Richie had a nice sandbox under the deck of his house. Ours was splintering and had little maple trees making a go of it, but his had clean sand and smooth seats and loads of minature construction equipment to load up and dump. So whenever he'd invite me I'd hop the fence and dig in.
As it goes, he had his way of loading a Tonka truck and his idea about where to dump it and I had my own. So we'd argue and fuss and he'd remind me that this was his sandbox, after all, and his toys, so I'd better do things his way. I never wanted to do things his way. Within about five minutes he'd take his toys and disappear into his house, making sure I knew I wasn't invited inside.
His toys and his ideas meant more to him than our friendship. Likewise, my ideas meant more to me than respecting and honoring him. Suffice it to say that, to this day, we still haven't friended each other on facebook.
Isn't that sad? You might even say it's immature.
Richie and I were practicing a form of emotional cut-off. Emotional cut-off comes in a host of distasteful flavors such as giving someone the silent treatment or unfriending someone on facebook to remaining closed-off and unapproachable to others to running away or divorce or, at it's most severe, through physical violence such as committing suicide or murder. Each of these forms clearly vary in severity, but are rooted in the same emotional stance. Cut-off is one person's way of saying to another "I'm done with you!" It elevates the issue between two people so much that the issue becomes more important than the relationship itself.
Cut-off is defined many ways by many people. Dr. Murray Bowen, who pioneered the study of families systems as single emotional units back in the 1950's, sees cut-off as the most extreme form of emotional distance. Rabbi Dr. Edwin Friedman, a student of Bowen's who expanded family systems theory to observe natural systems, talks about it in terms of emotional distance. Roberta Gilbert, M.D. is a contemporary family systems thinker in D.C. who sees that how we handle cut-off is key to how we manage all our relationships.
With apologies for oversimplification of their profound thinking, I'd like to suggest that cut-off, be it a momentary storming out of a room or a permanent violent act, is rooted in prideful self-assurance. One person becomes absolutely convinced that their way of thinking is the only way of thinking and can make no room to open his or her mind.
Some dear friends who are members of a conservative evangelical church are currently feeling some painful, passive-aggressive emotional distancing. They've come to believe that gay people are also God's children who desire mercy and grace in their lives. So when they met a teen who'd been kicked out of his house when he came out to his parents, who was struggling to find a consistent place to eat and sleep, they invited him into their home, set up the guest room, and chose to love him in the same way Jesus showed love to the outcasts of his day.
This does not square well with Christians who have separated homosexuals from "neighbor" status (as in "love your neighbor") and reduced all gay people to being abhorrent and perverted aberrations of God's sexual plan.
The cognitive dissonance between their actions and the members' judgements proved too great for some to bear. To be fair, these judgments were not supported by the church's leadership. Relationships between them and other members started showing signs of strain. Anxiety spread like vibrations through a spider's web. Some proved that their thinking was too inflexible to embrace this act of generosity, love and mercy.
Now they have another decision to make. Do they work on the cut-off relationships or do they accept cut-off as a sign that it's time to nurture other relationships? Working to reconcile cut-off relationships is hard. Accepting cut-off galvanizes the rigidity that led to that emotional distance.
Theirs is a microcosm of those churches threatening schism (another form of cut-off) from the PC(USA). There are those who want to demonstrate love to the broken by removing institutionalized barriers set up to prevent homosexuals from ever being ordained. Then there are those who want to uphold the standard of considering homosexuality an abomination before God and believe that love includes discipline and repentance. Those who aren't going to get their way on this one are looking for another home.
Unfortunately, the leaders on both sides of this issue haven't demonstrated the emotional or spiritual maturity to manage cut-off. They've let the unthinkable become a real option. Some are planning to take their toys and go to another sandbox. Others are ready to kick them out with a resounding good riddance. Why is this unthinkable?
I can think of two reasons. First, it's reactive and not responsive. It's letting emotion drive the rationalizations of both sides rather than using reason to understand and manage emotion. In so doing, our eyes are no longer focused on the salvation that binds us into one body. Ours is a discipleship where faith seeks understanding, not where emotion seeks justification.
Second, this reactivity is driving those who've taken baptismal vows together, shared communion together, grieved together and prayed together to say "I want nothing to do with you anymore," and formally end their shared communion. I understand why people choose to manage anxiety through cut-off, but I certainly don't agree with it.
Cut-off does not heal with time. Cut-off only heals with mature interaction.
The denominations where churches are finding hermeneutical cover aren't necessarily going to share a communion table with the PC(USA) any time soon. Neither is the PC(USA) going to offer an olive branch to those who've made it easy to enact cut-off. These are in effect saying to each other that their version of Christianity is so distasteful that we can no longer work together. That's institutionalized, hyper-rationalized, emotionaly driven "I'm taking my stuff and never playing with you again" cut-off.
And even though this hurts - not only the people in the churches but moreso the mission of the church - we are showing time and again that we'd rather spend more energy alleviating anxiety through cut-off than managing anxiety through relationship.
This does not square with these words in II Corinthians 5:17-19: "Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself in Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting men's sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation."
Why did this happen? Why are we pursuing a path of emotinal distancing instead of reconciliation? What is driving not only this split, but every other schism the church has sufferedn in the past? I'd like to share a line from Friedman's Generation to Generation. This ought to make you think. "Emotional distance is perplexing. If there is too much, it is not possible to have a relationship; if there is not enough separation, it is also not possible to have a relationship," (Guilford, p.42, 1985).
Maybe, just maybe, the reason we can't withstand the tension is that we were too close to begin with. Maybe our attempts to homogenize the faith within ever-narrowing boundaries as defined by position papers and A.I.'s and the church's courts indicate a lack of healthy relationship in the first place.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
Funeral Humor
The family was early and the funeral home was late. By the time I showed up a scene was brewing, temperatures were rising and no one was thinking. Mom had been cremated but the sexton dug a full grave opening. There was a six foot drop and everyone wanted to know how Mom was going to be put in the hole.
Several ideas came to mind. Do we just drop her in and hope she doesn't spill out? Do we have someone jump in the hole to place her gently? What about a ladder? But each idea was kiboshed by the "someone will be traumatized" argument. After all, who wants to remember a day because they had to climb into Mom's grave?
So I approached the sexton, a rather humorless fellow, who sat quietly in his truck within earshot, not saying a word. "Can't we just cut a shelf at the head of the grave so I can place her?" "Sorry," he said with a tone that was far more patronizing than apologetic, "but I'd have to charge the family for another grave opening." "There's a shovel right in the back of your truck. I'll just dig it myself." "I can't let you do that, sir. Too many roots. You might hurt yourself." "But can't you see that this isn't going to work? The family is here to grieve, and you created this problem..." but before I could finish, he just rolled up his window and turned on the radio.
Meanwhile the kids in the family were out looking for rope. Whether it was to tie around Mom and lower her in or to tie around their waist to hoist them back out I can't be certain. I decided to try again with Mr. Lifeless and knocked on his window. He turned the radio down, not off, and rolled the window half-way and blew smoke in my general direction.
"I get it that this is about money. Listen. You'd have to fill in the grave anyway, right?" Reluctant agreement seemed to be acknowledged in the form of a slight head bob counterweighted by a solid sideways glance. "So why not fill in the hole now? That way I won't have subject their mother to an atomic drop." "Won't that be traumatizing to the family?" Like he cared.
Off he goes, at a snail's pace, to get the equipment. There were several machines to choose from, but he fired up the articulating front loader with the five yard bucket, jammed it into high gear, and nearly ran over several other stones as he made every effort to be neither subtle nor accurate. The family huddled at a safe distance.
Finally the funeral home shows up and tries to take over the situation. The director does triage both for his business and the family. He puts Mom down on some wooden planks under a tree, grabs me for a quick assessment of the situation, assigns the other men in matching suits with brass nametags to make various phone calls, and slips into the family's huddle to deliver the play.
That's when the sprinklers kicked on. These aren't typical lawn sprinklers with a gentle rythmic spray. These shoot inch thick jets over a 50 foot radius. "Mom's going to wash away!" There was no safe spot. The director pulled his coat over his head and charged for the cremains which, by the way, took a direct hit and rolled off the planks. He paused a moment to consider who needed his coat's shielding most - Mom's urn or his combover. For the first time that day, someone made a smart decision in the moment.
Mr. Lifeless high-tailed it back to the shed to shut off the water, belching a huge plume of black smoke which, of course, kind of settled right in around us. We coughed and smoothed our clothes and forced a bit of composure, tried to remember why we'd gathered here in the first place, and carefully stepped over puddles around a grave filled askew with random piles of dirt blocking access.
"Dearly beloved...." We laughed and cried and prayed and sang and did the "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" thing while I'm wondering if I ought to amend it to "mud to mud," but didn't. Thank God for good decision number two. At the end I knelt to lower Mom to her resting place, then got on hands and knees because he'd filled the middle more than the edges, and still couldn't quite reach. Nothing left to do but say a prayer and hope for the best. She landed softly, albeit a bit crooked, and we said our last goodbyes.
Several ideas came to mind. Do we just drop her in and hope she doesn't spill out? Do we have someone jump in the hole to place her gently? What about a ladder? But each idea was kiboshed by the "someone will be traumatized" argument. After all, who wants to remember a day because they had to climb into Mom's grave?
So I approached the sexton, a rather humorless fellow, who sat quietly in his truck within earshot, not saying a word. "Can't we just cut a shelf at the head of the grave so I can place her?" "Sorry," he said with a tone that was far more patronizing than apologetic, "but I'd have to charge the family for another grave opening." "There's a shovel right in the back of your truck. I'll just dig it myself." "I can't let you do that, sir. Too many roots. You might hurt yourself." "But can't you see that this isn't going to work? The family is here to grieve, and you created this problem..." but before I could finish, he just rolled up his window and turned on the radio.
Meanwhile the kids in the family were out looking for rope. Whether it was to tie around Mom and lower her in or to tie around their waist to hoist them back out I can't be certain. I decided to try again with Mr. Lifeless and knocked on his window. He turned the radio down, not off, and rolled the window half-way and blew smoke in my general direction.
"I get it that this is about money. Listen. You'd have to fill in the grave anyway, right?" Reluctant agreement seemed to be acknowledged in the form of a slight head bob counterweighted by a solid sideways glance. "So why not fill in the hole now? That way I won't have subject their mother to an atomic drop." "Won't that be traumatizing to the family?" Like he cared.
Off he goes, at a snail's pace, to get the equipment. There were several machines to choose from, but he fired up the articulating front loader with the five yard bucket, jammed it into high gear, and nearly ran over several other stones as he made every effort to be neither subtle nor accurate. The family huddled at a safe distance.
Finally the funeral home shows up and tries to take over the situation. The director does triage both for his business and the family. He puts Mom down on some wooden planks under a tree, grabs me for a quick assessment of the situation, assigns the other men in matching suits with brass nametags to make various phone calls, and slips into the family's huddle to deliver the play.
That's when the sprinklers kicked on. These aren't typical lawn sprinklers with a gentle rythmic spray. These shoot inch thick jets over a 50 foot radius. "Mom's going to wash away!" There was no safe spot. The director pulled his coat over his head and charged for the cremains which, by the way, took a direct hit and rolled off the planks. He paused a moment to consider who needed his coat's shielding most - Mom's urn or his combover. For the first time that day, someone made a smart decision in the moment.
Mr. Lifeless high-tailed it back to the shed to shut off the water, belching a huge plume of black smoke which, of course, kind of settled right in around us. We coughed and smoothed our clothes and forced a bit of composure, tried to remember why we'd gathered here in the first place, and carefully stepped over puddles around a grave filled askew with random piles of dirt blocking access.
"Dearly beloved...." We laughed and cried and prayed and sang and did the "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" thing while I'm wondering if I ought to amend it to "mud to mud," but didn't. Thank God for good decision number two. At the end I knelt to lower Mom to her resting place, then got on hands and knees because he'd filled the middle more than the edges, and still couldn't quite reach. Nothing left to do but say a prayer and hope for the best. She landed softly, albeit a bit crooked, and we said our last goodbyes.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Overreacting
Ever since hearing of the quake and tsunami devastating northern Japan we've been glued to news reports about the efforts to cool down the Fukushima Dai-Ichi reactors. Every newscast carries animation to help us understand how the reactor core and cooling processes work to keep the radioactive rods from overreacting and melting down. We know the rods are kept in a protective sheathing to contain the radioactivity and then immersed in water to keep them from overreacting. The steam produced in a controlled system turns turbines to make electricity while pumps continually push fresh water into the reactor core.
Without a constant supply of water to properly dissipate the heat of the rods, the sheathing melts, the radioactive material is exposed, and the best anyone can hope for is containtment. That's a partial meltdown. A total meltdown is when the overreacting material melts through the concrete and steel housing designed for containment and makes contact with the soil and groundwater. From there the fallout spreads to impact every system on earth.
Overreaction occurs when coolant systems fail. Meltdown occurs when containment systems fail. Fallout is the irreversible damage done.
Now, it may be too soon to use this story as an allegory for spiritual development. It may feel like I'm belittling a truly tragic set of circumstances which, if the worst case scenario plays out, will have immense global implications on world health, food supply, marine life, economics, energy policy and foreign policy. Fukushima Dai-Ichi could possibly be remembered as the single most devastating event in human history. Even if the best possible solution plays out, there is no doubt this will find its way into the arts as an apocalyptic metaphor representing the volatile combination of technological hubris, human complacency and natural disaster.
That said, the teachable moment shouldn't be lost. A great hindrance of spiritual maturity is anxiety. Overreaction occurs when coolant systems fail. Meltdown occurs when containment systems fail. Fallout is the irreversible damage done.
Anxiety, not doubt, is the opposite of faith. Doubt assumes a bit of faith because it motivates us to find answers to questions that aren't currently known or obvious, demonstrating that the person having doubts somehow believes there is an answer yet to discover.
Anxiety is a loss of faith. It is believing that whatever is pulling the rug out from underneath you will succeed and take you down. It is a loss of faith in the One who said, "In this world you will have trouble: but fear not! for I have overcome the world." It is giving in to the crisis of the moment without holding on to the hope we have in Christ. Anxiety produces panic (which is the opposite of peace), douses hope, and stresses out those closest to us with worry for our well being.
Anxiety is also a normal part of life. God built us with the capacity to be anxious. But why? For what reason did God build this into our being?
Properly controlled, anxiety is a gift, making us aware of where in our life we have not yet fully invested trust in God. We hit these anxious moments and can turn to God in prayer, knowing that we are invited to cast all our anxiety on him, instructed not to worry about tomorrow, constrained to put all our hope and trust in God alone and nothing (or noone) else.
Anxiety by its very nature resists control. It will take over our lives if we let it. It will combine with every other anxiety-producing element of life, seep through whatever containtment mechanisms we've constructed, and cause fallout in the form of stress-related disease either in self or in the system's symptom-bearer. That fallout can be almost any malady from a reduced immune defense to ulcers to addictive patterns developed as containment mechanisms. It can destroy relationships and not only keep an individual stuck in an immature cycle, but can even restrain an entire family, company, or church with self-defeating fear and self-destructive behavior.
Anxiety resists containment. We want to mitigate the anxiety we feel so we share it. We tweet and update statuses and text so the world will know that something isn't right with us. We may even try talking to another person. That, however, isn't preferred. It's almost as though we'd rather have the sympathy of many than the counsel of one. Oddly enough, if you weigh it out, sympathy is anxiety's best friend. It makes you feel good to receive sympathy, so you actually retain anxious patterns to get a greater payout.
But God did not make us to be driven by fear. God made us to live by faith and has given us two truly effective means to deal with the anxiety in our life, namely thinking and prayer.
Thinking is severely underrated as a spiritual discipline, probably because we don't do it very well. We may let our minds race and lose sleep "thinking" about whatever problem is in front of us, but that's not thinking. That's really just rationalizing and validating worry. Thinking is about gathering facts, recognizing limits, and finding creative solutions with those facts within those limits. Thinking is using the forefront of your brain so we don't cave in to more automatic, emotionally driven reactions. Thinking generates considered responses. Worry generates knee-jerk emotional reactivity.
Thinking is not a bad thing for people of faith to engage. God, who created us in God's own image, is the one who created the laws of phsyics in a logical manner to give order to the universe. As God's own, we are blessed with a certain capacity to reason and find order where anxiety prefers to be locked in chaos. Now, we're only given about 3-1/2 pounds of grey matter to work with, so thinking has natural limitations.
Prayer is the other tool God gives. We're not very good at this, either. Maybe it's because we don't really pray, but rehearse our worries over and over and over again in order to justify our fear before God. We don't really give it over to God whose limitless love conquers all fear.
Prayer, of the kind that releases anxiety, is engaging in a conversation with God through stillness and listening. It is founded in a faith that trusts in the Maker of heaven and eart, believes in ultimate and complete redemption through Christ, and finds its form in relation to the Holy Spirit. Prayer is a humble revelry in the whole of God's Triune Being, one in three and three in one.
These are anxiety's coolant systems which need to be constantly applied to prevent meltdown. The containment system is direct communication. Rather than spreading anxiety to the world and heaping your worries on top of others, spreading chaos, it is always, always, always best to communicate directly and individually with the one you identify as anxiety's source. That's containment. That's keeping the issue between two people rather than passing dirty laundry along to friends and family.
Employing these three things in steady, constant measure - thinking, prayer and direct communication - won't magically end all the anxiety of life, but it will help you mature in your faith by teaching you to stay cool in order to prevent emotional meltdown and fallout.
Be at peace,
Pastor Dave
Without a constant supply of water to properly dissipate the heat of the rods, the sheathing melts, the radioactive material is exposed, and the best anyone can hope for is containtment. That's a partial meltdown. A total meltdown is when the overreacting material melts through the concrete and steel housing designed for containment and makes contact with the soil and groundwater. From there the fallout spreads to impact every system on earth.
Overreaction occurs when coolant systems fail. Meltdown occurs when containment systems fail. Fallout is the irreversible damage done.
Now, it may be too soon to use this story as an allegory for spiritual development. It may feel like I'm belittling a truly tragic set of circumstances which, if the worst case scenario plays out, will have immense global implications on world health, food supply, marine life, economics, energy policy and foreign policy. Fukushima Dai-Ichi could possibly be remembered as the single most devastating event in human history. Even if the best possible solution plays out, there is no doubt this will find its way into the arts as an apocalyptic metaphor representing the volatile combination of technological hubris, human complacency and natural disaster.
That said, the teachable moment shouldn't be lost. A great hindrance of spiritual maturity is anxiety. Overreaction occurs when coolant systems fail. Meltdown occurs when containment systems fail. Fallout is the irreversible damage done.
Anxiety, not doubt, is the opposite of faith. Doubt assumes a bit of faith because it motivates us to find answers to questions that aren't currently known or obvious, demonstrating that the person having doubts somehow believes there is an answer yet to discover.
Anxiety is a loss of faith. It is believing that whatever is pulling the rug out from underneath you will succeed and take you down. It is a loss of faith in the One who said, "In this world you will have trouble: but fear not! for I have overcome the world." It is giving in to the crisis of the moment without holding on to the hope we have in Christ. Anxiety produces panic (which is the opposite of peace), douses hope, and stresses out those closest to us with worry for our well being.
Anxiety is also a normal part of life. God built us with the capacity to be anxious. But why? For what reason did God build this into our being?
Properly controlled, anxiety is a gift, making us aware of where in our life we have not yet fully invested trust in God. We hit these anxious moments and can turn to God in prayer, knowing that we are invited to cast all our anxiety on him, instructed not to worry about tomorrow, constrained to put all our hope and trust in God alone and nothing (or noone) else.
Anxiety by its very nature resists control. It will take over our lives if we let it. It will combine with every other anxiety-producing element of life, seep through whatever containtment mechanisms we've constructed, and cause fallout in the form of stress-related disease either in self or in the system's symptom-bearer. That fallout can be almost any malady from a reduced immune defense to ulcers to addictive patterns developed as containment mechanisms. It can destroy relationships and not only keep an individual stuck in an immature cycle, but can even restrain an entire family, company, or church with self-defeating fear and self-destructive behavior.
Anxiety resists containment. We want to mitigate the anxiety we feel so we share it. We tweet and update statuses and text so the world will know that something isn't right with us. We may even try talking to another person. That, however, isn't preferred. It's almost as though we'd rather have the sympathy of many than the counsel of one. Oddly enough, if you weigh it out, sympathy is anxiety's best friend. It makes you feel good to receive sympathy, so you actually retain anxious patterns to get a greater payout.
But God did not make us to be driven by fear. God made us to live by faith and has given us two truly effective means to deal with the anxiety in our life, namely thinking and prayer.
Thinking is severely underrated as a spiritual discipline, probably because we don't do it very well. We may let our minds race and lose sleep "thinking" about whatever problem is in front of us, but that's not thinking. That's really just rationalizing and validating worry. Thinking is about gathering facts, recognizing limits, and finding creative solutions with those facts within those limits. Thinking is using the forefront of your brain so we don't cave in to more automatic, emotionally driven reactions. Thinking generates considered responses. Worry generates knee-jerk emotional reactivity.
Thinking is not a bad thing for people of faith to engage. God, who created us in God's own image, is the one who created the laws of phsyics in a logical manner to give order to the universe. As God's own, we are blessed with a certain capacity to reason and find order where anxiety prefers to be locked in chaos. Now, we're only given about 3-1/2 pounds of grey matter to work with, so thinking has natural limitations.
Prayer is the other tool God gives. We're not very good at this, either. Maybe it's because we don't really pray, but rehearse our worries over and over and over again in order to justify our fear before God. We don't really give it over to God whose limitless love conquers all fear.
Prayer, of the kind that releases anxiety, is engaging in a conversation with God through stillness and listening. It is founded in a faith that trusts in the Maker of heaven and eart, believes in ultimate and complete redemption through Christ, and finds its form in relation to the Holy Spirit. Prayer is a humble revelry in the whole of God's Triune Being, one in three and three in one.
These are anxiety's coolant systems which need to be constantly applied to prevent meltdown. The containment system is direct communication. Rather than spreading anxiety to the world and heaping your worries on top of others, spreading chaos, it is always, always, always best to communicate directly and individually with the one you identify as anxiety's source. That's containment. That's keeping the issue between two people rather than passing dirty laundry along to friends and family.
Employing these three things in steady, constant measure - thinking, prayer and direct communication - won't magically end all the anxiety of life, but it will help you mature in your faith by teaching you to stay cool in order to prevent emotional meltdown and fallout.
Be at peace,
Pastor Dave
Thursday, March 17, 2011
When Fidelity + Chastity = War
To some in the Presbyterian Church (USA) these words are a battle cry, a call to arms to defend all that is holy. To others in the denomination, these words are a putrid barrier to Jesus' command to love one another. For twenty+ years this phrase has been hammered and sharpened and driven as if it were the single issue defining the faithfulness of a church.
For those who don't know, the "fidelity and chastity clause" is a phrase within the ordination standard in the PC(USA) which essentially declares that an ordained Minister of Word and Sacrament must maintain either fidelity in marriage or chastity in singleness. The phrase was inserted in the late 1980's clarify what is, and what is not, appropriate sexual expression for the church's ministers. It was also an atttempt to shut the door on the discussion about ordaining homosexuals.
The phrase has done for those supporting homosexual ordination what Governor Walker did to galvanize union workers. Instead of being the last word on this issue for the church, it became the fighting words over which several churches have left the denomination, bitterly, with anger and accusations of faithflessness being spewed by both sides. The longer the debate lasts the more harsh the division. Labels of "Liberal" or "Conservative" have become code for either the support or defeat of that fidelity and chastity clause. Liberals take pride in their desire to love without boundaries after the example of Jesus. Conservatives take pride in their desire to uphold the living and active Word of God. And because of one issue, the two sides have made it as if the example of Jesus and the Word of God can't coexist.
Polarization has led to the demonization of those we once called brother and sister. When letters arrive at my office to sway my opinion one way or the other, they make statements like "we still believe in the Word of God," with the obvious implication that those who disagree with them do not. They come like salvos daring the church to make a move, to cross that last line in the sand to force their church to leave, as if the grass really is more holy on the other side of the fence.
Polarization has led to Bible abuse on both sides. Proof-texts are launched as if these should end all debate, and both sides are frighteningly close to looking like those lunatics at Westboro Baptist, as if one side's particular version of righteousness is the only version of righteousness God can bless.
Polarization plays to fear rather than rational thought. It invokes fight or flight, or in this case, both, as people press against the boundaries of their side. It amplifies anxiety and, in our effort to bind it off so we aren't so profoundly stressed, we either huddle in with those who think like us to find support with our position, or we scream, passively or aggressively, that the others over there are just wrong. Can't they see that? Why can't they see that they're wrong?
Polarization leaves scars that don't fully heal. The American Civil War was waged 150 years ago. No one alive has firsthand knowledge of the issues that justified that war's atrocities, but I can tell you as surely as I am alive that the Mason-Dixon Line, which is within sight of this church, is far more than an historic boundary to settle the land dispute between the Penn and Calvert families, and that the Confederate flag is far more than a statement of southern heritage. As pastor of a church which suffered schism 75 years ago over a change in confessional standards that let women be ordained, I can tell you that no living member of either the church or the other one down the road was olde enough to experience the dynamics of that split, but distrust lingers, buttressed by pride in the side chosen.
Polarization is spreading through the church. Now, I should point out that we come by it quite naturally. Schism is in our cultural DNA. There wouldn't be Presbyterians in America if we could've solved our differences in Scotland, or if the Dutch Reformed could've plugged their own theological cracks in the dam back in the Netherlands. Our history is to fight and split. We find the line of demarcation and choose sides far more readily than we work to maintain the unity, purity and peace of one Body with one Head. Sadly, we'd rather cut off the hand because it is not a foot, despite the way it cripples our ability to witness to the gospel that proclaims "Behold! I make all things new!"
I would ask the battalions on either side to lay down their mightier-than-sword armaments, come out of their entrenched positions, and embrace the wideness of God's mercy which outstretches our own.
The various Presbyteries (a body of regional church representatives) are voting on a resolution that would remove the "fidelity and chastity" clause and replace it with a more generalized standard. My presbytery, the Presbytery of Donegal, will take up the question this weekend. Frankly, the insertion of the original clause doesn't make any sense to me. If you can, just for a moment, take a break from the raging background debate and ask yourself, "Does it make sense to lift up one area of life over every other to determine one's faithfulness to his or her calling?" Why does it make sense to single out sexual issues but not issues of greed, honesty, jealousy, pride or addiction as we declare who can or can't be ordained? Don't these sins have enough of a long-standing track record of destroying congregations to merit specific language in the ordination standard?
The original insertion of this clause was a mistake in the first place. The life of the ordained is under constant scrutiny in all areas of that person's life. People hold their pastors accountable for the cars they drive, the way they keep their house, the behavior of their children, their managerial skills, their willingness to sacrifice, their educational level, their speaking ability, their counseling perspective, their availability, their pastoral presence, their dress, their fitness, their hygiene, their personality, their relationships. Every part of a minister's life is observed and judged. The church's presbyteries have the right and responsibility to examine the whole of a person's life in guiding him or her to a faithful position that will earn for them the ear of those needing to hear the gospel message. The presbyteries can decide for themselves what, in their particular context, is most important.
My vote will be in favor of the change in language because, on its own, the new language makes sense.
My prayer is that the polarized will stop blaming the other for causing the sky to fall.
For those who don't know, the "fidelity and chastity clause" is a phrase within the ordination standard in the PC(USA) which essentially declares that an ordained Minister of Word and Sacrament must maintain either fidelity in marriage or chastity in singleness. The phrase was inserted in the late 1980's clarify what is, and what is not, appropriate sexual expression for the church's ministers. It was also an atttempt to shut the door on the discussion about ordaining homosexuals.
The phrase has done for those supporting homosexual ordination what Governor Walker did to galvanize union workers. Instead of being the last word on this issue for the church, it became the fighting words over which several churches have left the denomination, bitterly, with anger and accusations of faithflessness being spewed by both sides. The longer the debate lasts the more harsh the division. Labels of "Liberal" or "Conservative" have become code for either the support or defeat of that fidelity and chastity clause. Liberals take pride in their desire to love without boundaries after the example of Jesus. Conservatives take pride in their desire to uphold the living and active Word of God. And because of one issue, the two sides have made it as if the example of Jesus and the Word of God can't coexist.
Polarization has led to the demonization of those we once called brother and sister. When letters arrive at my office to sway my opinion one way or the other, they make statements like "we still believe in the Word of God," with the obvious implication that those who disagree with them do not. They come like salvos daring the church to make a move, to cross that last line in the sand to force their church to leave, as if the grass really is more holy on the other side of the fence.
Polarization has led to Bible abuse on both sides. Proof-texts are launched as if these should end all debate, and both sides are frighteningly close to looking like those lunatics at Westboro Baptist, as if one side's particular version of righteousness is the only version of righteousness God can bless.
Polarization plays to fear rather than rational thought. It invokes fight or flight, or in this case, both, as people press against the boundaries of their side. It amplifies anxiety and, in our effort to bind it off so we aren't so profoundly stressed, we either huddle in with those who think like us to find support with our position, or we scream, passively or aggressively, that the others over there are just wrong. Can't they see that? Why can't they see that they're wrong?
Polarization leaves scars that don't fully heal. The American Civil War was waged 150 years ago. No one alive has firsthand knowledge of the issues that justified that war's atrocities, but I can tell you as surely as I am alive that the Mason-Dixon Line, which is within sight of this church, is far more than an historic boundary to settle the land dispute between the Penn and Calvert families, and that the Confederate flag is far more than a statement of southern heritage. As pastor of a church which suffered schism 75 years ago over a change in confessional standards that let women be ordained, I can tell you that no living member of either the church or the other one down the road was olde enough to experience the dynamics of that split, but distrust lingers, buttressed by pride in the side chosen.
Polarization is spreading through the church. Now, I should point out that we come by it quite naturally. Schism is in our cultural DNA. There wouldn't be Presbyterians in America if we could've solved our differences in Scotland, or if the Dutch Reformed could've plugged their own theological cracks in the dam back in the Netherlands. Our history is to fight and split. We find the line of demarcation and choose sides far more readily than we work to maintain the unity, purity and peace of one Body with one Head. Sadly, we'd rather cut off the hand because it is not a foot, despite the way it cripples our ability to witness to the gospel that proclaims "Behold! I make all things new!"
I would ask the battalions on either side to lay down their mightier-than-sword armaments, come out of their entrenched positions, and embrace the wideness of God's mercy which outstretches our own.
The various Presbyteries (a body of regional church representatives) are voting on a resolution that would remove the "fidelity and chastity" clause and replace it with a more generalized standard. My presbytery, the Presbytery of Donegal, will take up the question this weekend. Frankly, the insertion of the original clause doesn't make any sense to me. If you can, just for a moment, take a break from the raging background debate and ask yourself, "Does it make sense to lift up one area of life over every other to determine one's faithfulness to his or her calling?" Why does it make sense to single out sexual issues but not issues of greed, honesty, jealousy, pride or addiction as we declare who can or can't be ordained? Don't these sins have enough of a long-standing track record of destroying congregations to merit specific language in the ordination standard?
The original insertion of this clause was a mistake in the first place. The life of the ordained is under constant scrutiny in all areas of that person's life. People hold their pastors accountable for the cars they drive, the way they keep their house, the behavior of their children, their managerial skills, their willingness to sacrifice, their educational level, their speaking ability, their counseling perspective, their availability, their pastoral presence, their dress, their fitness, their hygiene, their personality, their relationships. Every part of a minister's life is observed and judged. The church's presbyteries have the right and responsibility to examine the whole of a person's life in guiding him or her to a faithful position that will earn for them the ear of those needing to hear the gospel message. The presbyteries can decide for themselves what, in their particular context, is most important.
My vote will be in favor of the change in language because, on its own, the new language makes sense.
My prayer is that the polarized will stop blaming the other for causing the sky to fall.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Caterpillars and Werewolves
Completely liquified. While suspended in the chrysalis there is a time when the caterpillar's body is entirely broken down before it takes new shape. All of it's form, function and familiarity is dissolved, and I wonder how those liquified molecules find their new shape, and what happens if the chrysalis is stirred even a tiny bit from the wind or another insect lighting on the suspending leaf.
The dissolution of familiarity, form and function is a fearful wonder. We, who've seen the process from the time we were children, know that what emerges is truly beautiful. But when Hollywood has imagined the process of going from one shape to another, either in classic films like The Fly, the modern dark romances like the Twilight series, or even the comic book turned television series The Incredible Hulk, it's typically filled with pain. The transmorgifying flesh rushes through unnatural contortions, popping and tearing it's way to a new horrible form.
On the one hand there's a natural, silent and mysterious process of one flesh yielding to a new form of fragility and beauty. On the other is a gross and painful becoming where the emergent beast contradicts and overpowers the host's self-control.
I wonder if part of what keeps us from pursuing this metanoia, this becoming like Christ, is the fear of becoming someone we don't recognize. Would we lose our sense of self? Will it hurt?
The loss of form, function and familiarity threaten our sense of stability. Even if that stability is established in destructive patterns, we're more likley to stick with what's familiar than move to a healthier sense of self. We like the predictability of ourselves just the way we are. So what if our knee-jerk reactions to the stuff of life are less than patient, gracious, forgiving or truthful? At least we're predictable. So what if we meet anger with anger, defend the indefensible simply out of pride, or ignore wisdom to indulge our appetities? At least we're consistent. It may be hurting us or others around us, but that's just the price of being you.
Now, there are plenty of people in the world who know they're deeply flawed and are trying to do something about it. So they read self-help books, join accountability groups, seek the counsel of trusted friends or professionals, and set to work. They intentionally dismantle themselves in a controlled way, engaging the process when they have the time and energy. In Christian circles this is understood to be repentance, but it isn't. This person, though noble in her pursuit of self-improvement, is still struggling to maintain control of who they are becoming by choosing what to shed and what to adopt, seeking punishment or reward from the guides they've chosen.
Even though this path of improvement is rooted in control, God can certainly do wonderful things through this person who is seeking to change. Scripture encrouages us to bear each other's burdens, to find a community of the faithful to support our journey in faith, to work out our life together. We are supposed to work on our selves with a bunch of others who are working on their selves. I just think this can lead us to depend more on other Christ-followers than on Christ himself.
Letting go of self to willingly dangle patiently before the Lord while he surrounds us, breaks us down, melts us, and molds us into a new person founded in Christ, is frightening. We don't know what that means. We don't know what of our self God will choose to dismantle, liquify and re-form. We don't know how it will feel. We don't know the outcome, or how long it will take, or what it impact this will all have on the life we've established. We want a semblance of control, and we want a map, and we want a schedule, and we want to negotiate our position along the way. And maybe that's why it hurts - not because we're changing, but because we're fighting it.
Caterpillars trust God better than we do.
The dissolution of familiarity, form and function is a fearful wonder. We, who've seen the process from the time we were children, know that what emerges is truly beautiful. But when Hollywood has imagined the process of going from one shape to another, either in classic films like The Fly, the modern dark romances like the Twilight series, or even the comic book turned television series The Incredible Hulk, it's typically filled with pain. The transmorgifying flesh rushes through unnatural contortions, popping and tearing it's way to a new horrible form.
On the one hand there's a natural, silent and mysterious process of one flesh yielding to a new form of fragility and beauty. On the other is a gross and painful becoming where the emergent beast contradicts and overpowers the host's self-control.
I wonder if part of what keeps us from pursuing this metanoia, this becoming like Christ, is the fear of becoming someone we don't recognize. Would we lose our sense of self? Will it hurt?
The loss of form, function and familiarity threaten our sense of stability. Even if that stability is established in destructive patterns, we're more likley to stick with what's familiar than move to a healthier sense of self. We like the predictability of ourselves just the way we are. So what if our knee-jerk reactions to the stuff of life are less than patient, gracious, forgiving or truthful? At least we're predictable. So what if we meet anger with anger, defend the indefensible simply out of pride, or ignore wisdom to indulge our appetities? At least we're consistent. It may be hurting us or others around us, but that's just the price of being you.
Now, there are plenty of people in the world who know they're deeply flawed and are trying to do something about it. So they read self-help books, join accountability groups, seek the counsel of trusted friends or professionals, and set to work. They intentionally dismantle themselves in a controlled way, engaging the process when they have the time and energy. In Christian circles this is understood to be repentance, but it isn't. This person, though noble in her pursuit of self-improvement, is still struggling to maintain control of who they are becoming by choosing what to shed and what to adopt, seeking punishment or reward from the guides they've chosen.
Even though this path of improvement is rooted in control, God can certainly do wonderful things through this person who is seeking to change. Scripture encrouages us to bear each other's burdens, to find a community of the faithful to support our journey in faith, to work out our life together. We are supposed to work on our selves with a bunch of others who are working on their selves. I just think this can lead us to depend more on other Christ-followers than on Christ himself.
Letting go of self to willingly dangle patiently before the Lord while he surrounds us, breaks us down, melts us, and molds us into a new person founded in Christ, is frightening. We don't know what that means. We don't know what of our self God will choose to dismantle, liquify and re-form. We don't know how it will feel. We don't know the outcome, or how long it will take, or what it impact this will all have on the life we've established. We want a semblance of control, and we want a map, and we want a schedule, and we want to negotiate our position along the way. And maybe that's why it hurts - not because we're changing, but because we're fighting it.
Caterpillars trust God better than we do.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Earthquakes and Tsunamis and Knee-Jerk Theology
Westerners awoke to the horrible news of earthquake and tsunami damage in northern Japan, with MSNBC's 'copter capturing images of flood waters raging over farmlands as drivers raced to evacuate. We hovered a while over these images, listening to descriptions of how tsunami warning systems work, looking at maps estimating time of impact around the Pacific basin, running through our mental address books to think if anyone we know is in harm's way. We imagined for a moment what it's like for buildings to shake for half and hour - or relived the experience - and maybe thought about the implications for humanitarian aid, basic modern services, economic impact.
Then the day goes on for us with meetings and school and errands and appointments and deliveries. Pastors and Rabbis and Imams are mulling over what to say to their congregations and, I'm sure, the comments will run the gamut from a "God's Judgment" kind of railing against unholy pagans to an "It's Not God's Fault" protectionist position delivered to people looking for someone to blame. There will be calls to prayer, calls to action, calls to God to relent and show mercy and calls to donate, all to bring order to the chaos and make sense of it all.
That is a dangerous practice to try to make sense of it all. It's an automatic theological reflex. Even humanists and atheists engage in it. Humanists try to make sense of it by analyzing stuff that can be measured. Atheists try to make sense of it by issuing statements that illogical tragedy is evidence that there is no such thing as god. And faithful people try to make sense of it through ancient stories turned into metaphors and didactic scriptural references.
But the thing we've got to remember is that this doesn't make sense. It can't. It won't. Not to the people whose homes are gone and who don't know if the ones they love are okay, injured or alive. It will always be chaos. I believe the push to make it make sense will only make things worse. There will never be a satisfactory answer to profoundly simple questions like "Why me?" for the suffering or "Why not me?" for survivors.
Rational analysis and theological musings are not a satisfactory salve. Suffering doesn't need explanations. Suffering needs compassionate relationship, another who understands pain inexpressible, an ear to listen to wailing and confusion. Suffering needs a person to hold on to while finding a new way to exist in a world with such profound changes.
Now, to jump from here to the purpose of this blog - it's not just in the face of suffering that trying to make sense is actually making a mistake. Appeals to logic to explain such oblique concepts as "sin" and "atonement" and "sanctification" in a post-Christian world may be well-meaning in their attempt to bridge the gap from biblically illiteracy to faithfulness, but these appeals mostly succeed in emphasizing that there is one more barrier between the believer and the theologically befuddled, one more obstacle for them to overcome before coming to faith.
Those outside the church need what suffering people need - a compassionate relationship. They need to know that Jesus is on their side, is their friend, and that his love is not a reward one receives only after grasping basic theological concepts. His love is boundless, grace-filled and available to all.
May our relationship with Jesus speak more loudly and clearly than our confessions and creeds. May our relationship with Jesus bring this One we love into relationship with others. As a child finds comfort in the arms of a parent, may all those suffering find comfort in the arms of God.
Finally, to my sisters and brothers in the pulpits, may we learn to show God's love better than we can explain God's love.
Then the day goes on for us with meetings and school and errands and appointments and deliveries. Pastors and Rabbis and Imams are mulling over what to say to their congregations and, I'm sure, the comments will run the gamut from a "God's Judgment" kind of railing against unholy pagans to an "It's Not God's Fault" protectionist position delivered to people looking for someone to blame. There will be calls to prayer, calls to action, calls to God to relent and show mercy and calls to donate, all to bring order to the chaos and make sense of it all.
That is a dangerous practice to try to make sense of it all. It's an automatic theological reflex. Even humanists and atheists engage in it. Humanists try to make sense of it by analyzing stuff that can be measured. Atheists try to make sense of it by issuing statements that illogical tragedy is evidence that there is no such thing as god. And faithful people try to make sense of it through ancient stories turned into metaphors and didactic scriptural references.
But the thing we've got to remember is that this doesn't make sense. It can't. It won't. Not to the people whose homes are gone and who don't know if the ones they love are okay, injured or alive. It will always be chaos. I believe the push to make it make sense will only make things worse. There will never be a satisfactory answer to profoundly simple questions like "Why me?" for the suffering or "Why not me?" for survivors.
Rational analysis and theological musings are not a satisfactory salve. Suffering doesn't need explanations. Suffering needs compassionate relationship, another who understands pain inexpressible, an ear to listen to wailing and confusion. Suffering needs a person to hold on to while finding a new way to exist in a world with such profound changes.
Now, to jump from here to the purpose of this blog - it's not just in the face of suffering that trying to make sense is actually making a mistake. Appeals to logic to explain such oblique concepts as "sin" and "atonement" and "sanctification" in a post-Christian world may be well-meaning in their attempt to bridge the gap from biblically illiteracy to faithfulness, but these appeals mostly succeed in emphasizing that there is one more barrier between the believer and the theologically befuddled, one more obstacle for them to overcome before coming to faith.
Those outside the church need what suffering people need - a compassionate relationship. They need to know that Jesus is on their side, is their friend, and that his love is not a reward one receives only after grasping basic theological concepts. His love is boundless, grace-filled and available to all.
May our relationship with Jesus speak more loudly and clearly than our confessions and creeds. May our relationship with Jesus bring this One we love into relationship with others. As a child finds comfort in the arms of a parent, may all those suffering find comfort in the arms of God.
Finally, to my sisters and brothers in the pulpits, may we learn to show God's love better than we can explain God's love.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Metanoia
We should probably begin with this blog's title. First, I recognize this is a dangerous little word that might invite slogs of Phillies fans to rail against my favorite NL team with such insights as "Met-Annoy" and the like. So now that I've puctured that balloon, we can get down to business.
Like the father figure in "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" would tell you, and with great pride, this is a word that comes from the Greek, and is almost a direct transliteration of the original. It means "change of heart," or "repentance" or "turning from one's sins" or "change of way." Rarely is this an immediate change. I've found that people treat the matters of their hearts and the patterns of their lives with more religious fervor than Phillies fans would show when their boys play the Mets at home.
It's as if the matters of the heart are definitive and beyond question. What one feels in one's heart is absolute truth, and what offends one's heart is universally abhorrent. Now, I don't know about you, but I can look back at my life and see where my heart was wrong, even though I was, in those moments, thoroughly convinced it was right.
And you can forget about convincing someone to change the patterns in their lives. Those patterns, even if they are self-destructive, are the tick and tock that give order to each day. Have you ever tried to change your patterns? They're harder to dislocate than squatters in disputed Palestinian territories and easier to pick back up than a magnet to iron. Alter a pattern a that person function like a partially derailed train the rest of the day.
This is where metanoia comes in to play. It's a slow and deliberate change. It's a way to challenge the heart to let go of impediments to faith and love in order to grow and feed the soul. It's a way to replace self-destructive patterns with life-giving patterns. Metanoia is a transformation of self so that we can be renewed by the changing of our minds.
And while this has echoes of "The Power of Positive Thinking" and "Visualization" and "The Secret" rummaging around, it isn't. The fundamental flaw in all of the above is they direct a focus on the heart's desire, and we've already pretty well lampooned the heart's infallibility. Metanoia takes seriously that our hearts are flawed and seeks another standard by which to measure itself.
The next question is pretty important: Who are you trying to become? Do you want to be a better boss, salesman, or co-worker? A better spouse, parent, student, musician, computer geek, athlete, or gamer?
Metanoia isn't about self-improvement to become a better anything. It's about becoming like Christ. And I'm not talking about anyone's pre-conceived version of Jesus, as if Spurgeon or Calvin or your pastor or your mother have the fullness of Christ figured out. These may start to align your carriage on the right track (c.f. railroad simile above), but I don't care who's idea of Christ is informing your idea of Christ, that person's idea isn't Jesus himself.
Metanoia means not only paring away impediments to faith and love, but also moving beyond what everyone says about Jesus to developing a relationship with Jesus directly. Along the way we'll poke around some classic spiritual literature for developing this soul-filling relationship, pick apart cultrual maladaptations of Jesus, encounter scripture and find encouragement to continue on.
Be at peace,
Pastor Dave
Like the father figure in "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" would tell you, and with great pride, this is a word that comes from the Greek, and is almost a direct transliteration of the original. It means "change of heart," or "repentance" or "turning from one's sins" or "change of way." Rarely is this an immediate change. I've found that people treat the matters of their hearts and the patterns of their lives with more religious fervor than Phillies fans would show when their boys play the Mets at home.
It's as if the matters of the heart are definitive and beyond question. What one feels in one's heart is absolute truth, and what offends one's heart is universally abhorrent. Now, I don't know about you, but I can look back at my life and see where my heart was wrong, even though I was, in those moments, thoroughly convinced it was right.
And you can forget about convincing someone to change the patterns in their lives. Those patterns, even if they are self-destructive, are the tick and tock that give order to each day. Have you ever tried to change your patterns? They're harder to dislocate than squatters in disputed Palestinian territories and easier to pick back up than a magnet to iron. Alter a pattern a that person function like a partially derailed train the rest of the day.
This is where metanoia comes in to play. It's a slow and deliberate change. It's a way to challenge the heart to let go of impediments to faith and love in order to grow and feed the soul. It's a way to replace self-destructive patterns with life-giving patterns. Metanoia is a transformation of self so that we can be renewed by the changing of our minds.
And while this has echoes of "The Power of Positive Thinking" and "Visualization" and "The Secret" rummaging around, it isn't. The fundamental flaw in all of the above is they direct a focus on the heart's desire, and we've already pretty well lampooned the heart's infallibility. Metanoia takes seriously that our hearts are flawed and seeks another standard by which to measure itself.
The next question is pretty important: Who are you trying to become? Do you want to be a better boss, salesman, or co-worker? A better spouse, parent, student, musician, computer geek, athlete, or gamer?
Metanoia isn't about self-improvement to become a better anything. It's about becoming like Christ. And I'm not talking about anyone's pre-conceived version of Jesus, as if Spurgeon or Calvin or your pastor or your mother have the fullness of Christ figured out. These may start to align your carriage on the right track (c.f. railroad simile above), but I don't care who's idea of Christ is informing your idea of Christ, that person's idea isn't Jesus himself.
Metanoia means not only paring away impediments to faith and love, but also moving beyond what everyone says about Jesus to developing a relationship with Jesus directly. Along the way we'll poke around some classic spiritual literature for developing this soul-filling relationship, pick apart cultrual maladaptations of Jesus, encounter scripture and find encouragement to continue on.
Be at peace,
Pastor Dave
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