One of the drawbacks of keeping a blog is its regularity. That’s a problem common to columnists and cartoonists and preachers and anyone else who has a weekly deadline. Ideas tend to wane after a while. If I were more self-indulgent I could talk about myself all the time, but I’ve already done that in past journals and oh my goodness are they boring to read.
The truth is that it’s hard to write about the passion of Christ. I’m tempted every Palm Sunday to let the passion narrative speak for itself and forgo even a homily. It would make the clock-watchers and stomach-growlers happy, and there would be one less sermon to write for Holy Week. But it isn’t really fair. People yearning for good news want to find it somehow in that narrative, and it’s the job of the preacher to do so.
Palm Sunday is particularly hard because it starts out so well but ends so badly. It begins with a bit of a circus atmosphere in the parish hall, with noise and confusion and people scrambling for palms and the choir and congregation singing a hymn at several different tempos (if not keys). But then everything slows down for the long passion narrative. By the end of the service Jesus will be dead. We will have acknowledged our own complicity by calling him king and then shouting that he be crucified. Where’s the hope in that?
Well, I guess there isn’t any. That’s the point. Left to our own devices, we’d just as soon crucify God as praise him. I’m not about to say “Christ died for your sins,” in part because that’s self-evident. We’ve just demonstrated it. And that truth is just too painful to bear.
The temptation is to quickly say that that’s not the end of the story. True, it isn’t. Yet it’s worth dwelling for at least a moment on what that painful truth means. It means that we can’t save ourselves by our own efforts. If we can go so easily from praise to blame, there’s no assurance that, on our own, we can come through when we need to.
And that fact tells us something about the Jesus who died. If he was just a good man, a really good man, to be sure, someone who had a special relationship with God, but just another human being like you and me, there’s still no hope for us. Ultimately, he can’t do any more for us than we can do for ourselves.
That’s where the rest of the story comes in. Christ has been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who have died. Because Jesus Christ was not just fully human but also fully divine, the resurrection of Christ revealed what God has in mind for us. Death is not the end. Our sins are not the end. We have new life in Jesus Christ. We still have to wait for both the resurrection of Christ on Easter and for our own resurrected life. But God promises that both will come in time. For that word of hope, thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Those Who Sowed With Tears
Some things you don’t really know about until you’ve experienced them.
I’ve heard priests talk about the toll a string of funerals takes on them and their parishes. Each time one walks through the valley of the shadow of death, a little more darkness remains. If those who die are long-time parishioners, it is not just family members who grieve, but everyone who has walked with that person through decades of joy and sorrow. Even a new priest can’t fail to sense the sadness that settles over everyone.
So far I’ve had one funeral a month this year, and the pace doesn’t show much sign of slacking. Oddly, the last rector had a string of funerals his first year – people who hang on until there’s a pastor in place to shepherd them to the next life? I don’t know. Only one of the three so far could have been predicted, although another is the denouement of a long struggle with cancer.
“Those who sowed with tears will reap with songs of joy.” I first encountered this psalm verse in the motet by Johann Hermann Schein, "Die mit Tränen saen", a piece near and dear to my heart. Only later did I realize that Johannes Brahms had also set it in Ein deutsches Requiem, a work my mother wanted sung at her funeral. (It wasn’t.) It’s an incredible promise God makes, that tears will be turned into joy.
“Restore our fortunes, O Lord, like the watercourses of the Negev.” Give us something to drink instead of bowls of tears. And the Lord says, “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert… I give water in the wilderness, rivers in the desert, to give drink to my chosen people whom I formed for myself so that they might declare my praise.” In the darkness of grief, it can be especially hard to see that we are created to praise God.
To praise God, but also to rise with Christ. As Jesus approaches his last Passover, he has dinner with his friend Lazarus, whom he had earlier brought back from the dead. Lazarus did not experience the true resurrection; that was yet to come. When Mary anoints Jesus and he speaks of his own death, that promise of new life lingers in the background. Like Mary, Lazarus, and Paul, we who are walking through the wilderness want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection, forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead. What does lie ahead, in less than three weeks, is the day when we can once again say Christ is risen! I can hardly wait.
Lent 5: Isaiah 43:16-21; Psalm 126; Philippians 3:4b-14; John 12:1-8.
I’ve heard priests talk about the toll a string of funerals takes on them and their parishes. Each time one walks through the valley of the shadow of death, a little more darkness remains. If those who die are long-time parishioners, it is not just family members who grieve, but everyone who has walked with that person through decades of joy and sorrow. Even a new priest can’t fail to sense the sadness that settles over everyone.
So far I’ve had one funeral a month this year, and the pace doesn’t show much sign of slacking. Oddly, the last rector had a string of funerals his first year – people who hang on until there’s a pastor in place to shepherd them to the next life? I don’t know. Only one of the three so far could have been predicted, although another is the denouement of a long struggle with cancer.
“Those who sowed with tears will reap with songs of joy.” I first encountered this psalm verse in the motet by Johann Hermann Schein, "Die mit Tränen saen", a piece near and dear to my heart. Only later did I realize that Johannes Brahms had also set it in Ein deutsches Requiem, a work my mother wanted sung at her funeral. (It wasn’t.) It’s an incredible promise God makes, that tears will be turned into joy.
“Restore our fortunes, O Lord, like the watercourses of the Negev.” Give us something to drink instead of bowls of tears. And the Lord says, “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert… I give water in the wilderness, rivers in the desert, to give drink to my chosen people whom I formed for myself so that they might declare my praise.” In the darkness of grief, it can be especially hard to see that we are created to praise God.
To praise God, but also to rise with Christ. As Jesus approaches his last Passover, he has dinner with his friend Lazarus, whom he had earlier brought back from the dead. Lazarus did not experience the true resurrection; that was yet to come. When Mary anoints Jesus and he speaks of his own death, that promise of new life lingers in the background. Like Mary, Lazarus, and Paul, we who are walking through the wilderness want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection, forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead. What does lie ahead, in less than three weeks, is the day when we can once again say Christ is risen! I can hardly wait.
Lent 5: Isaiah 43:16-21; Psalm 126; Philippians 3:4b-14; John 12:1-8.
Monday, March 8, 2010
A New Creation
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. 2 Corinthians 5:17-18a
Paul is almost Semitic in the brevity of his language here. The Greek literally reads, “So if anyone in Christ, a new creation; the old/former passed away, behold it has become new.” The word used for creation can mean the act of creation (as in Romans 1:20) or the result of a creative act, that which is created. A footnote in the RSV (omitted in the NRSV) indicates that “creature” is an alternative translation, underscoring the latter meaning.
Consider how revolutionary this is. Paul is saying that by virtue of baptism into Jesus Christ, Christians are a completely new kind of “thing.” Knowing the resurrection of Christ, Paul anticipates the resurrection of all who have died in Christ, to a new body like Christ’s resurrected body. It is proleptic, to use a technical term: speaking of what is to come as though it has already happened.
The Greek word translated “reconciled” is also more nuanced than first appears. It means the reestablishment of an interrupted or broken relationship, or the exchange of hostility for a friendly relationship. Both, of course, are illustrations of reconciliation. Our relationship with God was broken through our sinfulness, and only through Christ is it repaired.
Yet this is not the end. As always with Paul, a statement of who we are is a preface to what God expects of us. We can’t just revel in being something new, or in being reconciled to God. We are now to be God’s agents of reconciliation to the rest of the world.
Priests are sometimes called icons of reconciliation, just as deacons are icons of service and bishops icons of oversight. Paul clearly states that by virtue of their baptism, all Christians have the ministry of reconciliation. The priesthood models that reconciliation to the rest of the Church. Whether individual priests do that well or not, the call to reconciliation remains. “In Christ God was reconciling the world to himself…and entrusting the message of reconciliation to us.” May we always fulfill that trust which God has in us.
Lent 4: Joshua 5:9-12; Psalm 32; 2 Corinthians 5:16-21; Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32. The Greek lexicon I use is often referred to as BDAG after its various editors.
Paul is almost Semitic in the brevity of his language here. The Greek literally reads, “So if anyone in Christ, a new creation; the old/former passed away, behold it has become new.” The word used for creation can mean the act of creation (as in Romans 1:20) or the result of a creative act, that which is created. A footnote in the RSV (omitted in the NRSV) indicates that “creature” is an alternative translation, underscoring the latter meaning.
Consider how revolutionary this is. Paul is saying that by virtue of baptism into Jesus Christ, Christians are a completely new kind of “thing.” Knowing the resurrection of Christ, Paul anticipates the resurrection of all who have died in Christ, to a new body like Christ’s resurrected body. It is proleptic, to use a technical term: speaking of what is to come as though it has already happened.
The Greek word translated “reconciled” is also more nuanced than first appears. It means the reestablishment of an interrupted or broken relationship, or the exchange of hostility for a friendly relationship. Both, of course, are illustrations of reconciliation. Our relationship with God was broken through our sinfulness, and only through Christ is it repaired.
Yet this is not the end. As always with Paul, a statement of who we are is a preface to what God expects of us. We can’t just revel in being something new, or in being reconciled to God. We are now to be God’s agents of reconciliation to the rest of the world.
Priests are sometimes called icons of reconciliation, just as deacons are icons of service and bishops icons of oversight. Paul clearly states that by virtue of their baptism, all Christians have the ministry of reconciliation. The priesthood models that reconciliation to the rest of the Church. Whether individual priests do that well or not, the call to reconciliation remains. “In Christ God was reconciling the world to himself…and entrusting the message of reconciliation to us.” May we always fulfill that trust which God has in us.
Lent 4: Joshua 5:9-12; Psalm 32; 2 Corinthians 5:16-21; Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32. The Greek lexicon I use is often referred to as BDAG after its various editors.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Thirsting for God
O God, you are my God; eagerly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you, my flesh faints for you, as in a barren and dry land where there is no water. Psalm 63:1
The Commission on Ministry once had a discussion as to whether it was advisable for a contemplative to seek Holy Orders. The general feeling was no; the life of a parish priest is not conducive to a contemplative life. (No one mentioned George Herbert.) I’ve often thought of that conversation, because I find myself in precisely that position.
It’s not just parish life that is inimical to contemplation, however. It’s being “in the world” at all. That’s why people fled to the desert in the fourth century; it’s why there are monasteries today. The inner life is easily distracted. Yet even monks will tell you that constant attention is required for their own progress in prayer.
When I taught full-time I had long work days interspersed with periods of leisure. That life was no more conducive to contemplation than what I do now. In fact, it may have been less so. At least now I have more motivation, because this parish, like any parish, needs a priest who is centered in God. Like the people of Israel wandering in the wilderness, we all need to drink from the spiritual rock that is Christ, and someone has to lead people to that Rock.
Recently I bought a copy of The Essential Writings of Christian Mysticism edited by Bernard McGinn. In it I found a lot of old friends and met some new ones. It’s perfect bedtime reading: each selection is a few pages at most, and one goes to sleep prayerfully rather than fitfully. It slakes the dry land’s thirst. And it opens my heart to Scripture once again.
I’m struck by how Moses did not encounter God until he had led his flock through the wilderness. God did not speak until Moses turned aside to see the burning bush. (How different the history of the world would be if Moses had kept on walking!) Only then does God earnestly call out “Mosheh Mosheh!” to which Moses gives the simple response of faith, “Here I am.” Moses may not have seen himself as a contemplative – although Gregory of Nyssa did – yet it is to Moses that God reveals the ineffable, untranslatable name, the name that was so holy that it still is never pronounced in a synagogue. I had Jewish friends in high school who even wrote G-d, something to think about when substituting “God” for every “he.”
McGinn has restored my hope that I can still drink deep from the well even when church concerns fill my day. It’s pretty simple, really, just a matter of getting out of God’s way, of quieting down enough to hear the Voice that is always speaking within. That, and being willing to walk with the flock through the wilderness.
Lent 3: Exodus 3:1-15; Psalm 63:1-8; 1 Corinthians 10:1-13; Luke 13:1-9.
The Commission on Ministry once had a discussion as to whether it was advisable for a contemplative to seek Holy Orders. The general feeling was no; the life of a parish priest is not conducive to a contemplative life. (No one mentioned George Herbert.) I’ve often thought of that conversation, because I find myself in precisely that position.
It’s not just parish life that is inimical to contemplation, however. It’s being “in the world” at all. That’s why people fled to the desert in the fourth century; it’s why there are monasteries today. The inner life is easily distracted. Yet even monks will tell you that constant attention is required for their own progress in prayer.
When I taught full-time I had long work days interspersed with periods of leisure. That life was no more conducive to contemplation than what I do now. In fact, it may have been less so. At least now I have more motivation, because this parish, like any parish, needs a priest who is centered in God. Like the people of Israel wandering in the wilderness, we all need to drink from the spiritual rock that is Christ, and someone has to lead people to that Rock.
Recently I bought a copy of The Essential Writings of Christian Mysticism edited by Bernard McGinn. In it I found a lot of old friends and met some new ones. It’s perfect bedtime reading: each selection is a few pages at most, and one goes to sleep prayerfully rather than fitfully. It slakes the dry land’s thirst. And it opens my heart to Scripture once again.
I’m struck by how Moses did not encounter God until he had led his flock through the wilderness. God did not speak until Moses turned aside to see the burning bush. (How different the history of the world would be if Moses had kept on walking!) Only then does God earnestly call out “Mosheh Mosheh!” to which Moses gives the simple response of faith, “Here I am.” Moses may not have seen himself as a contemplative – although Gregory of Nyssa did – yet it is to Moses that God reveals the ineffable, untranslatable name, the name that was so holy that it still is never pronounced in a synagogue. I had Jewish friends in high school who even wrote G-d, something to think about when substituting “God” for every “he.”
McGinn has restored my hope that I can still drink deep from the well even when church concerns fill my day. It’s pretty simple, really, just a matter of getting out of God’s way, of quieting down enough to hear the Voice that is always speaking within. That, and being willing to walk with the flock through the wilderness.
Lent 3: Exodus 3:1-15; Psalm 63:1-8; 1 Corinthians 10:1-13; Luke 13:1-9.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Jerusalem Jerusalem
“Jerusalem Jerusalem, that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it, how often I desired to gather your children together like a hen her brood under her wing, but you did not want it.” What a poignant moment this is for Jesus. He has just been warned by some Pharisees to flee from Herod. In response, Jesus says that he has work to do, and besides, it’s not imaginable for a prophet to die outside Jerusalem. His train of thought then travels to what Jerusalem has meant for prophets in the past and what it will inevitably mean for him.
It’s hard for us in this country to imagine what this was like for Jesus. We have no “Jerusalem.” We do not have a city that represents all of our hopes and dreams. (Mention “Washington” and people will scoff, although it has not always been that way.) Jerusalem first appears as Salem, the city of peace, home of the mysterious Melchizedek to whom Abraham gave a tenth of everything. It was the capital established by David, the idealized king. His son Solomon built the first Temple there, and from then on Jerusalem’s Mount Zion became the focal point of Jewish religious life and hope.
Yet the people of Jerusalem, like people everywhere and like us today, became too busy with their own lives to recognize how God wished them to live. They rejected the messengers God sent to them, year after year. They preferred to think that, because they were chosen by God, they could do whatever they liked and God would protect them.
Today there is a similar rejection of prophets who call us to account, who dare suggest that our way of life must change. There is little desire for civil discourse. The focus is on power, either getting it or throwing out those who are in power. Evan Bayh, the Indiana Senator who recently announced his retirement, laments the loss of collegiality that has gripped the nation, including Congress. “It’s difficult to work with members actively plotting your demise,” he wrote in a New York Times Op-Ed article.
But God is still willing to gather us like a hen gathers her brood under her wing. God is still waiting for us to turn our lives around, to serve God rather than ourselves, to live in ways that are just and sustainable. Lent gives us an opportunity to do that: to quiet down enough so that we can hear Jesus’ lament, and then reorient our lives while there is still time.
Lent 2: Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18; Psalm 27; Philippians 3:17-4:1; Luke 13:31-35. The translation of Luke 13:34 is mine.
It’s hard for us in this country to imagine what this was like for Jesus. We have no “Jerusalem.” We do not have a city that represents all of our hopes and dreams. (Mention “Washington” and people will scoff, although it has not always been that way.) Jerusalem first appears as Salem, the city of peace, home of the mysterious Melchizedek to whom Abraham gave a tenth of everything. It was the capital established by David, the idealized king. His son Solomon built the first Temple there, and from then on Jerusalem’s Mount Zion became the focal point of Jewish religious life and hope.
Yet the people of Jerusalem, like people everywhere and like us today, became too busy with their own lives to recognize how God wished them to live. They rejected the messengers God sent to them, year after year. They preferred to think that, because they were chosen by God, they could do whatever they liked and God would protect them.
Today there is a similar rejection of prophets who call us to account, who dare suggest that our way of life must change. There is little desire for civil discourse. The focus is on power, either getting it or throwing out those who are in power. Evan Bayh, the Indiana Senator who recently announced his retirement, laments the loss of collegiality that has gripped the nation, including Congress. “It’s difficult to work with members actively plotting your demise,” he wrote in a New York Times Op-Ed article.
But God is still willing to gather us like a hen gathers her brood under her wing. God is still waiting for us to turn our lives around, to serve God rather than ourselves, to live in ways that are just and sustainable. Lent gives us an opportunity to do that: to quiet down enough so that we can hear Jesus’ lament, and then reorient our lives while there is still time.
Lent 2: Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18; Psalm 27; Philippians 3:17-4:1; Luke 13:31-35. The translation of Luke 13:34 is mine.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Stories
Every family has stories to tell. Some families have stories that only go back a generation or two; others have richly embellished stories stretching back through several generations. I work with a deacon who has lived in this area for many years. When someone’s name comes up, he can tell me who the parents and grandparents were, what they did for a living, how the family fared through the decades, and sometimes the histories of the spouses of that individual. It is truly remarkable.
“A wandering Aramean was my ancestor,” the people of Israel are supposed to recite when they reach the Promised Land. The reference is to Jacob, a nomad from many generations previous, the grandson of Abraham. What would the world be like if Christians had continued to use that early confession, reminding themselves that they, too, had an Abrahamic faith, like Jews and Muslims? Would Islam have been better known, so that it didn’t burst into consciousness only through its militant forms? All Jews were not considered terrorists when Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated. Christians were not all equated with Scott Roeder, an anti-abortionist who killed an abortion-performing doctor in church. Why, then, are all Muslims considered potential terrorists by so many people?
“For there is no distinction between Jew or Greek; the same Lord is Lord of all and generous to all who call on him,” Paul writes. I cannot say that all religions are different routes up the same mountain. It is clear that some take routes up very different mountains, with very different goals. At the same time, I cannot say that all religions except Christianity are devoid of truth. Even Paul did not say that. Yet he saw that the clearest route to God is through Jesus Christ, God’s greatest self-revelation of who God is. Paul said that to believe in Jesus Christ and confess him with the lips is to make oneself open to the saving grace that God intends for all of us.
On the first Sunday in Lent, we see just what kind of son Jesus chooses to be in the great story God has laid before him. Although the devil says, “If you are the Son of God…” the Greek could perhaps better be translated “Since you are the Son of God” – given that you’re God’s Son, just what kind of Son will you be? Will you be one that uses magic to feed yourself when you’re hungry? Will you, like Faust, believe that the devil can give you power and authority that is not his to give? Will you make God serve you instead of serving God? To all of these temptations Jesus replies by quoting the Bible, even parrying the devil’s misuse of a psalm.
What does it mean for us to be a child of God? How will we respond when temptations come upon us? How do we see ourselves in the story of our faith, in this long-lived and many-branched family we call Christianity? There is always the temptation to focus on weakness, on the inability to be all that God desires us to be. But Paul gives us this promise: “No one who believes in him will be put to shame.” It is not what we do that gives life; it is what God has done for us. Through baptism, we have already been taken into the family. God already accepts us as children through the grace of Jesus Christ. We are already part of the story. What remains to be seen is what kind of children in that story we will be.
Lent 1: Deuteronomy 16:1-11; Psalm 91; Romans 10:8b-13; Luke 4:1-13. I also need to acknowledge the ecumenical lectionary group I attend, and John L. Esposito’s lectures on Great World Religions: Islam.
“A wandering Aramean was my ancestor,” the people of Israel are supposed to recite when they reach the Promised Land. The reference is to Jacob, a nomad from many generations previous, the grandson of Abraham. What would the world be like if Christians had continued to use that early confession, reminding themselves that they, too, had an Abrahamic faith, like Jews and Muslims? Would Islam have been better known, so that it didn’t burst into consciousness only through its militant forms? All Jews were not considered terrorists when Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated. Christians were not all equated with Scott Roeder, an anti-abortionist who killed an abortion-performing doctor in church. Why, then, are all Muslims considered potential terrorists by so many people?
“For there is no distinction between Jew or Greek; the same Lord is Lord of all and generous to all who call on him,” Paul writes. I cannot say that all religions are different routes up the same mountain. It is clear that some take routes up very different mountains, with very different goals. At the same time, I cannot say that all religions except Christianity are devoid of truth. Even Paul did not say that. Yet he saw that the clearest route to God is through Jesus Christ, God’s greatest self-revelation of who God is. Paul said that to believe in Jesus Christ and confess him with the lips is to make oneself open to the saving grace that God intends for all of us.
On the first Sunday in Lent, we see just what kind of son Jesus chooses to be in the great story God has laid before him. Although the devil says, “If you are the Son of God…” the Greek could perhaps better be translated “Since you are the Son of God” – given that you’re God’s Son, just what kind of Son will you be? Will you be one that uses magic to feed yourself when you’re hungry? Will you, like Faust, believe that the devil can give you power and authority that is not his to give? Will you make God serve you instead of serving God? To all of these temptations Jesus replies by quoting the Bible, even parrying the devil’s misuse of a psalm.
What does it mean for us to be a child of God? How will we respond when temptations come upon us? How do we see ourselves in the story of our faith, in this long-lived and many-branched family we call Christianity? There is always the temptation to focus on weakness, on the inability to be all that God desires us to be. But Paul gives us this promise: “No one who believes in him will be put to shame.” It is not what we do that gives life; it is what God has done for us. Through baptism, we have already been taken into the family. God already accepts us as children through the grace of Jesus Christ. We are already part of the story. What remains to be seen is what kind of children in that story we will be.
Lent 1: Deuteronomy 16:1-11; Psalm 91; Romans 10:8b-13; Luke 4:1-13. I also need to acknowledge the ecumenical lectionary group I attend, and John L. Esposito’s lectures on Great World Religions: Islam.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
The Glory of God
Through a friend, Raisin and I were introduced to a TV series called Joan of Arcadia. It is about a high school student named Joan Girardi, who keeps running into God in the form of various people. God tells her to do things, and she does them, often after much protest. In one episode God tells her what would have happened had she not followed orders, but the rest of the time we have to figure it out ourselves. Sometimes it’s pretty obscure.
God is portrayed in various ways: a child, a trash collector, a cafeteria worker. Scripture of any sort is never mentioned (unless you count Bob Dylan’s lyrics). It’s a remarkable portrayal of an American God: friendly, pushy in a good way, not favoring any religious tradition, never an obvious authority figure. God could be anyone.
Maybe that’s why it bothers me. For Joan, God is other, to be sure, but not wholly other, not so different from the rest of us that anyone passing by would notice. That does not fit the Judaeo-Christian conception of God, whose presence makes the face of Moses shine for days, who nearly blinds Paul for life, and whose glory manifested in Jesus Christ makes dozing disciples sit bolt upright and has Peter speaking gibberish. Had that God appeared to Joan of Arcadia, she wouldn’t be rolling her eyes.
God can become too other, of course. That’s the Deist trap, the watchmaker God who wound up the universe and then sat back, never to interact with it again. At the other extreme is the too immanent God, who is part of all of us and everything that is and no greater than The Force indwelling the universe. That’s pantheism, another favorite American religion, beloved of Hollywood (as in Star Wars and Avatar). I do believe that God is within us through the Holy Spirit, but all of creation does not equal all of God. God is both indwelling and other, and to deny one or the other is to deny the biblical witness.
Joan’s story never connects with a larger story, at least not a Judaeo-Christian one. I understand why a secular TV series could not do that. Yet that is precisely what we are called to do as Christians. In his second letter to the Corinthians, Paul links the story of Moses to the story of Christ to his own story and that of the Corinthians. It’s what preachers and prophets are supposed to do, but every Bible-reading Christian should be doing it, too. Few of us will see the full glory of God in this life, but all of us can be transformed by God. We can be so transformed that some of God’s glory shines through us to enlighten the world. And if God does happen to show up, don't roll your eyes.
Last Epiphany: Exodus 34:29-35; Psalm 99; 2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2; Luke 9:28-36.
God is portrayed in various ways: a child, a trash collector, a cafeteria worker. Scripture of any sort is never mentioned (unless you count Bob Dylan’s lyrics). It’s a remarkable portrayal of an American God: friendly, pushy in a good way, not favoring any religious tradition, never an obvious authority figure. God could be anyone.
Maybe that’s why it bothers me. For Joan, God is other, to be sure, but not wholly other, not so different from the rest of us that anyone passing by would notice. That does not fit the Judaeo-Christian conception of God, whose presence makes the face of Moses shine for days, who nearly blinds Paul for life, and whose glory manifested in Jesus Christ makes dozing disciples sit bolt upright and has Peter speaking gibberish. Had that God appeared to Joan of Arcadia, she wouldn’t be rolling her eyes.
God can become too other, of course. That’s the Deist trap, the watchmaker God who wound up the universe and then sat back, never to interact with it again. At the other extreme is the too immanent God, who is part of all of us and everything that is and no greater than The Force indwelling the universe. That’s pantheism, another favorite American religion, beloved of Hollywood (as in Star Wars and Avatar). I do believe that God is within us through the Holy Spirit, but all of creation does not equal all of God. God is both indwelling and other, and to deny one or the other is to deny the biblical witness.
Joan’s story never connects with a larger story, at least not a Judaeo-Christian one. I understand why a secular TV series could not do that. Yet that is precisely what we are called to do as Christians. In his second letter to the Corinthians, Paul links the story of Moses to the story of Christ to his own story and that of the Corinthians. It’s what preachers and prophets are supposed to do, but every Bible-reading Christian should be doing it, too. Few of us will see the full glory of God in this life, but all of us can be transformed by God. We can be so transformed that some of God’s glory shines through us to enlighten the world. And if God does happen to show up, don't roll your eyes.
Last Epiphany: Exodus 34:29-35; Psalm 99; 2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2; Luke 9:28-36.
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