Encouragement

Barnabas, missionary and sometime traveling companion of Paul, had a particular gift.  James and John, the sons of Zebedee, were also known as sons of thunder.  I am uncertain whether this appellation is a description of the two apostles or their father - either way it is likely an indication of temperament.  But Barnabas, whose given name was Joseph, means "son of encouragement”. (Acts 4:36)    We could use more sons of encouragement.”

The meaning of the word “encourage” is not in the least arcane.  It means to put courage in.  Encouragement gives us confidence to move forward.  

But here are some things that encouragement is not.  Encouragement is not building someone's self-esteem, although this might be a byproduct of the process.  In our efforts to protect and nurture self-esteem in others, we are often anxious to affirm everything in them.  You are the best _________ (fill in the blank).  While this is very nice and preferable to constant critique, it is quite often just telling them lies.  Encouragement is always about what is true.

Here's another:

For there is no truth in their mouth;

    their inmost self is destruction;

their throat is an open grave;

    they flatter with their tongue. (Psalm 5:9 ESV)

Encouragement is not flattery.  The flatterer uses empty words that appeal to our vanity.  The purpose of flattery is not to build the other up but rather to curry favor or ingratiate oneself.  I met someone a few years back, who was very nice and "encouraging" but I always felt something amiss in interactions with him.  I eventually realized that he was a flatterer and that his words of encouragement were not intended to build the other up, but rather to enhance his position with others.  It seems to be other-centered but it is not.  

The thing about flattery is that it might be true - or not. But we always wish it were true.  When we are subtly manipulated by flatterers, we must remember that it is not just the flatterer's fault.  The flattery appeals to our own vanity (for which we are responsible). We like to be thought of as clever or attractive or athletic or compassionate. (At least I do.)  That fondness is the way in for flattery.

Encouragement is always about the truth and always about the other.  It is an admiration or appreciation for a quality or act in someone that is named.  Aloud.  The aloud part matters.  My miss on the encouragement front is the failure to state the truth, the appreciation aloud.  This is for two reasons.  First, I am a problem-solver.  Sounds good.  Might put it on my resume.  But it means I am always alert first to the problem, what is not good in persons and situations.  Thus I am far too easily critical.  The second reason is that I have, as we say in our family, a "rich inner-life”.  Which means that I have many conversations with myself in my head.  My appreciation and encouragement is named, but not aloud.  I am not an encourager if I just think something.  Nor am I encouraged if I don't hear the words.

While the indiscriminate self-esteem builders and the flatterers use insincere or self-seeking words, encouragers boldly speak true words for others when they are needed.  And sometimes even when they are not.  This encouragement, the naming of our true gifts and strengths, is necessary for us to grow and further develop those strengths.  We grow and become in dialogue, not monologue.  We are given courage when we hear these words and we are confident to move forward.

But there is another kind of encouragement that is not about naming our strengths.  It is still all about truth and other-centered.  Courage is poured into us when we hear the truth about God.  "...he will never leave you nor forsake you." (Deuteronomy 31:6)  That gives me courage.  One of the names of God in the Old Testament is Jehovah Jireh, or more accurately YHWH* Jireh, the Lord provides - an encouraging reminder.  "There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus." (Romans 8:1)  I could go on. 

So my prayer is that I would see first the good, and then speak it aloud, so I too can be a Barnabas.

* This is one of my favorite little Hebrew titbits.  The tetragrammaton (four letters) is a technical word for the name for God we Christians often pronounce "Yahweh."  Truth be told, no one knows how the letters יהוה should be pronounced because observant Jews do not say the name of God and usually write it G-d.  And Hebrew is a vowelless written language (at least originally).  So when one sees יהוה one is meant to either not say the name or say something else - and the something else is usually Adonai אֲדֹנָי.  You will notice in this second word the little squiggly marks around the letters.  Squiggly is not the technical term.  They are called diacriticals.

So suppose here I am, an observant Jew recopying a manuscript  somewhere between the 7th and 10th centuries.  By this time diacriticals were used in Hebrew to indicate the pronunciation of the word.  But tragically, I must not pronounce יהוה so when I see it I say "Adonai".   But what do I do as I copy it down?  Well since I say "Adonai" why don't I use its diacriticals or something very close to them to indicate what the reader should pronounce.  So I now write יהוה as  יְהוָה .  A good Jew would know to say Adonai here.  Not so the unsuspecting Christian who later discovers this text and who, frankly, isn't in conversation with Jewish scholars.  These scholars then see the word and sound out the letters with the vowels and they get "YeHoWaH" or "JeHoVaH" (caps are the Hebrew consonants).  Trust me, this is how it would sound.  

I can never bring myself to tell the Jehovah's Witnesses at my door that their denomination's name is based on a Christian's mistaken pronunciation of a Hebrew word.  Where's the harm?

Jehovah has become a common name for God and is widely used.  And I think this worth continuing if only for the fact that "Guide me O thou great Adonai" would be rather jarring to sing.

Laugh

My wife told me yesterday I am not a relaxed person, or a relaxing person or something like this.  The comment came when she was opining about how much more relaxing it is to travel with the friends whose guests we are this week.  She made some attempt to suggest that there was something good, or at least endearing about my enervating presence but I remain unconvinced.

I can take little umbrage at this for I am, without question, what people often describe as intense.  I take life, work and even play seriously. (Tamara does not see how 400 mile cycle trips could be fun - although she has yet to try...). I remember that my mother used to say, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." This from the woman who slept about 4 hours a night and often was found making bread at 5 am.  Very little sitting about eating bonbons for her.

Being serious about work is a virtue encouraged by generations of my Scots ancestors.  The characteristic of the Protestant Reformation that most left an impression on my family was perhaps the work ethic of the same name.  All well and good.  But my mother was right about Jack.

As a Christian I am attentive, I hope, to the way in which my behaviors and attitudes affect how others perceive the faith.  And all intensity and seriousness has its drawbacks.  One of my greatest objections to serious Christians when I was younger was just exactly the fact that they seemed to be the Jacks of which my mother was speaking.  The Christian club in my high school was a collection, I am sad to say, of people who seemed to have had their sense of humor surgically removed.  Serious and intense.  Dull.  To be fair I made no particular attempt to get beyond the surface and discover their inner joviality. (Joviality they might have objected to in principle as it comes from the influence of the pagan Roman god Jove.)  But I come back to my struggle -- there was nothing about them which incited any such attempt.

Too often we forget the exhortation that opens Psalm 100: "Be joyful in the Lord, all you lands!" And Paul's reminder that God loves a cheerful giver.  I know that in the context Paul is commenting on financial giving, but might it not also apply to the giving of our selves, souls and bodies?  Just a thought.

It is worth noting that I first took Christian faith as something desirable when I met a young woman in France who loved Jesus and life, dare I say it, jovially.  She was the kind of person who, for the sheer joy of it, would turn a cartwheel in the street. (I used to have photographic evidence, but alas I have lost that snapshot.)  I remain indebted to her witness -- she was the first person who portrayed to me something appealing about being a Christian.

All very interesting, you might be saying, but where is he going?  And that, dear reader, is the question.  I have always desired (seriously and intensely) to be a writer.  This blog has been part of the fulfillment of that desire for me.  I have often thought that the most beneficial and useful sort of writing I could do would be to encourage people to a deeper knowledge of God.  This I long for.   He is always, larger, more glorious, more gracious and merciful than we think.  It is also something I believe he longs for.  One of the few ways in which I reflect his character.

But all seriousness and intensity makes Jack a dull boy, and frankly, a poor witness.  There is something else I desire -- to laugh and to hear others laugh.  "If you can't be good," think I, "at least be funny."  As I continue to write this, and other things (I hope), I will be pleased if it encourages others to deeper love of Jesus.  But I will also be pleased if, from time to time, you laugh.

And laughing may not be far from what he longs for either.  In Lewis' last of the Narnian chronicles,  The Last Battle, Aslan says to those assembled, "You do not yet seem as happy as I mean you to be."  I think that might apply to more than just me.

Missing the point

Last Sunday was Easter.  We were assisted in our praise of the resurrection by trombone and trumpet with the processional hymn - spectacular in our small congregation.  A few people remarked to me that it was a beautiful service.  To which I responded, "It's hard to wreck Easter."  Hard, but not impossible...

I am distressed to say that I once attended an Easter Sunday service where someone thought it would be a good idea recite an alternative creed.  This is alarming enough as the word "alternative" should be used only with words like "rock" and "therapy."  But not half so alarming as the creed itself.  It began as I recall, "I believe in butterflies and bunnies..."  I experienced this sentimental twaddle many years ago, before I was a follower of Jesus and even then I thought it piffle.  (How often can one use "twaddle" and "piffle" in one sentence?)  Missing from this theological marvel was any reference to Jesus' resurrection from the dead.  As much as I am warm to beautiful and cuddly animals, butterflies and bunnies are slightly less spectacular than destroying the power of death.  Although, to be fair, I have never seen the Monarch Butterfly migration site in Mexico.  I hear that's quite good.  Nope.  Still doesn't cut it.

Today I was forwarded an article reporting on the Easter service the President apparently attended.  Here's a quote:
"At Saint John’s Episcopal Church, Rev. Luis Leon talked about things you might expect from an Easter sermon: love, hate, peace, faith and belief. "

Yes.  Things you might expect from an Easter sermon. Too true.  I concede that "love, hate, peace, faith and belief" are an improvement over insects and rodents, but still.  Could we not just say, "Alleluia, Christ is risen!  The Lord is risen indeed, Alleluia!" (We did.)  In all of those vague and silly attempts to make Easter or Christianity "relevant" or something like that, we are ignoring the elephant in the room. He who was dead is alive again.  

Let me repeat it for those who had the misfortune of attending a "relevant" Easter service this week - He who was dead is alive again.  Jesus, crucified, died and buried lives.  Mary Magdalene running from the tomb to tell the disciples "I have seen the Lord."  Men in shining robes asking those coming to the tomb that Sunday morning, "Why do you seek the living among the dead?"  That is what Easter is about.  Nary a bunny in the story.

For some reason some have come to feel the resurrection is embarrassing or irrelevant.  How can it possibly be more embarrassing than the above-mentioned creed?  You might think it irrelevant to you.  I can assure you that the dying friend I visited this week finds it terribly relevant - and we will all be in her situation some day.

If we as Christians are going to be held in derision for something, let it be for proclaiming the Gospel - Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again - rather than sentimental and TRULY irrelevant claptrap.

Alleluia, Christ is risen!  Everything else is missing the point.

The wounds of love

As a student chaplain some twenty years ago, I had the experience of witnessing an autopsy.  The pastoral care department at the hospital felt it a good experience for chaplains, who frequently deal with families of very recently deceased persons, to experience the post-mortem so they would be able to reassure families for which it might be legally necessary.  I am afraid the experience had the opposite effect on me.  I did not find it a reassuring educational exercise.

As the pathologist made the first incision it occurred to me that this is not like surgery.  These cuts, these wounds will not heal.  I understand that the person does not feel these wounds but wounds they are - marks and marring of a person’s body.  We don’t have a body, we are a body and a soul and a spirit.  Our physical bodies are a big part of who we are.

I do not believe that our bodies are “just a shell” and that it is our spirits or souls that live on forever incorporeally.  That is a Gnostic notion which essentially says the body, the material is not as important as the spiritual.  Ultimately it is seen as a prison from which we escape.  There is nothing further from Christian thought.  Jesus was God incarnate – in the flesh.  Our rescue he accomplished “in his body on the tree.” (I Peter 2:24)  Our salvation was not a spiritual transaction in heaven but a material transaction on the earth.  When he rose from the dead it was not a “spiritual” resurrection but a physical one – as will ours be.  Jesus still has a body.  We will too.

But I did not come to this thought by reflecting on autopsies.  I started somewhere else – some other wounds that will never heal.  And I feel quite different about them.  From the well-known hymn:

Crown him the Lord of love

Behold his hands and side

Rich wounds yet visible above

In beauty glorified

No angel in the sky

Can fully bear that sight

But downward bends his burning eye

At mysteries so bright

Rich wounds yet visible above.  At his resurrection Jesus appears to his disciples not healed but still bearing the wounds – the holes in his hands, feet and side.  This is the very thing that convinces Thomas that he is truly raised.

But they are not just unhealed they are also in beauty glorified.  It is Holy Week and we are walking the path to Good Friday, which seems anything but good.  Scourging, whipping, wounding.  Bleeding.  Dying.  But it is by his ugly, but now glorious, wounds we are healed. (Isaiah 53:5)  The cross of Jesus saves us and redeems even suffering and death for us.  His wounds are radiant with his glory.  I think ours will be too.

We are often distressed, surprised or angered by suffering.  And rightly so.  But Jesus changes his suffering (and ours) by his obedience.  Oscar Wilde wrote a short children’s book entitled The Selfish Giant in which said giant’s heart is turned to flesh from stone by a small child in his garden.  Later in the story the child returns to the giant.  The giant sees that the child has been hurt on his hands and feet.   The giant is distressed, surprised and angered by this outrage.  And here is how the story ends:

'Who hath dared to wound thee?' cried the Giant; 'tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him.'

     'Nay!' answered the child; 'but these are the wounds of Love.'

     'Who art thou?' said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.

     And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, 'You let me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.'

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.