A time-honored way to meditate on Scripture is lectio divina, a phrase often left untranslated because it is more than just divine or spiritual reading. It’s a way of savoring the language, reading slowly, allowing the words to sink in and roll around and resonate, to pause when something strikes you and then resume reading when the echoes die out. It’s hard work, especially for those of us who have trained ourselves to read quickly so that we can read much. Even under the best conditions I find myself whipping through verses so I can get on to the next project.
That’s why I like reading Scripture in another language. I’m forced to slow down. It does help at least to know what the words mean; lectio is not so effective with a Bible in one hand and a dictionary in the other. I’ve discovered that after I’ve worked my way through a bit of the Greek NT, I retain enough vocabulary to read the Gospel slowly and chew it.
What stopped me this week were two words: pheuge and nuctos: flee by night. “Arise” says the angel to Joseph in a dream. “Take the child and his mother and flee to Egypt.” And arising, he took the child and his mother by night and went to Egypt. Unlike Luke’s angel, who calmed everyone after his frightening appearance, the angel in Matthew’s story creates fear, so much so that Joseph runs away at night with mother and child in tow. No bucolic stable scene with sleepy lambs and adoring shepherds here. Just wild-eyed fear. Herod’s about to kill all the infants in a vain attempt to eliminate the competition. (We won’t actually hear those gruesome verses on Sunday.)
So fear shows up right at the birth of the Savior of the world. Perhaps that’s appropriate; fear dominates much of our lives, also. Every time a person botches an attempt to blow himself up there’s havoc for millions of air travelers. Hand sanitizers are routinely used in households with babies and there are now anti-MRSA sprays for pets. Never mind that immune systems need challenges to develop fully, and that indiscriminate use of anti-microbials promotes bacterial resistance. We’re afraid. Fear sells newspapers, boosts ratings, wins elections.
Joseph’s fear was real, and as Herod’s subsequent actions proved, it was justified as well. Joseph was so afraid that even after Herod died he zipped right through Judea to Galilee in order to avoid Herod’s son. One gets the impression that Joseph was happy to reach an obscure hamlet where no one would find them. Of course, all that would change once the baby grew up, but by that time Joseph seems to have disappeared from the scene.
Fear is not and never is the last word because of that baby, even if fear surrounded his first weeks. And it should not be the last word for us, either. God calls us to hope, not fear. The letter to the Ephesians prays that God may give us a spirit of wisdom and revelation so that we may know the hope to which God calls us, “what are the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints, and what is the immeasurable greatness of his power for us who believe.” Joseph didn’t live to see that. But we have. Shouldn’t we be living in that hope rather than fleeing by night? Shouldn’t we be listening to the angel who said, “Do not be afraid”?
Christmas 2: Jeremiah 31:7-14; Psalm 84; Ephesians 1:3-6, 15-19a; Matthew 2:13-15, 19-23.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Magnificat
Languages fascinate me because they reveal how people think, and what is important to them. The Inuit, for instance, have many words for snow because it is a major part of their lives, and subtle differences in frozen water tell them a lot about current conditions. Learning both Greek and Hebrew was a real eye-opener for me. Not only did I have more direct access to the Bible, but I finally began to understand the differences between the two cultures. Biblical Hebrew is structurally simple with a limited vocabulary that is very earthy and concrete, the language of herders and farmers. Greek is far more complex and subtle, befitting a people who lived and breathed philosophy. Latin is complex, too, but more legalistic and less philosophical.
In my second year of Hebrew studies, the instructor had us translate a chapter of Genesis a week. So when I first looked through the Septuagint, the second-century B.C. Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible, it was all wrong. How could Genesis ever be authentic in Greek? Sadly, I put the book back on the shelf. The Septuagint is a valuable source for understanding subtleties of interpretation that can’t be revealed in Hebrew, but I’m just not interested in being that scholarly. If I’m going to pull my hair out translating, I’d rather lose it for the original language.
This past week I translated Luke 1:39-55 from Greek, a passage that includes the song of Mary called the Magnificat. And it was all wrong. It needs to be in Latin, at least, if not Elizabethan English. Mary probably spoke Aramaic, but that would be worse. Here we have a problem that has nothing to do with the original language, but rather familiarity. I should have figured that “My soul doth magnify” would only work with Magnificat anima mea, something I have sung numerous times. The Greek translates to “My self/inmost life enlarges/praises.” Try to set that to music, J.S. Bach!
So language not only reveals how we think; it limits it as well. The Roman church never could figure out why the Greeks were all worked up over whether the Son was homoousios or homoiousios to the Father. Isn’t “of one being” (consubstantialem) good enough? Does it matter that I hear the Magnificat in Latin? No, as long as I don’t get so wrapped up in languages that I miss the heart of it, the world turned upside down. When Mary sings, the arrogant are scattered, rulers are thrown down, the rich are sent packing empty-handed – and the humble are lifted up and the hungry are filled. God’s name is holy, and God’s mercy goes on forever. Fortunately for us humans, that’s the same no matter what language we speak.
Advent 4, Year C: Micah 5:2-5a; Canticle 15 (the Magnificat); Hebrews 10:5-10; Luke 1:39-55.
In my second year of Hebrew studies, the instructor had us translate a chapter of Genesis a week. So when I first looked through the Septuagint, the second-century B.C. Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible, it was all wrong. How could Genesis ever be authentic in Greek? Sadly, I put the book back on the shelf. The Septuagint is a valuable source for understanding subtleties of interpretation that can’t be revealed in Hebrew, but I’m just not interested in being that scholarly. If I’m going to pull my hair out translating, I’d rather lose it for the original language.
This past week I translated Luke 1:39-55 from Greek, a passage that includes the song of Mary called the Magnificat. And it was all wrong. It needs to be in Latin, at least, if not Elizabethan English. Mary probably spoke Aramaic, but that would be worse. Here we have a problem that has nothing to do with the original language, but rather familiarity. I should have figured that “My soul doth magnify” would only work with Magnificat anima mea, something I have sung numerous times. The Greek translates to “My self/inmost life enlarges/praises.” Try to set that to music, J.S. Bach!
So language not only reveals how we think; it limits it as well. The Roman church never could figure out why the Greeks were all worked up over whether the Son was homoousios or homoiousios to the Father. Isn’t “of one being” (consubstantialem) good enough? Does it matter that I hear the Magnificat in Latin? No, as long as I don’t get so wrapped up in languages that I miss the heart of it, the world turned upside down. When Mary sings, the arrogant are scattered, rulers are thrown down, the rich are sent packing empty-handed – and the humble are lifted up and the hungry are filled. God’s name is holy, and God’s mercy goes on forever. Fortunately for us humans, that’s the same no matter what language we speak.
Advent 4, Year C: Micah 5:2-5a; Canticle 15 (the Magnificat); Hebrews 10:5-10; Luke 1:39-55.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Unquenchable Joy
“Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:4-7).
Always one of my favorite passages, this one took on even more meaning for me five years ago when my oldest brother chose it for his funeral – and asked me to preach. That someone would want it at his funeral says a lot about the strength and joy and perseverance of faith of that person. The same can be said about St. Paul, who wrote it while he was in prison. His letter to the Philippians not only reveals his abiding love for them, but also how much Jesus Christ had transformed him from a man breathing threats and murder to someone who lived and breathed the love of Christ.
How different John the Baptist seems! “”You brood of vipers!” was his greeting to those who came out to see him. “Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath?” Trembling, people came up and asked what they should do to avoid the terror he predicts. His responses are all economic: share what you have, don’t cheat, don’t blackmail, don’t shake people down. Be content with your wages. And if you think my message is hard, there’s one coming with an even harder message. He’ll baptize you with fire, not water, and if you end up being chaff, the fire will be unquenchable (“asbestos” in Greek). This is called “proclaiming good news to the people.” Hah! If that’s good news, who wants any part of it? For the cold and hungry and cheated it’s great news, but what about everyone else? Are they chaff?
Recently a new clergy study group formed to look at the weekly lectionary readings. It’s a good mix of Lutherans and Methodists with a couple of others (UCC and me). I think denominations exist because of the many ways in which humans experience God. Some people live more in their heads, favoring intellectual analysis. Some are practical, wanting applications to everyday life. Some are experiential. Anglicanism, having a big tent (or at least trying to), can encompass all of these. I did notice that when I went on a bit about the incredible and overflowing joy that flows out of Paul’s letter to the Philippians, no one said “Yes, yes!” but merely observed that it was a good text to create joy in a community.
So there you have three approaches: the peace of God that surpasses all understanding, a brood of vipers, or a useful text. Which do you choose? Only one speaks to my heart, and that is the first. I will take John’s “asbestos,” but attach it to another word: unquenchable joy. That is what faith in Jesus Christ brings, a faith well known to St. Paul and to my brother, Dick. Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice.
Advent 2: Zephaniah 3:14-20; Third Song of Isaiah (Canticle 9 in the BCP); Philippians 4:4-7; Luke 3:7-18.
Always one of my favorite passages, this one took on even more meaning for me five years ago when my oldest brother chose it for his funeral – and asked me to preach. That someone would want it at his funeral says a lot about the strength and joy and perseverance of faith of that person. The same can be said about St. Paul, who wrote it while he was in prison. His letter to the Philippians not only reveals his abiding love for them, but also how much Jesus Christ had transformed him from a man breathing threats and murder to someone who lived and breathed the love of Christ.
How different John the Baptist seems! “”You brood of vipers!” was his greeting to those who came out to see him. “Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath?” Trembling, people came up and asked what they should do to avoid the terror he predicts. His responses are all economic: share what you have, don’t cheat, don’t blackmail, don’t shake people down. Be content with your wages. And if you think my message is hard, there’s one coming with an even harder message. He’ll baptize you with fire, not water, and if you end up being chaff, the fire will be unquenchable (“asbestos” in Greek). This is called “proclaiming good news to the people.” Hah! If that’s good news, who wants any part of it? For the cold and hungry and cheated it’s great news, but what about everyone else? Are they chaff?
Recently a new clergy study group formed to look at the weekly lectionary readings. It’s a good mix of Lutherans and Methodists with a couple of others (UCC and me). I think denominations exist because of the many ways in which humans experience God. Some people live more in their heads, favoring intellectual analysis. Some are practical, wanting applications to everyday life. Some are experiential. Anglicanism, having a big tent (or at least trying to), can encompass all of these. I did notice that when I went on a bit about the incredible and overflowing joy that flows out of Paul’s letter to the Philippians, no one said “Yes, yes!” but merely observed that it was a good text to create joy in a community.
So there you have three approaches: the peace of God that surpasses all understanding, a brood of vipers, or a useful text. Which do you choose? Only one speaks to my heart, and that is the first. I will take John’s “asbestos,” but attach it to another word: unquenchable joy. That is what faith in Jesus Christ brings, a faith well known to St. Paul and to my brother, Dick. Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice.
Advent 2: Zephaniah 3:14-20; Third Song of Isaiah (Canticle 9 in the BCP); Philippians 4:4-7; Luke 3:7-18.
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