A perfect graveyard of buried hopes

I was reading Romans 5 this morning (as it was the appointed epistle reading in the lectionary) and was reminded of Paul's skill as a poet.  Now one has to take a broad view of poetry to understand him thus. Not like my eighth grade teacher who gave me a failing grade on the poem I wrote (an ode to the beauty of the river that winds its way through my home town) because not every line rhymed, only every other line.  Her lack of appreciation for what might legitimately be called poetry was eclipsed only by her inaccurate teaching of history.   She was the one who taught me and literally generations of rural Nova Scotians that Abraham Lincoln was the first black President of the United States.  Alas, all educators are not created equal.

But back to a broad interpretation of poetry in thinking of Paul.  While his strength seems to be discursive reason and systematic theology, the poet rises in him from time to time.  "If I speak in the tongues of men and angels..." starts perhaps the most beautiful poetic passage he wrote (I Corinthians 13.)  I hasten to note that nothing rhymes here (at least in English).  I have not verified the Greek but I am suspicious that it does not unfold in rhyming couplets.  Paul, it seems, was a pioneer of free verse - a first century e. e. cummings.

The passage in Romans 5 that rises to the poetic is familiar:

"Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us." (Romans 5:3-5 NIV)

Inspirational, isn't it? Makes one think of rising above the challenges of life and living in the hope that does not disappoint. A beautiful idea. But what about when hope does disappoint? Anne Shirley, heroine of Green Gables, has a couple of things to say about this and I trust it is not blasphemous for her to appear to contradict Holy Writ. Both are from Anne of Green Gables.

"It's all very well to read about sorrows and imagine yourself living through them heroically but it's not so nice when you really come to have them, is it?"

Ever so true. The idea is poetic and romantic, but the reality seems rather less so.

And as to hope that does not disappoint:

"My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes. That's a sentence I read in a book once, and I say it over to comfort myself whenever I'm disappointed in anything."

It seems to me that sufferings and afflictions do produce perseverance and perseverance character and character hope. Except when they don't. Suffering will produce these things or they will produce bitterness, pettiness, miserliness, cruelty and despair. At least this is what I have observed - as perhaps Anne Shirley did. So what makes the difference? Why is the fruit of suffering so different?

I think it comes back to Paul again. Hope does not disappoint us, because God's love is "shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us" to quote the King James Version. Suffering alone does not produce good fruit. Suffering with the love of God given to us by the Holy Spirit produces good fruit. What transforms us is not our gritting of teeth and grinning and bearing it, but rather the Real Presence of God in us through the Holy Spirit.

And here again we encounter a really nice idea - the love of God shed abroad in our hearts. But I fear that to many of us it is just that - a really nice, poetic idea. Now some poets are inclined to tell us pretty lies. But Paul isn't one of them. When he talks about the love of God in the Holy Spirit abroad in our hearts he means it as something very real - not just a lovely theological construct. That means it is something that we know to be beautiful AND true. His reality (the Holy Spirit's, not Paul's) in our hearts is to be known and experienced.

Now some are cautious of any talk of the experience of God as we are inclined, idolatrously, to confuse the experience of him with God himself. And it is therefore very easy, and perhaps safe to live in the intellectual world of the beautiful idea. But that is not what Paul is talking about or what he intends. The presence of the Holy Spirit, given to us, is what makes the difference in our lives (and our hope) - his presence known and, at least from time to time, experienced. He is not just a nice idea, but Real God in a real world of both joys and sufferings.

As I read Romans 5 this morning I was reminded not to settle for just the poetic idea but to live the hope of the real thing - a hope which does not disappoint.

Back to Anne of Green Gables. Anne talks a great talk about graveyards of buried hopes and being in the depths of despair. But if you read the book and ignore her words, instead looking at her perseverance and character, you will see that her sufferings have indeed produced an irrepressible hope - and a hope that brings life and redemption to those around her.

The Sign of Ashes

A couple of years ago a few local church planters and I got together to think about the observance of Lent.  As I recall I was a johnny-come-lately to the process.  The two other congregations had been talking about doing something together to mark the beginning of Lent.  Neither of these other churches had a strong liturgical background or history.  I felt conflicted about it.  On the one hand I love doing things with other congregations and denominations, but on the other hand Ash Wednesday (the beginning of Lent) means a lot to me.  So I entered the conversation with some fear, trepidation and also audacity.  In effect I said, "We'd love to do something together, but for us (Anglicans) Ash Wednesday needs to include ashes."  Now the ashes thing is often considered one of those "empty ritual" things that some eschew in preference for some better or purer form of spiritual practice.  My thought, undoubtedly previously expressed here, is that the ritual isn't empty, but the hearts of the people participating might be.  The latter not the former is the real problem.  But I digress...

So as the audacious interloper I said, "Let's do something together and let's do it my way."  My colleagues were gracious and generous and agreed to an ash-positive Anglican service.  I was delighted to have my cake and eat it too.

But the gospel text from Matthew 6 appointed for every Ash Wednesday seems to challenge my appreciation of the black-smudged foreheads of the day.  In his sermon on the mount, Jesus warns us of "practicing your righreousness before other people to be seen by them."  And he gives us three examples of what not to do.

The first is that we are not to "sound a trumpet" when we give to the needy, but rather that our giving would be so discreet that our left hand does not know what our right hand is doing.  Showing off our generosity is common.  Almost every arts event I have ever attended has included some list of names of patrons.  We like people to know that we give to a good cause.  But always in these programs there are a few lines that simply say "Anonymous" and I am thankful for the reminder of Jesus' exhortation.

There are other types of showy generosity, one to which I am rather prone - picking up the check.  Someone reminded me of this earlier today when he bought me breakfast.  "You are always paying for these things so let me."  I realize that I am practicing my righteousness before men even in writing this.  I picked up some C.S. Lewis volume on my shelf not long ago (I remember not which one) which convicted me on this front.  Lewis, in his direct fashion, makes the point that the ones who benefit from this kind of generosity rarely are the poor who truly need it.  Would in not be better to more discreetly provide nourishment for one who is lacking it?  Indeed.

Jesus also suggests that when we pray we should not stand and pray in the synagogues and street corners.  This is where our culture differs rather from first-century Palestine.  If I were to stand on the street corner and pray, people would think me crazy not righteous.  So does this one apply?  Perhaps not with the general population but within our own Christian circles there are lots of "spiritual" things we might do that impress others.  I am pretty sure that if one's devotional life is going well and is regular, it is something we should keep to ourselves - letting the fruit, not the fact of it bless others.  Our faithful habit of prayer is just that, ours.  Trumpeting it before others to impress them (as this is often our undeclared intent) usually only discourages others.  There are better ways of encouraging people to lives of prayer than telling them how good mine is.

And when you fast... As well-fed North Americans we should carefully note that it is "when" not "if".  When you fast do not make a show - looking gloomy and disfiguring your face.  The show invites people to ask, "what's up with you today?", giving us an excellent opportunity to tell them of our spiritual discipline.  "Anoint your head and wash your face, that your fasting may not be seen by others but by your Father who is in secret.  And your Father who sees in secret will reward you." (Matthew 6:17&18)

This one in particular might suggest that the imposition of ashes at the beginning of Lent is a bad idea - isn't it showing off our pious repentance?  Is it not literally disfiguring our face? It certainly can be a pious show.  For this reason some provide a box of tissues at the back of the church for participants to rub off the smudge before going back out into the world.

Frankly I don't make a fuss about it either way.  Because the wiping off of the ashes can be as much an external show of piety and holiness as the receiving of them in the first place.  "Look at me, I really take Jesus' exhortation not to show off my righteousness before men - I removed the ashes."

On this one I come back to the notion of "empty ritual."  We might legitimately receive the sign of ashes within a community of believers who together do the same because it acknowledges both my own fallen, sinful nature but also that of all of us, together.  In this context the act is God-facing.  There is significance in the sign when our heart is turned to God and not to those around us.

The practices of giving, praying and fasting are not universally impressive to those around us.  While people may still be impressed by generous giving, overly public praying and fasting is more apt to make others uncomfortable.  But there are other kinds of righteousness that are appreciated by those around us.  It might not be religious righteousness.  We may make a particular show that we are reducing our carbon footprint by composting and driving an electric car or by being a vocal teetotaler - "lips that touch liquor will never touch mine."  There is nothing wrong with composting, driving a car which pollutes less or never drinking alcohol.  Looking for congratualtions or reward from others for these choices is slightly shakier ground.

One last thought.  I have usually thought that the point of this text is that "virtue is its own reward" - that we should do good things for the good itself, looking for no reward.  But Jesus clearly says that we will receive a reward from our Father in heaven. I hasten to point out that the reward is not justification itself.  Jesus does not suggest that those who show off their goodness are condemned, only that they have already received their reward.  Your Father who sees in secret will reward you.  Virtue may be its own reward, but there appears to be a bonus prize.

By the way, we continue to share Ash Wednesday service with those and other congregations.  So yearly I still have my cake and eat it too.

God the house pet

I believe that it is Peter Kreeft who tells the story of the thoroughly modern rabbi at a dinner party.  (A true story - this is not one of those "a priest and a rabbi went into a bar" tales.)  The rabbi - the one at the dinner party, not the bar - was giving a naturalistic explanation of the crossing of the Red Sea.  He explained carefully that the sea (also translated the Sea of Reeds) was really very shallow and a strong wind would have been sufficient to drive the little water back enough  for the Israelites to cross on foot.  Once the heavy Egyptian chariots came they sunk into the soft surface and could not follow.  The hostess of the party looked at the rabbi and said, "Oh, so YOU were THERE."  The hostess found the rabbi's explanation dissatisfying. As I expect Charlton Heston would have.

This story reminds me of the Sunday School teacher I once overheard telling the children that the miracle of the feeding of the 5000 was that Jesus inspired all who were present to share the food they had.  While it is certainly remarkable to inspire Adam's fallen and selfish race to sharing, it is rather less like a miracle.  The rabbi and the Sunday School teacher found explanations of the biblical events that fit a materialist worldview, allowing them to preserve respect for religious tradition without espousing those embarrassing divine interventions.

The problems with this are pluriform, but time does not allow me to fully exhaust them.  I will comment however on one of them.  The naturalistic or materialist explanations of Biblical miracles make the texts more palatable to the modern West, but they make God less than God - a containable, explainable deity hardly worth attending to, much less worshiping.  Indeed perhaps this is why the modern West has largely abandoned the worship of God.  If he were so distant and insipid, I would too.

What makes God God is, among other things, his transcendent, mysterious and miraculous intervention in the lives of men and women.  The miracle-less god is like a declawed cat - an excellent house pet who will neither harm us nor damage our furniture.  Warm and comforting on a rainy Sunday afternoon, but a little shy of awe-inspiring. What leaves me in a place of awe and worship of God is that he does the miraculous - he heals, forgives, intervenes - sometimes looked-for and sometimes not.  He is full of mystery, wonder and power - terrible in the best and oldest sense of the word.  A house pet he is not.

I worship the God of miracle - who created ex nihilo, out of nothing, who actually dried up the Red Sea and who took five loaves and two small fish and did some more ex nihilo work.  God is bigger than I think.  He is uncontainable and inexplicable.  That is one of the reasons that make him worthy of our worship - as does his holiness, his uncreatedness (if that's a word), his glory, his might, and so on, literally ad infinitum.

In last summer's movie The Avengers, the Norse god Loki faces the Hulk at one point toward the end.  Loki proclaims to his vermillion opponent that he is "a god."  The Hulk then picks him up and repeatedly throws him to the floor like a rag doll, saying when he is finished, "Puny god."  Makes me think of the rabbi's and Sunday School teacher's god.  Puny god indeed.

The Thankful Cynic

The sunset last night was beautiful.  I was looking for more dramatic words to describe it but "beautiful" in its fullest sense does best.  The silhouette of the Adirondacks to our west enhanced the colorful drama.  It was the sort of view that makes one stop.  And I did.  I was tempted to take an iPhone picture but I knew it would be disappointing.  There are things that cannot and perhaps should not be contained on film, or in this case, pixels.

So instead, I just said "thank you" to God.  And in doing so I started to wonder, what if I had no one to thank?  Thankfulness is always a sense of gratitude toward something - usually someone.  I thought about how different, poorer actually, my life would be if I had only atmospheric conditions or the multichromatic nature of visible light or even the big bang to be thankful to.  The first poverty is that none of these actually cares that I am thankful.  But that is only the smallest of the penuries.

What happens if we have no one to thank?  What is the damage to our soul?  One of those damages occurred to me - likely because it is a familiar acquaintance (I will not call it friend) - cynicism.  Cynicism is that jaded and mistaken belief that "it's all takin' and no givin'" to quote the physically ample and altered bard, Dolly Parton.  The cynic lives in the prison of thanklessness.  No one or nothing gives so there is nothing to be thankful for.  It is a self-protective posture, protecting oneself from disappointment by looking for nothing anywhere.  Self-protecteive and self-centered.  Guarding ourselves from hope, from belief, from receiving, we who are cynics live looking after ourselves.  We do not understand the sweet transport of self-forgetfulness.

Thankfulness gets us out of ourselves in two ways.  Our attention is focused not on our selves or our preservation, but first upon the gift.  And beauty, of course, is not the only gift.  It is not only the things that we see as good that can be gifts.  Sometimes tears may be a gift, for example.  Beyond the gift, our focus is also on the Giver.  In these, gift and Giver, we are joyfully other-focused.  And not because we are supposed to be other-focused and it is our duty or perhaps our cross to bear. Just because we are full and not empty.

One other thing.  This morning as I read Psalm 148 (appointed for this morning in the lectionary) another, more exciting thought occurred to me.  What if I were not the only thing showing thankfulness?


Praise the LORD!
Praise the LORD from the heavens;
praise him in the heights!
Praise him, all his angels;
praise him, all his hosts!
Praise him, sun and moon,
praise him, all you shining stars!
Praise him, you highest heavens,
and you waters above the heavens!
Let them praise the name of the LORD!
For he commanded and they were created.
And he established them forever and ever;
he gave a decree, and it shall not pass away.
Praise the LORD from the earth,
you great sea creatures and all deeps,
fire and hail, snow and mist,
stormy wind fulfilling his word!
Mountains and all hills,
fruit trees and all cedars!

(Psalm 148:1-9 ESV - emphasis mine)

Jesus once suggested that if we were to fail to praise and give thanks the rocks themselves would cry out.  (Luke 19:40)  The heavens declare the glory of God. (Psalm 19:1)

What I realize this morning is that in my thankfulness last evening, I was not alone.  Yet another gift - and another nail in the coffin of cynicism.

Eggnog

I was in Starbucks last evening looking for an expensive hot drink.  I was at the right place.  A couple of years ago during Advent I tried their eggnog latte which I really liked.  Alas it is not good to have champagne taste on a beer budget.  I have found a beer budget alternative which involves using eggnog instead of cream in my coffee.  Not quite as good but I can drink 10 of them for the price of one at Starbucks.  But this is only obliquely about eggnog and coffee.

As I walked in last night I thought, "Ooooh, an eggnog latte sounds great."  However all of the festive red signage had been replaced by the usual black.  A bad sign.  The holiday fare was no longer available.  I lamented.  Aloud.  I told the barista (a word I was blissfully ignorant of until the Seattle coffee culture invaded the rest of the continent), I told the barista that Christmas was not yet over, that in fact it would last until Saturday only changing with the feast of the Epiphany on Sunday.  I unapologetically used these technical words, "Christmas" and "Epiphany," as I feel "holiday" is too generic.  Indeed yesterday, when I was looking for Christmas eggnog was only ten drummers drumming day, we still had pipers piping and lords a leaping to go.

He good-naturedly suggested that they still had peppermint.  But that's not eggnog, is it?

It's all very anachronistic and not at all culturally relevant, but I find that as the years go on I am being increasingly attuned to and formed by the church calendar and less by the Gregorian one.  (Following it consistently has a lot to do with this.)  The rhythms of the year, Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, Lent, Easter, Ascension and Pentecost have become the rhythms of my life.  Days like Pentecost hold more interest and significance for me than Mother's Day.  The feast of St. Michael and All Angels (September 29) is one I remember before Groundhog Day.

The church year is shaped around the redeeming work of God in Jesus Christ.  All of the major events and themes of his life are brought before me every year for contemplation and adoration.  Critical events in the lives of his apostles (the conversion of St. Paul - January 25 - and the confession of St. Peter - January 18, for example) annually present themselves for education and edification.

It is not my intention to hate on Mother's Day or President's Day or even Black Friday (although this last one tempts me to judge).  I am merely stating that I appreciate being shaped and formed by Jesus' story more and more.  It is, in the end, what I want most.

So today is still Christmas - eleven pipers piping day.  I'm going to see if I can find some eggnog.

The Christmas Sermon

It would appear Roald Dahl, British author of bizarre (usually) children's literature as well as some rather macabre short stories, has a soft spot for dyslexics.  He wrote a children's book entitled Esio Trot which is "tortoise" backward.  In support of an English charity which supports dyslexics he wrote an amusing little volume called The Vicar of Nibbleswicke.  (Illustrated by Quentin Blake.)  It is the story of a new Anglican pastor, Robert Lee, in his first church in Nibbleswicke (and hence the title).  He has a rather distressing dyslexic condition which Dahl uses skillfully to comedic effect.  I find it hard to read it without laughing aloud.  (Warning: those who are offended by slightly off-color language and those who think it might be charming to read to young children should preview it first.)

It is neither Dahl nor dyslexia which got me to thinking today but rather an experience of the reverend Lee in his first days of parish life - sermon preparation.  Mr. Lee agonizes over his homiletical task.  Now having done the sermon prep thing for 20 years or so, I do not experience the angst that our protagonist does.  At least on most days.  But Christmas is coming - the goose is getting fat.  And one wonders what to say at Christmas.  For Christians, the story of Jesus' incarnation is well-known, to say the least.  What is there to say that has not been said?  But that is not really the right question.  If it has not already been said it is likely theological innovation.  Theological innovation is what leads us down the path to the heretical and the simply silly. (I once was at an Easter service where an innovative creed was recited that began, "I believe in bunnies and butterflies..." - sadly I don't remember the rest of it so am unable to dust it off for next year's Paschal celebration.)

No, here is the question: "What can one say this in a way that rouses us from the unique kind of slumber that comes with over-familiarity."  We don't notice the shocking nature of God becoming man because it is so very familiar to us. To the man whose life is spent underground, the first glimpse of a sunrise is a thing of unspeakable wonder.  To most of us it is the same old thing that happens each day.  We hardly notice it.

The Incarnation of Jesus is like this for Christians who have heard the story many times.  For many of us there is a reawakening of the wonder of the Incarnation when we come to a deeper faith and realize its implications.  But eventually it is same old, same old again.

One is tempted to showiness, cleverness or oratorical art to make it fresh again - but even this becomes predictable over time.  In a parish I served in I had the inspiration to do a one-man skit which involved entering the sanctuary in my pajamas.  It certainly got people's attention - not all of it positive.  But then every subsequent year I wrote a new one and the Rector's Christmas skit became predictable and expected - anticipated by some, avoided by others.  I gave up the practice not because of the mixed reviews but because I felt that the attention it was getting was to me and not to Jesus.  As soon as that happens you are in trouble.

In recent years something else has occurred to me.  Why not lay all innovation aside -theological as well as oratorical - and just tell the story and preach the Gospel?  The work of rousing people from the sleep of familiarity is not actually my job.  It is the unique work of the Holy Spirit.  It was folly and hubris all those angsty years when I thought I could do that.

I will spend my time in preparation this Christmas - that the moving of hearts is His work does not get me off the hook for mine.  And some of that work is simply to pray, "Come, Holy Spirit, come."

Like Trees in November

A book that I return to frequently is Richard Adam's Watership Down.  For those who have not had the pleasure, it is the story of a group of rabbits escaping a warren being destroyed for a housing development and their journey and struggle to establish a new warren.  I give the synopsis for those who might be inclined ot read it but aren't fond of books with talking rabbits - it is about talking rabbits.  And that makes it sound rather cartoonish.  It is anything but.

There is a chapter entitled "Like Trees in November."  The plot of the chapter is not what got me thinking - rather simply its title.  November is just behind us and the emptiness of the trees and the grey cold dampness in the air are all familiar to me.  I have lived in this clime for decades and it has been the same.  The skeletal branches and colorless sky are hardly cheering images.  Perhaps not cheering, but comforting.  Comforting like a minor key in music.  November, or early December for that matter, is just like that.  It is not uplifting like the brightness of a May day or refreshing like a spring shower but comforting nonetheless.  And largely so because it is familiar; like every other November I have seen - an old friend.  This season is rather like Eeyore or Puddleglum - gloomy but steadfast, predictably there.

I wonder if the pursuit of happiness, our deep desire to be pleased or entertained or joyful at all times, isn't unrealistic and ultimately unhealthy.  The things we need to do to maintain the perky and up state have a toll on our bodies and our souls.  I wonder if the quiet sadness of November isn't actually a gift to us.  We simply can't be perky and up all the time and if we were, it would no longer seem so.  The grey seasons add flavor to the glory ones.

I write this in the first week of Advent - a new beginning to the church year - after a hiatus of some weeks from writing.  Advent, like the month in which it often begins, has a familiar and comforting melancholy to it if you are paying attention.  Scripture lessons in both the daily and Sunday lectionaries speak to the themes of Advent - the coming end of all things when Jesus will return as glorious judge and the promise an hope of that same judge as Savior.  It is somber because of the former and comforting due to the latter.  One of my favorite hymns of the season is O com, O come Emmanuel, itself in a Novemberish minor key - seasonally appropriate and appropriately comforting.

It is only in writing this that I am beginning to understand what is so comforting about Advent and trees in November.  To be sure it is the familiarity and the faithful reappearance each year.  But also it is the quietness of soul which, at least for me, it brings.  God is in the quiet greyness and that is of ultimate comfort.