After twenty-eight years, I taught my last class today. There's still a week left officially, but I'll be giving a test, returning it, and then heading off to the semi-annual diocesan clergy conference. So today was it. I ended the way I started, teaching ecology from an outline of the text, weaving in stories as illustration, imitating bird calls, using what students call the "voices" -- accents I've heard where I've lived over the years, definitely not Midwestern. (Someone suggested I use the voices in preaching, but I doubt I'll do that.) R suggested that I wear the Dr. Seuss tie she gave me, so I did. It helped set the tone: playful, not somber. No "last lecture" today. Yet it still feels a bit odd to be done.
Later this afternoon there will be the last of three retirement parties, this one in the building where I've taught most of the time, with current and former students stopping by. I'm planning to give away some of the plants in my office, as a way of extending the joy I've had being a botanist all of these years.
It has truly been a blessing to have wandered in the woods, to have taught about the woods, and to get paid for it! I give thanks to God for that blessing, and for all of the students who have taken my classes. May they in turn be a blessing for all whom they encounter throughout their lives.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
Good Friday
Preaching after a reading of the Passion of Christ, whether on Palm Sunday or Good Friday, is always difficult. What more can be said? How can anything match what has just been heard? One can talk about that particular Gospel – pointing out that when John castigates “Jews,” for instance, he reflects the bitter conflict between Jewish Christians and the synagogue hierarchy, not an excuse for a pogrom. This is important, yet it is also analytical, moving us away from the anguish of our hearts into the comfort of our heads. It does not address the Passion as an emotional, gut-wrenching event.
Entering into the emotions of the Passion, imagining oneself there and experiencing all of its horror, is a practice dating from medieval times. The best example is in the Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius of Loyola; the most recent is Mel Gibson’s “The Passion of The Christ.” I have never been able to do this. I always end up in despair. Perhaps it was a comforting discipline when a third of the population of Europe was dying from the plague in the fourteenth century, to know that as great as that suffering might have been, God in Jesus Christ had suffered more. But it doesn’t work for me. Even though I know the end of the story, the anguish is too much. And I wonder about someone like Mel Gibson, who dwells so much on torture and death that there is little room for resurrection.
Yet I cannot rush to Easter, much as I would like. The fact remains that Jesus died an excruciating death, whether for our sins or for political reasons (as Crossan and Borg would say). And for the first disciples, his death was the end of hope. We cannot know the power of the resurrection unless we first cross that valley of death, because there is no new life unless the old has passed away. “So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation; everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation.” That ministry of reconciliation is the promise that even in the midst of despair there is hope. And hearing that promise, we can kneel at the cross once again, knowing that hope will return in a few short days.
Entering into the emotions of the Passion, imagining oneself there and experiencing all of its horror, is a practice dating from medieval times. The best example is in the Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius of Loyola; the most recent is Mel Gibson’s “The Passion of The Christ.” I have never been able to do this. I always end up in despair. Perhaps it was a comforting discipline when a third of the population of Europe was dying from the plague in the fourteenth century, to know that as great as that suffering might have been, God in Jesus Christ had suffered more. But it doesn’t work for me. Even though I know the end of the story, the anguish is too much. And I wonder about someone like Mel Gibson, who dwells so much on torture and death that there is little room for resurrection.
Yet I cannot rush to Easter, much as I would like. The fact remains that Jesus died an excruciating death, whether for our sins or for political reasons (as Crossan and Borg would say). And for the first disciples, his death was the end of hope. We cannot know the power of the resurrection unless we first cross that valley of death, because there is no new life unless the old has passed away. “So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation; everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation.” That ministry of reconciliation is the promise that even in the midst of despair there is hope. And hearing that promise, we can kneel at the cross once again, knowing that hope will return in a few short days.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Moses and the Serpent
I have not been a faithful blogger by any stretch of the imagination, and I suspect that even those few people who used to read this blog have given up hope of seeing a new post. Adding something like blogging to a full life only comes about by subtracting something else. The subtractions have their own merit, however, and eventually return to crowd out the new. The trick is to keep everyone happy, the old and the new. Sounds like church, doesn’t it?
This week’s OT lesson about Moses and the bronze serpent is one that makes the scientist in me just cringe. It’s sympathetic magic, plain and simple, and no commentary can convince me otherwise. I imagine the average person walking into a church and hearing that and thinking, well, that’s a bunch of malarkey! Why should I think this Jesus stuff is any less a pre-scientific tale than Moses’ serpent? Why, indeed.
It’s clear that the passage from Numbers was chosen because of the reference made to it by Jesus in John’s Gospel. Yet that hardly helps. “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness” sounds like “what I’m about to say next has as much validity as that story about Moses.” I know that Jesus transforms the story; it becomes a story about salvation rather than a story about magic. But why isn’t the salvation story magic as well?
Then there’s the claim to exclusivity that runs throughout the Gospel of John. “Those who do not believe [in the Son] are condemned already,” John writes, “because they have not believed in the name of the only Son of God.” This really is counter to contemporary culture. At least I know where to find some help with this one: Lesslie Newbigin’s The Gospel in a Pluralist Society. I suspect that dealing with that issue will help me with the other.
The trick will be figuring out how to explain all of this so a junior high student can understand it. It’s not likely that someone will walk into church off the street on Sunday. But it is likely that there will be youth there who have their own questions about how such antiquated stories can be read in church, and wonder what they can possibly mean to their lives today. That’s the real challenge of preaching.
This week’s OT lesson about Moses and the bronze serpent is one that makes the scientist in me just cringe. It’s sympathetic magic, plain and simple, and no commentary can convince me otherwise. I imagine the average person walking into a church and hearing that and thinking, well, that’s a bunch of malarkey! Why should I think this Jesus stuff is any less a pre-scientific tale than Moses’ serpent? Why, indeed.
It’s clear that the passage from Numbers was chosen because of the reference made to it by Jesus in John’s Gospel. Yet that hardly helps. “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness” sounds like “what I’m about to say next has as much validity as that story about Moses.” I know that Jesus transforms the story; it becomes a story about salvation rather than a story about magic. But why isn’t the salvation story magic as well?
Then there’s the claim to exclusivity that runs throughout the Gospel of John. “Those who do not believe [in the Son] are condemned already,” John writes, “because they have not believed in the name of the only Son of God.” This really is counter to contemporary culture. At least I know where to find some help with this one: Lesslie Newbigin’s The Gospel in a Pluralist Society. I suspect that dealing with that issue will help me with the other.
The trick will be figuring out how to explain all of this so a junior high student can understand it. It’s not likely that someone will walk into church off the street on Sunday. But it is likely that there will be youth there who have their own questions about how such antiquated stories can be read in church, and wonder what they can possibly mean to their lives today. That’s the real challenge of preaching.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Unclean Spirits
A seminary I attended had an ad hoc course on angelology and demonology, taught by a retired icon of evangelicalism. I didn’t take it for a variety of reasons, but sometimes I wish I had. I believe that the biblical notion of demons is still useful, because it allows us to name and objectify those tendencies within us that try to turn us away from God. By naming a demon and bringing it to light we have some power over it. Recognizing the demon of gluttony, for instance, reminds me that sometimes I want to eat a lot more than I need to, for reasons that do not promote my spiritual health. One danger in using such demon-talk is the temptation to abdicate responsibility for our actions (“the devil made me do it”). It is also necessary to be able to discern which spirits are from God and which are not.
The reading from Deuteronomy for this Sunday makes it clear that some prophetic voices originate in God while others do not – and the latter lead to certain death. It is also clear that even demonic voices are subject to God. This is underscored by the interaction of Jesus with the “unclean spirit” in Mark. The people are astonished that Jesus has power over the spirit, although they miss the connection with divinity that implies. (I do realize that illnesses such as epilepsy were attributed to “demons” in biblical times, and that such attribution continues to cast a stigma on any disease that affects normal brain functioning and behavior. I am not talking about that, but rather temptations common to all humanity.)
Walter Wink’s books on the “powers” showed me how institutions can have spirits (angelic or demonic) as well as individuals. Using the addresses to the “angels of the seven churches” in Revelation, Wink shows how churches, industries, nations, and cultures can each have its own angel. But how does one discern whether they are divine or demonic? The criterion of whether they lead us toward or away from God and God’s kingdom still holds, yet with institutions, especially ones in which we live, it is much harder to find a place apart where we can examine them dispassionately. We simply have too much invested in them. That investment can also tempt us to define God’s kingdom in ways that minimize the need to change.
I don’t have a solution for all of this. I simply want to present the value of taking demons more seriously than we do. They aren’t little figures with pointy tails and pitchforks. They are very real tendencies within us that turn us away from God and toward our own destruction. We ignore them at our peril.
The reading from Deuteronomy for this Sunday makes it clear that some prophetic voices originate in God while others do not – and the latter lead to certain death. It is also clear that even demonic voices are subject to God. This is underscored by the interaction of Jesus with the “unclean spirit” in Mark. The people are astonished that Jesus has power over the spirit, although they miss the connection with divinity that implies. (I do realize that illnesses such as epilepsy were attributed to “demons” in biblical times, and that such attribution continues to cast a stigma on any disease that affects normal brain functioning and behavior. I am not talking about that, but rather temptations common to all humanity.)
Walter Wink’s books on the “powers” showed me how institutions can have spirits (angelic or demonic) as well as individuals. Using the addresses to the “angels of the seven churches” in Revelation, Wink shows how churches, industries, nations, and cultures can each have its own angel. But how does one discern whether they are divine or demonic? The criterion of whether they lead us toward or away from God and God’s kingdom still holds, yet with institutions, especially ones in which we live, it is much harder to find a place apart where we can examine them dispassionately. We simply have too much invested in them. That investment can also tempt us to define God’s kingdom in ways that minimize the need to change.
I don’t have a solution for all of this. I simply want to present the value of taking demons more seriously than we do. They aren’t little figures with pointy tails and pitchforks. They are very real tendencies within us that turn us away from God and toward our own destruction. We ignore them at our peril.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Sermons Online
Learning new technology is nothing new to me, but I'm not used to doing it in such a public way. Now that I'm blogging and on Facebook, however, what's left to hide? I recently purchased a digital recorder so I could create an mp3 file of a sermon to send to a parish, and having done that successfully, I'm trying to get it to this blog. The easiest way would be to house the mp3 file on my church's website. However, hoping to learn more, I've chosen to use box.net instead. Click on the link below, and then on "HornEpiphany2.mp3." Let me know if it works, and what you think.
Sermon for the Second Sunday after Epiphany
Sermon for the Second Sunday after Epiphany
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Friends and Friendship
Much to the surprise of everyone who knows me well, I finally joined Facebook. I will never have as many “friends” as my much more sociable wife and son. Yet I am amazed and delighted by the invitations I have received so far, from people known and unknown. For the latter, I wish there were a category called “acquaintances,” but can you imagine the social consternation that could be caused by putting someone in that category?
Last Monday was the feast day of Aelred of Rievaulx, a twelfth-century Cistercian monk and the author of “Spiritual Friendship,” among other things. It’s a wonderful short work, an easy and appropriate read for someone who just joined Facebook. Aelred models it on Cicero’s essay on the same subject, something I never got to in high school Latin. Yet Aelred goes beyond Cicero, for he believes that Christ is always the foundation of true friendship – it ought to “begin in Christ, continue in Christ, and be perfected in Christ.”
True friendship certainly is God-given, “a stage toward the love and knowledge of God.” Aelred’s four qualities of a friend ring true: loyalty, right intention, discretion, and patience. Blessed are we when we have friends like that. These are not the “friends” of Facebook; a computer-mediated means of communication cannot long fill the need for human-to-human interactions that are programmed into us. Yet Facebook provides one more way of continuing the connection when we are distant from one another. For that I am grateful, even if my private self is still not sure about all this exposure!
Last Monday was the feast day of Aelred of Rievaulx, a twelfth-century Cistercian monk and the author of “Spiritual Friendship,” among other things. It’s a wonderful short work, an easy and appropriate read for someone who just joined Facebook. Aelred models it on Cicero’s essay on the same subject, something I never got to in high school Latin. Yet Aelred goes beyond Cicero, for he believes that Christ is always the foundation of true friendship – it ought to “begin in Christ, continue in Christ, and be perfected in Christ.”
True friendship certainly is God-given, “a stage toward the love and knowledge of God.” Aelred’s four qualities of a friend ring true: loyalty, right intention, discretion, and patience. Blessed are we when we have friends like that. These are not the “friends” of Facebook; a computer-mediated means of communication cannot long fill the need for human-to-human interactions that are programmed into us. Yet Facebook provides one more way of continuing the connection when we are distant from one another. For that I am grateful, even if my private self is still not sure about all this exposure!
Monday, January 5, 2009
Monks and Moderns
R and I spent the weekend in our "home-away-from-home," as I was supplying at a church nearer there than our house. That gave me the chance to finish a couple of books that had been hanging about for a while. One was a book on Mount Athos by Christopher Merrill, and the other a popular choice of Advent book groups, the latest Borg and Crossan book on the first Christmas (as they envision it).
Given that Borg and Crossan do not believe that any of the events described by Matthew and Luke actually happened, except that a baby named Jesus was born, it is remarkable how much attention they give to the biblical narrative. They take great pains to show parallels with other first-century birth narratives, especially those of Caesar Augustus. Their thesis is that the early Christian community made Jesus appear divine ("christened as Son of God by the community that grew up around him") in order to counteract the supposed divinity of Augustus and oppose the imperial power.
It's all very nice and rational and 21st century, but who would die for a faith like that? The Daily Office readings from Hebrews 11 present a very different view of faith as "the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen," in its long list of biblical heroes of faith. "Time would fail me to tell" of all of them, the author says. Yet he tries mightily, and then comes to that wonderful climax: "Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses...let us run with perseverence the race that is set before us." That's a powerful call to action, and Borg and Crossan seem tepid in comparison.
Merrill's book on the spiritual center of Eastern Orthodoxy is anything but tepid. Before it was loaned to me by R's rector, I had not realized that non-Orthodox were even allowed on the Holy Mountain. Merrill, an Episcopalian, is clearly regarded as a heretic by some of the monks he encounters. Yet he also finds the type of monastics I know from New Melleray Abbey: deeply rooted in prayer, they are so aware of their own failings that they can be gentle with others. Like Merrill, I feel a pull toward the monastic life, and there were times in the past when R wondered if I would return from retreats at the abbey. But I have already taken vows before God, including the vow of matrimony. Since Vatican II the Roman Church has acknowledged that the monastic charism can be found in people who live in the world, and now actively supports contact between monks and "seculars." The Orthodox knew that all along. Perhaps that is why I find them so appealing.
Given that Borg and Crossan do not believe that any of the events described by Matthew and Luke actually happened, except that a baby named Jesus was born, it is remarkable how much attention they give to the biblical narrative. They take great pains to show parallels with other first-century birth narratives, especially those of Caesar Augustus. Their thesis is that the early Christian community made Jesus appear divine ("christened as Son of God by the community that grew up around him") in order to counteract the supposed divinity of Augustus and oppose the imperial power.
It's all very nice and rational and 21st century, but who would die for a faith like that? The Daily Office readings from Hebrews 11 present a very different view of faith as "the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen," in its long list of biblical heroes of faith. "Time would fail me to tell" of all of them, the author says. Yet he tries mightily, and then comes to that wonderful climax: "Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses...let us run with perseverence the race that is set before us." That's a powerful call to action, and Borg and Crossan seem tepid in comparison.
Merrill's book on the spiritual center of Eastern Orthodoxy is anything but tepid. Before it was loaned to me by R's rector, I had not realized that non-Orthodox were even allowed on the Holy Mountain. Merrill, an Episcopalian, is clearly regarded as a heretic by some of the monks he encounters. Yet he also finds the type of monastics I know from New Melleray Abbey: deeply rooted in prayer, they are so aware of their own failings that they can be gentle with others. Like Merrill, I feel a pull toward the monastic life, and there were times in the past when R wondered if I would return from retreats at the abbey. But I have already taken vows before God, including the vow of matrimony. Since Vatican II the Roman Church has acknowledged that the monastic charism can be found in people who live in the world, and now actively supports contact between monks and "seculars." The Orthodox knew that all along. Perhaps that is why I find them so appealing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
