I've had the germ of a thought rattling around my head for a while now. It's only been partially formed. It was like trying to grasp a shadow, and I'm still not sure that I've fully grasped it yet. But I've read what others have said on the topic—one years ago, and the other just now. Some will probably find what I'm about to opine to be blasphemous. So be it. I've been learning to be less scared about what others might think. Not that I'm insensitive to other ideas or thoughts (or feelings), but I'm trying to develop a thicker skin to derision or venom. Anyway . . .
I think some people put too much emphasis on scripture.
I know, I know, how can a Christian say such a thing? Look out for the thunderbolt. Here's the thing: I have no problem with the Bible itself. Well, not so fast. Let's say I have no major problem. I do wonder a lot about which books are in the canon and which didn't make it. And I've heard all the stories . . . God guided those (rich established white) men when they made their proclamations. Maybe to some extent that's true. But I tend to believe very strongly in the idea of free will. Those guys chose those books and not others. I don't doubt that they believed that they heard from God on it. Or at least claimed to. And, hey, maybe they did. But they had their socio-political reasons too.
But I think my biggest issue—and here's a feeling that I've heard echoed in some other places recently—is the way that so many people approach scripture. And I think that this is a multi-layered problem. One issue is that many allow no room whatsoever for the whole issue of interpretation. And it's a BIG issue. We're talking about 66 very different books (although there is certainly some similarity in the epistles) written by many different authors over thousands of years. They were unarguably colored by the authors themselves. And they have such disparate cultural backgrounds. And here we are looking at them through modern and post-modern Western (and moreover American) eyes. There is bound to be some disconnect. Especially considering that we are reading translations of translations.
And this issue dovetails directly into my other (perhaps larger) qualm. Much of the Church takes a legal/constitutional approach. They come to the scriptures like a lawyer coming to a contract or a builder coming to the blueprint for a house. Is that any way to come to a spiritual text? First of all, it's very cold and sterile. Where's the life in that? And I can't imagine that they were written with this in mind. The vast majority of the world was illiterate when all of this was written down, so there was no inkling that people would be holding words up to a microscope like so many do nowadays.
The ancient traditions were oral. People shared these stories over meals and in other gatherings. And the ancient Eastern mind was much more visual, much more poetic than the 21st Century mind. That's why Jesus taught in parables. What's more, even for them the new way of looking at life and God (the Good News!) was so radical that it had to be presented in allegory and questions. "You have heard it said...but I say to you..." Love your enemies?? Forgive those that do you wrong?? Welcome the stranger?? Associate with Romans and prostitutes?? This is all radical stuff. And it's the very thing I like about scripture. That and how human it all is. The Psalms are some of the most open, vulnerable stuff you could read.
But please let's don't quote verses at each other like lawyers trying to cite precedent and win a case. Not the point at all.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Monday, April 15, 2013
Again...
With each tragedy like the bombing at the finish line of the Boston Marathon today, we are all wounded. We are all victims. We are all stricken with grief. Sad to say, we are becoming—if not used to it, exactly—less shocked.
Of course, local, state and federal authorities will be investigating the circumstances surrounding this attack in effort to bring those responsible to justice. But as so often happens, there will be a more metaphysical questioning. Why did this (or any other) tragedy happen? I think it's safe to say that we live in a broken world populated by broken people. But as some have already pointed out, that doesn't mean that all the world or all its people are broken. In any tragedy, there are always brave and generous people who rush in to help, to meet whatever need they can. And many, many more of us stand with the hurting at least in spirit.
And, please God, spare us from the twisted voices that will try to tell us that this or any other tragedy occurred as the result of the "sins of America" or of those (fill in the blank)s. If God/karma/the universe is in the business of this type of retributive treatment, how utterly heartrending an existence this would be.
No, I believe—I know—that God is not in that business. Sadly, some people are. But there are thankfully many, many more who are in the business of helping, healing, comforting, and securing. Even in the face of such heinous acts, there is hope.
Of course, local, state and federal authorities will be investigating the circumstances surrounding this attack in effort to bring those responsible to justice. But as so often happens, there will be a more metaphysical questioning. Why did this (or any other) tragedy happen? I think it's safe to say that we live in a broken world populated by broken people. But as some have already pointed out, that doesn't mean that all the world or all its people are broken. In any tragedy, there are always brave and generous people who rush in to help, to meet whatever need they can. And many, many more of us stand with the hurting at least in spirit.
And, please God, spare us from the twisted voices that will try to tell us that this or any other tragedy occurred as the result of the "sins of America" or of those (fill in the blank)s. If God/karma/the universe is in the business of this type of retributive treatment, how utterly heartrending an existence this would be.
No, I believe—I know—that God is not in that business. Sadly, some people are. But there are thankfully many, many more who are in the business of helping, healing, comforting, and securing. Even in the face of such heinous acts, there is hope.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Angels
It's been just over a week now since Angels in America closed at the Ephrata Performing Arts Center. The piece by Tony Kushner (of Lincoln fame) is considered by many to be one of the great masterpieces of modern American theater.
It's such a huge and challenging two-part play that many theaters do only the first part (Millennium Approaches); or they do the second part (Perestroika) later in their season. At the risk of blowing our community theater's horn again, we did it back-to-back, with only a week of rehearsal in between. I agreed to help with stage crew on Perestroika (I had already seen the first part on opening night). I am so thrilled to have had even a small part in bringing this beautiful piece to life.
It may seem odd—or at least unorthodox—to call this piece subtitled "A Gay Fantasia on National Themes" a spiritual work. But it is without doubt one of the most spiritual pieces I've encountered. I know that conservative groups have protested the play for its frank portrayal of homosexual issues and for its "blasphemous" treatment of God, but I have to wonder (as with most such situations) whether any of the protesters have seen—or even approached—the work with anything resembling an open mind.
If they had, they would have seen a very open-minded and rather even-handed treatment of the subject. Some of the gay characters are noble, and some are not. Same for the straight characters. As for the titular angel, she is hard to figure out, as I would think an angel would be. But the most profound thing to me was how utterly human the characters are. Prior, the protagonist who struggles with AIDS as well as with his apparent calling as a prophet to his generation, is someone the audience cannot help but feel empathy toward. (Prior was beautifully embodied in our production by Daniel Greene.) Belize, Prior's best friend, is a very sassy, wisecracking nurse who nevertheless speaks some of the most honest and humane lines in the play (played to perfection in our show by Adam Newborn). Even the reprehensible Roy Cohn (one of the few true-life people) shows a fearful defiance in the face of AIDS that we can't help but sympathize with. Cohn was played brilliantly by Richard Bradbury on our stage.
What struck me the most, and what continues to stay with me, is the hopefulness that evolves throughout the play. People are gravely sick. People die. Marriages and relationships falter. And still Kushner instills a brave and stubborn sense of hope. And married to that hope, breathing life into it, is forgiveness—forgiveness for all the pain we inflict on each other, sometimes carelessly and sometimes quite maliciously.
One of the most pivotal scenes is when Belize and Louis (Prior's ex-lover) go to the hospital room of Roy Cohn soon after his death. Belize convinces Louis to say kaddish over Roy's dead body. Reluctantly, Louis does, through the help of the ghost of Ethel Rosenberg (the masterful Elizabeth Pattey). Belize elicits Louis's help by reminding him, "It isn't easy. It doesn't count if it's easy. It's one of the hardest things—forgiveness. And maybe that's where love and justice finally meet."
v'ʼimru amen
It's such a huge and challenging two-part play that many theaters do only the first part (Millennium Approaches); or they do the second part (Perestroika) later in their season. At the risk of blowing our community theater's horn again, we did it back-to-back, with only a week of rehearsal in between. I agreed to help with stage crew on Perestroika (I had already seen the first part on opening night). I am so thrilled to have had even a small part in bringing this beautiful piece to life.
It may seem odd—or at least unorthodox—to call this piece subtitled "A Gay Fantasia on National Themes" a spiritual work. But it is without doubt one of the most spiritual pieces I've encountered. I know that conservative groups have protested the play for its frank portrayal of homosexual issues and for its "blasphemous" treatment of God, but I have to wonder (as with most such situations) whether any of the protesters have seen—or even approached—the work with anything resembling an open mind.
If they had, they would have seen a very open-minded and rather even-handed treatment of the subject. Some of the gay characters are noble, and some are not. Same for the straight characters. As for the titular angel, she is hard to figure out, as I would think an angel would be. But the most profound thing to me was how utterly human the characters are. Prior, the protagonist who struggles with AIDS as well as with his apparent calling as a prophet to his generation, is someone the audience cannot help but feel empathy toward. (Prior was beautifully embodied in our production by Daniel Greene.) Belize, Prior's best friend, is a very sassy, wisecracking nurse who nevertheless speaks some of the most honest and humane lines in the play (played to perfection in our show by Adam Newborn). Even the reprehensible Roy Cohn (one of the few true-life people) shows a fearful defiance in the face of AIDS that we can't help but sympathize with. Cohn was played brilliantly by Richard Bradbury on our stage.
What struck me the most, and what continues to stay with me, is the hopefulness that evolves throughout the play. People are gravely sick. People die. Marriages and relationships falter. And still Kushner instills a brave and stubborn sense of hope. And married to that hope, breathing life into it, is forgiveness—forgiveness for all the pain we inflict on each other, sometimes carelessly and sometimes quite maliciously.
One of the most pivotal scenes is when Belize and Louis (Prior's ex-lover) go to the hospital room of Roy Cohn soon after his death. Belize convinces Louis to say kaddish over Roy's dead body. Reluctantly, Louis does, through the help of the ghost of Ethel Rosenberg (the masterful Elizabeth Pattey). Belize elicits Louis's help by reminding him, "It isn't easy. It doesn't count if it's easy. It's one of the hardest things—forgiveness. And maybe that's where love and justice finally meet."
v'ʼimru amen
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Three of a Kind
One of the most intriguing mysteries of Christianity is the Trinity. I'm not going to go into all the biblical background of it (although, of course, the word trinity is nowhere in scripture). There is a LOT of theological discussion and debate about the subject. So I'll just throw my two cents in...
I personally love the idea of the three persons of the godhead living in some sort of cosmic community. The whole notion that God can only love us and hope for us to love one another is more valid, I think, in the context of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. It's definitely a mystery, though. How can one God be three persons? Is it three aspects of the same God? Kind of, but not exactly—maybe it's just a matter of semantics. If they are three distinct persons, how are they still the same God?
One of my favorite treatises on the Trinity is from fiction: The Shack by William P. Young. I have read several theological discussions on the Trinity, but nothing has made the impact on me that this depiction has. Young portrays the Trinity as three distinct characters in a somewhat unorthodox manner. In fact, many have termed his treatment of the Trinity as heresy. I'm sorry, but that's a term I use with a great deal of caution. Sometimes what is called heresy is just something we don't fully understand. Or we become so attached to our own accepted interpretations as the only truth.
At any rate, Young depicts the Father as a middle-age African-American woman. It's one of the warmest, most parental images of God I've read. The Son is portrayed as a young west-Asian man—think Sayid from Lost. The Spirit is to me the most interesting of the three. She (yes, another female) is an ethereal, misty shape that is always hard to see. Most of traditional Western Christianity tends to focus, naturally, on Jesus. And the Father is a central figure as well, particularly considering how grounded Christianity generally is in Judaism. But the Spirit is often the "forgotten" member of the Trinity. And there is some precedent for the Spirit as feminine. The words for the spirit of God are, in some languages (Hebrew, Syriac, German), feminine. Of course, there is considerable debate as to whether grammatical gender has anything to do with personal gender.
I can't really speak to that. And I know that in reality, God (by whatever name you call Him/Her/Them/It) really has no gender. We're talking about a spirit or an energy force, here, so gender does not apply. But in thinking about God, in prayer, in meditation—we almost can't help ourselves. If we want to make God at all personal, some notion of gender has to be in the mix to some extent. So I actually do find myself going back to Young's Shack-ian imagery. There's just something so comfortable and inviting about them all to me. I want to spend time with God in these avatars.
And that's kind of the whole point of prayer, isn't it?
I personally love the idea of the three persons of the godhead living in some sort of cosmic community. The whole notion that God can only love us and hope for us to love one another is more valid, I think, in the context of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. It's definitely a mystery, though. How can one God be three persons? Is it three aspects of the same God? Kind of, but not exactly—maybe it's just a matter of semantics. If they are three distinct persons, how are they still the same God?
One of my favorite treatises on the Trinity is from fiction: The Shack by William P. Young. I have read several theological discussions on the Trinity, but nothing has made the impact on me that this depiction has. Young portrays the Trinity as three distinct characters in a somewhat unorthodox manner. In fact, many have termed his treatment of the Trinity as heresy. I'm sorry, but that's a term I use with a great deal of caution. Sometimes what is called heresy is just something we don't fully understand. Or we become so attached to our own accepted interpretations as the only truth.
At any rate, Young depicts the Father as a middle-age African-American woman. It's one of the warmest, most parental images of God I've read. The Son is portrayed as a young west-Asian man—think Sayid from Lost. The Spirit is to me the most interesting of the three. She (yes, another female) is an ethereal, misty shape that is always hard to see. Most of traditional Western Christianity tends to focus, naturally, on Jesus. And the Father is a central figure as well, particularly considering how grounded Christianity generally is in Judaism. But the Spirit is often the "forgotten" member of the Trinity. And there is some precedent for the Spirit as feminine. The words for the spirit of God are, in some languages (Hebrew, Syriac, German), feminine. Of course, there is considerable debate as to whether grammatical gender has anything to do with personal gender.
I can't really speak to that. And I know that in reality, God (by whatever name you call Him/Her/Them/It) really has no gender. We're talking about a spirit or an energy force, here, so gender does not apply. But in thinking about God, in prayer, in meditation—we almost can't help ourselves. If we want to make God at all personal, some notion of gender has to be in the mix to some extent. So I actually do find myself going back to Young's Shack-ian imagery. There's just something so comfortable and inviting about them all to me. I want to spend time with God in these avatars.
And that's kind of the whole point of prayer, isn't it?
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