to live by any of our arguments, but so that we might be vindicated among those who cannot see the world as we do. And since we know that such an idol is but a fantasy, and all we hear conclusively from heaven is silence, we conclude that there is no God but our own power to have our way in this world – be it the power to persuade, dismiss, or dominate.
And since the “real” God will do none of these things, we quite consciously overthrow God (who at any rate allows this overthrow without protest) and live as if God were not a part of human existence even and perhaps especially in the church. (I say especially because the church places such a relentless value on articulation.) We prefer this rebellion and idolatry to the intolerability of a silent and apparently impotent deity – yet for some reason our makeup requires that we maintain a façade of faith in such a deity, at least in ceremonial form. I cannot fathom for whom we play this religious act – unless we put it on for ourselves.
Here is the grand lie and its rationale: we need it in order to anesthetize the pain of the nihilistic reality of our Faustian bargain. We leap from the searing frying pan of a God who leaves us entirely alone into the consuming fire of utter separation and meaninglessness. And who wants to face up to such a brutal reality? So we speak on God’s behalf, as infallible holy persons who know the secrets of the infallible holy books, in order to pierce the deafening silence from the deep wells of our souls, where no one remembers how to seek a God we have ceased to hope might be found.
The key to our lust for unchanging Truth lies not in its infallibility but that it lies within our grasp – that we can know and claim such Truth – about God or ourselves. We will trade anything for the existential comfort that comes with certainty – even God and whatever we mean by freedom or justice – or even life itself (in all its abundance, whatever that means). We who claim allegiance to the Christ idea appreciate the incarnation (how conveniently articulate) but not the enigmatic Rabbi Yeshuach who even now refuses to be comprehended or claimed by any of his disciples. Dostoyevsky speaks for all of us in the dungeons of the Inquisition: “Go away, or we will kill you again.”
Yet incomprehensibly, he refuses to die.
Of course I would pin the blame (or credit) for the persistent awareness of the gulf between what we say and do as Christians on our namesake – even though we have transformed his name into a hope. He speaks as one with authority, not necessarily because he has “descended” from “heaven” but because he relentlessly lives into the promise of a realm of truth and life which claims us but which none of us can claim. Like a bull in a China shop, he tramples conventional ways of making peace with hopelessness and of sleeping with the enemy, regardless of the consequences for himself or for anyone who dares to come along for the ride. Because he has not come to bring peace.
The stories told with voice and ink and blood convey a sense of passionate identity that refused to rely on any of the conventional ways in which human beings typically seek meaning. Like his mentor, John, Yeshuach lived a wild and untamed life to its violent (tragic? Or inevitable?) end, and promised to accompany anyone with the chutzpah to leap into this passionate whirlwind of reckless, angry love. He also promised pain, injustice, and enslavement to a fearful path of destiny beyond ourselves.
How we have tamed him – mocked his euangelion and the martyrs of his Way, of whom the world was not worthy – and killed him endlessly on the cross of our comfortable, controllable “faith”.
But how else could we have created a powerful, popular faith expression in the world? After only a mere three centuries of sporadic debate about whether or not cowardice and apostasy negated discipleship, the young church was more than ready for the killing embrace of the Emperor – the true (or at least realistic) god of all gods. How much more efficient could be our penetration into heathen lands and peoples who would inevitably fall beneath the boot of raw power. And once we had sealed our pact with power, it would cease to matter with whom we allied ourselves. Any rabid, effective dog would do. Power and infallibility would come to justify any means toward the end of “saving” the world from ambiguity and the maddening call of a crucified “lord” to empty ourselves for others.
We believe in God the Father Almighty…
And yet… and yet. Like sand agitating relentlessly within an oyster, the life of a savior who suffered in life and in death refuses to bow to the idol we have fashioned of steel, silicone and weapons grade plutonium. He mocks our houses of worship where we insulate ourselves from suffering and ruthlessly enforce a homogenous form of faith in ourselves. The revolutionary rabbi taunts us as we read (while anxiously watering down) the incendiary stories his early followers called euangelion. We would mob and carry him to the brow of a cliff and toss him to his death to shut him up if we could only get our hands on him – yet he passes through us like a draft, the source of which we dare not discover – because we know his breathing on us keeps us alive in this coma in which we have learned to settle.
…the resurrection of the body…
How persistently he called to his rotting friend, after days of comforting rest from the labor that is life. Did he weep because he can never leave us alone? Because he knows he bids us to die again and again? We sleep while he prays, sweating blood as he wrestles with the silent God who places relentlessly before us the cup of sorrows. Yet every time we gather to break and bless and chew and swallow we are remembered into his body, forever broken and spilled out. Every time we rehearse the ancient stories, a fire kindles and then rages within us that wearies and overcomes our attempts to hold it in.
Our darkness cannot comprehend such light. We cannot know, even dimly. But perhaps it is enough to know that we are known. Enough to be overwhelmed by love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Our theology and our sociology can be far more tentative – more awestruck by the sense of the realm of love that never – never fails. Perhaps this, finally, is the measure of life in all its abundance – to live beyond either questions or answers about the nature of God or humanity, embracing love that never fails in every moment of our lives, fearlessly, relentlessly, even recklessly, in the wake of a savior who beckons us to suffer together for love without end.
…and the life everlasting.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Bonhoeffer's New Wine
I need to say more about Nashville, and what happened when I rubbed shoulders in a great cloud of witnesses whose love reminded me who God calls me to be. We become who we are created to be only in companionship with others who push us, hold us and release us in the dynamic kind of interpretive, improvisational dance of our lives. And I don't much care if that dancing metaphor sounds overly dramatic - human life is dramatic and miraculous, even as it can also be mundane and heartbreaking.
One of the speakers at Nashville invited us to take another look at Bonhoeffer's "Life Together". As I began to read this fascinating journal of a triumphant community of resistance to the monstrous hatred of Hitler's Germany, I was struck first by Bonhoeffer's invitation to recognize my own community of faith - the people who gather as Skyline - for the miracle God has created us to be for each other and for our neighbors.
Bonhoeffer writes that the kind of gratefulness a prisoner feels for a visitor who brings encouragement into darkness can multiply a thousand times over when we are surrounded by pilgrims on the journey of faith. But we often take each other for granted, of course, precisely because we are surrounded by an embarrassment of riches.
I remembered the way I used to feel so isolated as a Christ-follower and officer aboard USS Bunker Hill, in the vastness of the Pacific and Indian Oceans. When I would gather with a few others to pray or to read the scriptures together, I would often feel as if we were the last Christians on the face of the earth. I missed the hymns and the liturgy and the fellowship of the congregations of Christians God had surrounded me with in my youth. A Chaplain visited us when we got in helicopter range of the aircraft carrier in our Battle Group, and I wept as I received communion.
Jesus knew far more about wine than I do.
But when he spoke of the new wine of God's realm, he decanted an overflowing cup from his experience of wine to demonstrate something about those who dared to believe in his message of God in the midst of our life together. The frothy, fermenting "fruit of the gods" that refused to be contained reminded Jesus of those who left behind everything to follow him - those who would go where they did not wish to go after he released them to invite the world to celebrate God's love in a community called the Kingdom of God.
Our capacity to refresh others who are thirsty for love staggers our imagination. If we could but have a taste of what it is like to bring another (a stranger? a friend? a sibling?) to life, we would gladly accept Jesus' grace-filled invitation to pour us out for the sake of God's love for our hurting and lonely world. Our worship is a never-ending party - a celebration of the new wine, the very best wine of God's love, flowing without measure. It pours into the streets that stream from where we gather to return and search out the parched and dry.
New wineskins deliver the wine of gladness and reception into improbable but amazing grace. They do not contain it; there is no time or need to patch old containers, weary from holding it in. This wine is restless for the celebration - to be consumed and to consummate the marriage of God to the whole human community - indeed, to all of creation.
I drank this new wine to the dregs among pilgrims gathered in Nashville who gave their lives to minister in the name and power of Jesus to all people. This wine also flowed through my life into others, and I found that being poured out makes room for the never-ending stream of God's grace and love for the world. And I know that what draws me back to the saints gathered at Skyline is the reckless way we welcome the Messiah to recommend the vintage of our love to any and all who dare to believe in a world redefined by the love of God in all people.
Pour it on, God!
One of the speakers at Nashville invited us to take another look at Bonhoeffer's "Life Together". As I began to read this fascinating journal of a triumphant community of resistance to the monstrous hatred of Hitler's Germany, I was struck first by Bonhoeffer's invitation to recognize my own community of faith - the people who gather as Skyline - for the miracle God has created us to be for each other and for our neighbors.
Bonhoeffer writes that the kind of gratefulness a prisoner feels for a visitor who brings encouragement into darkness can multiply a thousand times over when we are surrounded by pilgrims on the journey of faith. But we often take each other for granted, of course, precisely because we are surrounded by an embarrassment of riches.
I remembered the way I used to feel so isolated as a Christ-follower and officer aboard USS Bunker Hill, in the vastness of the Pacific and Indian Oceans. When I would gather with a few others to pray or to read the scriptures together, I would often feel as if we were the last Christians on the face of the earth. I missed the hymns and the liturgy and the fellowship of the congregations of Christians God had surrounded me with in my youth. A Chaplain visited us when we got in helicopter range of the aircraft carrier in our Battle Group, and I wept as I received communion.
Jesus knew far more about wine than I do.
But when he spoke of the new wine of God's realm, he decanted an overflowing cup from his experience of wine to demonstrate something about those who dared to believe in his message of God in the midst of our life together. The frothy, fermenting "fruit of the gods" that refused to be contained reminded Jesus of those who left behind everything to follow him - those who would go where they did not wish to go after he released them to invite the world to celebrate God's love in a community called the Kingdom of God.
Our capacity to refresh others who are thirsty for love staggers our imagination. If we could but have a taste of what it is like to bring another (a stranger? a friend? a sibling?) to life, we would gladly accept Jesus' grace-filled invitation to pour us out for the sake of God's love for our hurting and lonely world. Our worship is a never-ending party - a celebration of the new wine, the very best wine of God's love, flowing without measure. It pours into the streets that stream from where we gather to return and search out the parched and dry.
New wineskins deliver the wine of gladness and reception into improbable but amazing grace. They do not contain it; there is no time or need to patch old containers, weary from holding it in. This wine is restless for the celebration - to be consumed and to consummate the marriage of God to the whole human community - indeed, to all of creation.
I drank this new wine to the dregs among pilgrims gathered in Nashville who gave their lives to minister in the name and power of Jesus to all people. This wine also flowed through my life into others, and I found that being poured out makes room for the never-ending stream of God's grace and love for the world. And I know that what draws me back to the saints gathered at Skyline is the reckless way we welcome the Messiah to recommend the vintage of our love to any and all who dare to believe in a world redefined by the love of God in all people.
Pour it on, God!
Monday, November 2, 2009
Back to Galilee
Last week, I spent six days in retreat, worship and contemplation of ways in which I can walk the journey of life as a pastor as a pilgrimage with good friends. Sixty of us gathered in Nashville to worship, reflect, exchange gifts of encouragement, and prepare to return to Galilee in anticipation of meeting Jesus in the daylight and dishes. After a rough journey home through delay and turbulence, I arrived home in a different state of mind and spirit.
During the week, Vicki asked me to tell her what was happening in Nashville, among the gathered pilgrims and falling leaves. I didn't have to think long. I told her that we all were learning the grace of walking in the Way of Jesus the Messiah as a pilgrimage rather than a solo journey - we did not have to do this alone. And I get the feeling pastors aren't the only ones who need to hear this gracious invitation to join a great cloud of witnesses as they seek God in the journey of life.
None of us returned with a ToDo list, or a 10-step process for turning things around. One of my friends voiced an invitation to treat their family members with a holy regard. On the flight home, the flight attendant reminded me that there "may not be a later". As I reunited with my family on All Hallows Eve, I savored the hugs we shared and listening to their stories of the week I had missed while in Nashville, as much as I enjoyed groping for words to tell about my adventure there.
And though I'll have more to say as I sift through the many memories of that week, I know for certain that I rediscovered a sense of my first love of God, and the people God loves, in the holy place we gathered in near Music Row and Vanderbilt University. Strangers who became companions in an instant of conversation or sitting quietly together in worship reminded me again and again of the irresistible love of God that drew and draws me to serve others in the name of Christ.
We reflected on the cycle of Grace and the cycle of Works, and the waxing and waning of our souls in both streams. I knew that my ability to trust God's love determines the direction of grace or works I pursue - my need to determine the outcome or the faith I experience simply and always to fall into love. To give into a stream of God's grace involves letting fears go as the tide washes over me and bears me to others. We talked often of fears and anxieties the crowd out our ability to fall into love.
And when I returned to the dishes? I discovered that the sense of grace waxing under a swelling moon returned with me. As I walked to church to gather around a table and talk of God's surprising and mysterious movement in our lives, Debbie Christie called me to tell me our nursery caregiver was unable to watch over the infants and toddlers. So I allowed the flow of grace to take me to watch over them.
I had baptized many of those little ones, but we had not played much together. And as we sang songs and danced in the chaotic flow of the nursery, I enjoyed the freedom they gave me to sit on the floor and enjoy learning about life. Vicki preached upstairs, but my return to the nursery seemed a fitting return to Galilee for me. I was looking for Jesus and found myself surrounded by toys and exuberant toddlers in the Kingdom of God.
During the week, Vicki asked me to tell her what was happening in Nashville, among the gathered pilgrims and falling leaves. I didn't have to think long. I told her that we all were learning the grace of walking in the Way of Jesus the Messiah as a pilgrimage rather than a solo journey - we did not have to do this alone. And I get the feeling pastors aren't the only ones who need to hear this gracious invitation to join a great cloud of witnesses as they seek God in the journey of life.
None of us returned with a ToDo list, or a 10-step process for turning things around. One of my friends voiced an invitation to treat their family members with a holy regard. On the flight home, the flight attendant reminded me that there "may not be a later". As I reunited with my family on All Hallows Eve, I savored the hugs we shared and listening to their stories of the week I had missed while in Nashville, as much as I enjoyed groping for words to tell about my adventure there.
And though I'll have more to say as I sift through the many memories of that week, I know for certain that I rediscovered a sense of my first love of God, and the people God loves, in the holy place we gathered in near Music Row and Vanderbilt University. Strangers who became companions in an instant of conversation or sitting quietly together in worship reminded me again and again of the irresistible love of God that drew and draws me to serve others in the name of Christ.
We reflected on the cycle of Grace and the cycle of Works, and the waxing and waning of our souls in both streams. I knew that my ability to trust God's love determines the direction of grace or works I pursue - my need to determine the outcome or the faith I experience simply and always to fall into love. To give into a stream of God's grace involves letting fears go as the tide washes over me and bears me to others. We talked often of fears and anxieties the crowd out our ability to fall into love.
And when I returned to the dishes? I discovered that the sense of grace waxing under a swelling moon returned with me. As I walked to church to gather around a table and talk of God's surprising and mysterious movement in our lives, Debbie Christie called me to tell me our nursery caregiver was unable to watch over the infants and toddlers. So I allowed the flow of grace to take me to watch over them.
I had baptized many of those little ones, but we had not played much together. And as we sang songs and danced in the chaotic flow of the nursery, I enjoyed the freedom they gave me to sit on the floor and enjoy learning about life. Vicki preached upstairs, but my return to the nursery seemed a fitting return to Galilee for me. I was looking for Jesus and found myself surrounded by toys and exuberant toddlers in the Kingdom of God.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Wake Me Up When September Ends
We had a rude awakening at September's end this fall at Skyline, when our Administrative Assistant informed us that she would be unable to cover our pay with the money she had in the bank as the month came to a close.
Yeah. I said rude awakening. I wasn't kidding.
Now before we get into interpretation mode, there's this little matter of "What Do We Do Now" that fairly screams for attention, and it got all of ours as October winds started blowing. We gathered leaders and contacted the people we are accountable to - we prayed and planned and spent some time with mentors and spiritual advisers. And we let everyone at Skyline Church know what was going on.
Which was weird at first. But refreshing in a way. Before we let the congregation know, the weight of the problem gave us little room to breathe. Here's how bad it got: I called the Navy recruiter in Philadelphia and started the process to become a navy chaplain. Serving as a chaplain is an honorable path - but if I had followed it at this point in my life, it would have meant an unending separation from my wife and children.
On October 5, we met with out District Superintendent, who directly supervises us and who advises the Bishop regarding appointments for all churches in the Wilmington District. We told him about our financial situation at the church. He told us to hang tight, at least until next July.
There's a funny thing about ordination. When we became United Methodist pastors, we vowed to serve the church and only the church - working 100% as pastors, resident theologians, spiritual counselors, and church administrators. This present crisis brings those vows into crystal clear focus. We serve under orders.
And so far in October? We've received offerings sufficient to cover expenses for two consecutive Sundays. The members and friends gathered Sunday have responded to our full disclosure with a renewed sense of calling and conviction - just as we have. The work and ministry of this faith community continues with passion and hope. Members face medical, spiritual and financial difficulties with courage - in the midst of a supportive and loving community.
Our theme this year is God's Future - with Hope. Yup. That's the ticket. I'm on board.
Yeah. I said rude awakening. I wasn't kidding.
Now before we get into interpretation mode, there's this little matter of "What Do We Do Now" that fairly screams for attention, and it got all of ours as October winds started blowing. We gathered leaders and contacted the people we are accountable to - we prayed and planned and spent some time with mentors and spiritual advisers. And we let everyone at Skyline Church know what was going on.
Which was weird at first. But refreshing in a way. Before we let the congregation know, the weight of the problem gave us little room to breathe. Here's how bad it got: I called the Navy recruiter in Philadelphia and started the process to become a navy chaplain. Serving as a chaplain is an honorable path - but if I had followed it at this point in my life, it would have meant an unending separation from my wife and children.
On October 5, we met with out District Superintendent, who directly supervises us and who advises the Bishop regarding appointments for all churches in the Wilmington District. We told him about our financial situation at the church. He told us to hang tight, at least until next July.
There's a funny thing about ordination. When we became United Methodist pastors, we vowed to serve the church and only the church - working 100% as pastors, resident theologians, spiritual counselors, and church administrators. This present crisis brings those vows into crystal clear focus. We serve under orders.
And so far in October? We've received offerings sufficient to cover expenses for two consecutive Sundays. The members and friends gathered Sunday have responded to our full disclosure with a renewed sense of calling and conviction - just as we have. The work and ministry of this faith community continues with passion and hope. Members face medical, spiritual and financial difficulties with courage - in the midst of a supportive and loving community.
Our theme this year is God's Future - with Hope. Yup. That's the ticket. I'm on board.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
A Church Without Walls
On Monday evening, after 21 months of conversation and study and dialogue, the Church Conference of Skyline UMC voted 48-6 (with 2 abstentions) to adopt an expanded Mission Statement of welcome to all people into a community of followers of Jesus (regardless of age, racial, ethnic or national origin, physical or mental ability, marital status, religious experience, affectional orientation, gender identity, or socioeconomic status). Such debate as there was focused on why we would need to specify who we are welcoming, when the word All might suffice. The overwhelming majority felt that while most churches claim to welcome All, the reality is that they restrict their welcome to exclude people on the margins of society - the very people Jesus came to serve. The group hopes for the day when spelling out our welcome won't be necessary, when the walls are broken down - but 86% of the 56 members of the church who voted felt that our church needs to make an explicit welcome statement to people for whom All does not in fact mean all in typical churches.
The Statement adopted June 22 reads:
The Mission of Skyline United Methodist Church is to
Reach Out to all people seeking a deeper relationship with God, regardless of age, racial, ethnic or national origin, physical or mental ability, marital status, religious experience, affectional orientation, gender identity, or socioeconomic status,
Welcome them into a community followers of Jesus who freely choose to worship, serve, and live together prayerfullyand in peace following a Methodist understanding of God's gift of grace,
Equip them to live as the Holy Spirit gifts and guides, and
Send them to serve and reach out to all people in Christ's name.
Before the vote on the Welcome Statement, there was considerable debate over the budget. We recognize that we have paid a price for standing with people on the margins, and that we will continue to pay a price. Many in the church want to see us fail - they would rather shut us down than see us open our doors to all people. As we consider the plans God has for us (Jeremiah 29:11-14a), I feel a sense of hope that outweighs fear. Among those who voted last night were our children (including our foster daughter). They joined us in voting to be a part of a church without walls, and then they served us communion. We have fought for the past few years here for their place in God's house as much as anyone else's. Whatever the future holds, last night we affirmed a Light that shines in the darkness (of fear and ignorance and hatred) that can never be extinguished.
The Statement adopted June 22 reads:
The Mission of Skyline United Methodist Church is to
Reach Out to all people seeking a deeper relationship with God, regardless of age, racial, ethnic or national origin, physical or mental ability, marital status, religious experience, affectional orientation, gender identity, or socioeconomic status,
Welcome them into a community followers of Jesus who freely choose to worship, serve, and live together prayerfullyand in peace following a Methodist understanding of God's gift of grace,
Equip them to live as the Holy Spirit gifts and guides, and
Send them to serve and reach out to all people in Christ's name.
Before the vote on the Welcome Statement, there was considerable debate over the budget. We recognize that we have paid a price for standing with people on the margins, and that we will continue to pay a price. Many in the church want to see us fail - they would rather shut us down than see us open our doors to all people. As we consider the plans God has for us (Jeremiah 29:11-14a), I feel a sense of hope that outweighs fear. Among those who voted last night were our children (including our foster daughter). They joined us in voting to be a part of a church without walls, and then they served us communion. We have fought for the past few years here for their place in God's house as much as anyone else's. Whatever the future holds, last night we affirmed a Light that shines in the darkness (of fear and ignorance and hatred) that can never be extinguished.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Scripture and Prayer
I write today in response to a query from a good friend about my purpose in offering a Bible study on scripture and homosexuality (in particular) and about my overall understanding of the place of scripture in spiritual discernment, vis-a-vis the many other ways spiritual seekers experience the presence and guidance of the Divine. Joy puts it best when she summarizes that scripture and prayer (in words and in action) are profoundly related and necessary to each other, both in confirming and in conforming (transforming) human experience of the divine.
As an ordained pastor, I am accountable to scriptural authority - but the interpretive latitude of that mandate embraces tradition, reason, and experience in what amounts to an understanding of ongoing inspiration, at least in practice (if not officially). Of course, in the church, the latitude is considerably more vast - given what many pundits call scriptural illiteracy in the church (among laity and clergy, to be blunt). That illiteracy accounts for our flocking around such spurious projects as "The Prayer of Jabez" or "Your Best Life Now".
As I continue to grow in faith, especially in the wake of Divinity School, I experience scripture in the way I have been taught that an icon functions in prayer, as a spiritual catalyst or window through which we can (though by no means always do) experience greater clarity of understanding of God's presence, will and Way. I have come to understand that scriptural authority is not inherent in itself, but lies in its appropriation in the faith community that gathers around it to confirm their experience of the Holy in every generation and to reinforce the Spirit's call to live for God and others.
Different people will understand scriptural authority (and it's place in Christian discernment) in different ways - as the scriptures themselves amply attest. My purpose in offering an examination of scriptural passages traditionally used in the church to justify discrimination and abuse of homosexual persons is to demonstrate one way to resolve an apparent conflict between scriptural discernment (an apparent divine justification of punishment of homosexual people) and human experience (the fruit of faithfulness and love expressed in the lives of homosexual persons). I do not believe there is any conflict - traditional interpretations of scripture notwithstanding.
I am well aware that there may be no receptive audience for what I have to say. On the one hand, those Christians who hold to a more traditional (they might claim that it is more "literal") understanding of scriptural interpretation and authority certainly argue that my interpretation is de facto liberal revisionism in order to reconcile scripture to the higher authority (for me, they might argue) of human reason and experience. On the other hand, someone who holds a far more nuanced understanding of scriptural authority and interpetation might see my project as an anachronistic gloss on a hopelessly time-bound document that has little contemporary relevance either for religious or philosophical seekers of Truth. I prayed long and hard about scrapping the entire project for those reasons. But in the end, I felt I needed to speak my mind, not so much for the defense of scriptural authority, but as a testimony and thanksgiving of how scripture functions in my life as a means of discernment and experience of the reality of the divine in the human community (past and present).
Given my profession as a scholar of scripture and a theologian, I suppose my passion for this project should come as no surprise. I grew up in a tradition that valued scripture as the sine qua non of spiritual discernment, and I continue to experience God's presence in it's profound testimony. Though I no longer understand scriptural inspiration in a magical way (i.e., divine dictation), I value more than I can say the power of scripture to draw me into conversation with a community that spans six millennia and more of companions in this spiritual journey that is life. These include nomads, prophets, poets, kings, beggars, lepers, messiahs, disciples, governors, soldiers, revolutionaries, farmers and fishers, shepherds, prostitutes, children and their parents. They are not dead to me. Their testimony (both implicit and "literal") interprets my life and experience just as I am compelled to interpret its mysterious meanings (sometimes a different facet with each fresh reading), and calls me far beyond the boundaries of myself - to experience something that begins to take the shape of what we (too casually, more often than not) refer to as God.
I am a student of literature, and the scriptures are certainly great literature. But I have inherited, for better or worse, a tradition of interpretation and a community that has gathered and gathered around this collection (canon) as a vessel for understanding God's ways among the human community. Their relevance or authority in every generation comes from our engagement not so much with the words but with the community that gathered around those words in many ages and times. We ratify their authority and ability to "lead us into all Truth" not a priori, because they are the Holy writings, but because more and more of us experience their power to interpret our experience (of prayer and of life) as related by love to one another and to God. For some, this happens on a surface level that I am tempted to dismiss as naive and immature. At moments of better clarity, I realize that even in this apparent disparity, God's grace meets each of us at our point of need and receptivity.
As an ordained pastor, I am accountable to scriptural authority - but the interpretive latitude of that mandate embraces tradition, reason, and experience in what amounts to an understanding of ongoing inspiration, at least in practice (if not officially). Of course, in the church, the latitude is considerably more vast - given what many pundits call scriptural illiteracy in the church (among laity and clergy, to be blunt). That illiteracy accounts for our flocking around such spurious projects as "The Prayer of Jabez" or "Your Best Life Now".
As I continue to grow in faith, especially in the wake of Divinity School, I experience scripture in the way I have been taught that an icon functions in prayer, as a spiritual catalyst or window through which we can (though by no means always do) experience greater clarity of understanding of God's presence, will and Way. I have come to understand that scriptural authority is not inherent in itself, but lies in its appropriation in the faith community that gathers around it to confirm their experience of the Holy in every generation and to reinforce the Spirit's call to live for God and others.
Different people will understand scriptural authority (and it's place in Christian discernment) in different ways - as the scriptures themselves amply attest. My purpose in offering an examination of scriptural passages traditionally used in the church to justify discrimination and abuse of homosexual persons is to demonstrate one way to resolve an apparent conflict between scriptural discernment (an apparent divine justification of punishment of homosexual people) and human experience (the fruit of faithfulness and love expressed in the lives of homosexual persons). I do not believe there is any conflict - traditional interpretations of scripture notwithstanding.
I am well aware that there may be no receptive audience for what I have to say. On the one hand, those Christians who hold to a more traditional (they might claim that it is more "literal") understanding of scriptural interpretation and authority certainly argue that my interpretation is de facto liberal revisionism in order to reconcile scripture to the higher authority (for me, they might argue) of human reason and experience. On the other hand, someone who holds a far more nuanced understanding of scriptural authority and interpetation might see my project as an anachronistic gloss on a hopelessly time-bound document that has little contemporary relevance either for religious or philosophical seekers of Truth. I prayed long and hard about scrapping the entire project for those reasons. But in the end, I felt I needed to speak my mind, not so much for the defense of scriptural authority, but as a testimony and thanksgiving of how scripture functions in my life as a means of discernment and experience of the reality of the divine in the human community (past and present).
Given my profession as a scholar of scripture and a theologian, I suppose my passion for this project should come as no surprise. I grew up in a tradition that valued scripture as the sine qua non of spiritual discernment, and I continue to experience God's presence in it's profound testimony. Though I no longer understand scriptural inspiration in a magical way (i.e., divine dictation), I value more than I can say the power of scripture to draw me into conversation with a community that spans six millennia and more of companions in this spiritual journey that is life. These include nomads, prophets, poets, kings, beggars, lepers, messiahs, disciples, governors, soldiers, revolutionaries, farmers and fishers, shepherds, prostitutes, children and their parents. They are not dead to me. Their testimony (both implicit and "literal") interprets my life and experience just as I am compelled to interpret its mysterious meanings (sometimes a different facet with each fresh reading), and calls me far beyond the boundaries of myself - to experience something that begins to take the shape of what we (too casually, more often than not) refer to as God.
I am a student of literature, and the scriptures are certainly great literature. But I have inherited, for better or worse, a tradition of interpretation and a community that has gathered and gathered around this collection (canon) as a vessel for understanding God's ways among the human community. Their relevance or authority in every generation comes from our engagement not so much with the words but with the community that gathered around those words in many ages and times. We ratify their authority and ability to "lead us into all Truth" not a priori, because they are the Holy writings, but because more and more of us experience their power to interpret our experience (of prayer and of life) as related by love to one another and to God. For some, this happens on a surface level that I am tempted to dismiss as naive and immature. At moments of better clarity, I realize that even in this apparent disparity, God's grace meets each of us at our point of need and receptivity.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Outliers and the Fate We Make That Makes Us
Bo Gordy-Stith's review of Malcolm Gladwell's "Outliers: The Story of Success" (Little, Brown and Company, 2008)
I've just finished reading Malcolm Gladwell's latest study of human behavior, Outliers, about the backstory of success in America and to a lesser degree, in the world. The other books are The Tipping Point and Blink, both of which I enjoyed immensely. Outliers did not disappoint. Gladwell delivers a diverse range of applications of his thesis with humor and the kind of penetrating wisdom you would expect from a poet who can reveal some hidden secret in something you think you know all about but have never really seen.
Someone asked me if Outliers was a religious book, and I told them that it could be a way to understand the more subtle and powerful ways of grace in our world. But while Gladwell prompts an exploration of the road to success (and how we might widen it a bit), his definition of success creates an extraordinary tension he can never resolve.
Stratospheric success, it turns out, according to Gladwell, involves the gift of talent and extraordinary, relentless hours of practice - 10,000 hours of practice. That's the kind of precision Gladwell delivers repeatedly, like the fact that you can recall a series of numbers you can recite in 2 seconds, or how the ability to stay with a math problem for 22 minutes makes the difference between excelling in math and merely surviving. Or if you're a southerner who has just received an insult, you'll walk to within 2 feet of a bouncer before turning aside, rather than 6 feet (for anyone not from the south). All of the numbers, of course, are based on studies Gladwell cites to buttress his argument that reads more like a conversation over a really good meal.
The last tidbit exemplifies the thesis that gives the book title an ironic twist: in addition to talent and determination, outliers are inevitably products of their families and the larger communities (living and dead) and even history - in other words, they're not really outliers at all - they're inescapably woven into the human social fabric. And though Gladwell spends much more time exploring this thesis than suggesting ways to capitalize on it in society, he repeatedly asserts that taking the social environment part of the success equation far more seriously would result in far more opportunity for success.
Near the end of the book, he cites an inner city school program that closes the well-known learning gap between rich and poor students by extending the classroom hours and nixing a three-month summer break (where studies Gladwell cites demonstrate the real reason for the learning gap between rich and poor occurs). Earlier in the book, Gladwell writes about a group of geniuses followed by a sociologist whose success or failure correlated well with the income and education levels of their parents. The extended hours school program recognizes this cultural reality and then mitigates it essentially by removing the kids from their unsupportive home environment.
Another example of what Gladwell refers to as taking cultural factors seriously involves the retraining of Korean pilots in the wake of a series of accidents. Recognizing that a Korean culture of deference to superiors made it difficult for co-pilots to correct pilot errors, an (American) consultant banished the Korean language from the cockpits, essentially creating a competing cockpit culture that would allow the egalitarian cooperation necessary to safely fly commercial jets. And of course it worked.
But this is just where Gladwell's highly entertaining book leaves me unsettled. The author shifts between the draconian social re-engineering I mention above on the one hand and a resignation to the fate of (for instance) being born in 1835, 1917, 1951, or on January 1, which would give you a much better chance to be one of the richest persons in the history of the world, a highly successful Jewish lawyer in New York, an architect of the PC revolution, or a professional Canadian hockey player, respectively.
Radical social reengineering (or, more to the point, eradication, as in the Korean Airline cockpits) to level the playing field for far more people to succeed and "luck" (to use Bill Gates' words) form opposite poles of Gladwell's study of success. But I can find no middle ground - no spectrum of what I have come to call Grace in between the harsh poles of Make and Fate. In the end, Gladwell refuses a "bloom where you're planted" ethic for a success standard imposed by a non-existent patchwork culture he forms from Asian rice paddies to European tailors and obnoxious air traffic controllers from the Bronx - all with the goal of getting into a mythical house on a hill, via a road marked with 10,000 hours of unrelenting toil for greatness.
His epilogue is a colorful description of his own patchwork Jamaican/English/African cultural history, which makes a kind of sense, given the thrust of his thesis. The view from his house on a hill must be marvelous, and he justly recognizes that it is built literally on the foundation of the backs of his tireless and blessed forebears (blessed by fortune in ironic ways).
As it happens, I'm also reading Tom Sawyer to my 12 year old son and 11 year old foster son, each night as they go to bed. They boys love the hero of the quintessentially American tale, and strive to emulate him in their lives. They look forward to a golden summer of delights at the helm of a mountain bike, in the pool, surrounded by budding beauty they (like Tom) are beginning more and more to appreciate, and at the computer screen, where they live out a heroic existence Tom would not have been able to imagine. My son is gifted with extraordinary intelligence in math and science. My foster son is a whiz on the basketball court and skating rink - and is remarkably observant. My daughter already dreams of putting her considerable empathy and music talent together into a career in music therapy.
The idea of sending them to a rice paddy this summer to increase their chance at success seems to mock the very idea of success. And grace. No doubt hard work finds its own reward. But the culture that nurtures them and my wife and me encourages us to value other virtues as well, like friendship, sacrifice for others, and Sabbath. And grace. Which promises me and my community that God has indeed gifted us all for a purpose.
In the midst of his discussion of the arduous labor involved in rice farming in China, Gladwell defines what he calls meaningful work. To be meaningful, Gladwell asserts that work must involve (1) a clear relationship between effort and reward; (2) complexity; and (3) autonomy (p. 236). Those sound like the reflections of an entrepreneur - an author, perhaps, from the vantage point of the house on a hill. They are the words of a self-made man (albeit haunted by the injustice of fate that allowed him to make himself on the backs of others).
The words I would use to define meaningful work would be challenge, variety, and value (not merely defined in terms of money, of course). Life work should be stimulating, worthy of the creator and their creativity, and it should make the world a better place. Perhaps that's too much to ask, but in the end, I'd rather not settle for anything less (for myself or for anyone else). Success does not mean masking my cultural impediments, but recognizing in them (and in myself) unique strengths and (as I would label them as a pastor) gifts from God.
Gladwell entertains, surely. And he has collected a stunning amount of data to ponder the meaning of success. But his title dooms his thesis by posing an insoluble dilemma: how to escape the bonds of one's culture in order to achieve “success”. He is right about one thing, certainly. There are no true outliers in the human community. No islands. We are bound together in a shared history and family, and we truly succeed only when we reclaim both our cultural heritage as a gift - and our lives as God's gift to the human family.
I've just finished reading Malcolm Gladwell's latest study of human behavior, Outliers, about the backstory of success in America and to a lesser degree, in the world. The other books are The Tipping Point and Blink, both of which I enjoyed immensely. Outliers did not disappoint. Gladwell delivers a diverse range of applications of his thesis with humor and the kind of penetrating wisdom you would expect from a poet who can reveal some hidden secret in something you think you know all about but have never really seen.
Someone asked me if Outliers was a religious book, and I told them that it could be a way to understand the more subtle and powerful ways of grace in our world. But while Gladwell prompts an exploration of the road to success (and how we might widen it a bit), his definition of success creates an extraordinary tension he can never resolve.
Stratospheric success, it turns out, according to Gladwell, involves the gift of talent and extraordinary, relentless hours of practice - 10,000 hours of practice. That's the kind of precision Gladwell delivers repeatedly, like the fact that you can recall a series of numbers you can recite in 2 seconds, or how the ability to stay with a math problem for 22 minutes makes the difference between excelling in math and merely surviving. Or if you're a southerner who has just received an insult, you'll walk to within 2 feet of a bouncer before turning aside, rather than 6 feet (for anyone not from the south). All of the numbers, of course, are based on studies Gladwell cites to buttress his argument that reads more like a conversation over a really good meal.
The last tidbit exemplifies the thesis that gives the book title an ironic twist: in addition to talent and determination, outliers are inevitably products of their families and the larger communities (living and dead) and even history - in other words, they're not really outliers at all - they're inescapably woven into the human social fabric. And though Gladwell spends much more time exploring this thesis than suggesting ways to capitalize on it in society, he repeatedly asserts that taking the social environment part of the success equation far more seriously would result in far more opportunity for success.
Near the end of the book, he cites an inner city school program that closes the well-known learning gap between rich and poor students by extending the classroom hours and nixing a three-month summer break (where studies Gladwell cites demonstrate the real reason for the learning gap between rich and poor occurs). Earlier in the book, Gladwell writes about a group of geniuses followed by a sociologist whose success or failure correlated well with the income and education levels of their parents. The extended hours school program recognizes this cultural reality and then mitigates it essentially by removing the kids from their unsupportive home environment.
Another example of what Gladwell refers to as taking cultural factors seriously involves the retraining of Korean pilots in the wake of a series of accidents. Recognizing that a Korean culture of deference to superiors made it difficult for co-pilots to correct pilot errors, an (American) consultant banished the Korean language from the cockpits, essentially creating a competing cockpit culture that would allow the egalitarian cooperation necessary to safely fly commercial jets. And of course it worked.
But this is just where Gladwell's highly entertaining book leaves me unsettled. The author shifts between the draconian social re-engineering I mention above on the one hand and a resignation to the fate of (for instance) being born in 1835, 1917, 1951, or on January 1, which would give you a much better chance to be one of the richest persons in the history of the world, a highly successful Jewish lawyer in New York, an architect of the PC revolution, or a professional Canadian hockey player, respectively.
Radical social reengineering (or, more to the point, eradication, as in the Korean Airline cockpits) to level the playing field for far more people to succeed and "luck" (to use Bill Gates' words) form opposite poles of Gladwell's study of success. But I can find no middle ground - no spectrum of what I have come to call Grace in between the harsh poles of Make and Fate. In the end, Gladwell refuses a "bloom where you're planted" ethic for a success standard imposed by a non-existent patchwork culture he forms from Asian rice paddies to European tailors and obnoxious air traffic controllers from the Bronx - all with the goal of getting into a mythical house on a hill, via a road marked with 10,000 hours of unrelenting toil for greatness.
His epilogue is a colorful description of his own patchwork Jamaican/English/African cultural history, which makes a kind of sense, given the thrust of his thesis. The view from his house on a hill must be marvelous, and he justly recognizes that it is built literally on the foundation of the backs of his tireless and blessed forebears (blessed by fortune in ironic ways).
As it happens, I'm also reading Tom Sawyer to my 12 year old son and 11 year old foster son, each night as they go to bed. They boys love the hero of the quintessentially American tale, and strive to emulate him in their lives. They look forward to a golden summer of delights at the helm of a mountain bike, in the pool, surrounded by budding beauty they (like Tom) are beginning more and more to appreciate, and at the computer screen, where they live out a heroic existence Tom would not have been able to imagine. My son is gifted with extraordinary intelligence in math and science. My foster son is a whiz on the basketball court and skating rink - and is remarkably observant. My daughter already dreams of putting her considerable empathy and music talent together into a career in music therapy.
The idea of sending them to a rice paddy this summer to increase their chance at success seems to mock the very idea of success. And grace. No doubt hard work finds its own reward. But the culture that nurtures them and my wife and me encourages us to value other virtues as well, like friendship, sacrifice for others, and Sabbath. And grace. Which promises me and my community that God has indeed gifted us all for a purpose.
In the midst of his discussion of the arduous labor involved in rice farming in China, Gladwell defines what he calls meaningful work. To be meaningful, Gladwell asserts that work must involve (1) a clear relationship between effort and reward; (2) complexity; and (3) autonomy (p. 236). Those sound like the reflections of an entrepreneur - an author, perhaps, from the vantage point of the house on a hill. They are the words of a self-made man (albeit haunted by the injustice of fate that allowed him to make himself on the backs of others).
The words I would use to define meaningful work would be challenge, variety, and value (not merely defined in terms of money, of course). Life work should be stimulating, worthy of the creator and their creativity, and it should make the world a better place. Perhaps that's too much to ask, but in the end, I'd rather not settle for anything less (for myself or for anyone else). Success does not mean masking my cultural impediments, but recognizing in them (and in myself) unique strengths and (as I would label them as a pastor) gifts from God.
Gladwell entertains, surely. And he has collected a stunning amount of data to ponder the meaning of success. But his title dooms his thesis by posing an insoluble dilemma: how to escape the bonds of one's culture in order to achieve “success”. He is right about one thing, certainly. There are no true outliers in the human community. No islands. We are bound together in a shared history and family, and we truly succeed only when we reclaim both our cultural heritage as a gift - and our lives as God's gift to the human family.
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