I was two days into my two-year sojourn in Japan when the country paused to honor the 50th anniversary of the Tokyo earthquake. The country mourned the 120,000 lives that were lost on September 1, 1923 -- and took the opportunity to showcase the importance of public safety (every Japanese school kid knew that they were to get under a desk whenever the ground shook); and the progress made in mandating stronger building codes. The entire country invested a lot of financial and social capital in being prepared for seismic activity.
That helped last week, but not enough. The perfect storm of earthquake, tsunami and potential nuclear meltdown has brought a level of devastation that reverberates with us, a half world away.
We don't know what the ultimate financial and human cost will be, but it is more than our psyches can absorb. But it will not be as much as the aggregate cost of the Haiti earthquake last year, or the South Asia tsunami several years ago.
The world can be a dangerous place, often through no fault of our own -- even though there are those who attempt to ascribe blame and responsibility for what otherwise would be called a natural disaster. And often couch it in theological language. Hurricane Katrina was divine punishment, some said. Still others maintained that the earthquake in Haiti was a direct consequence of forsaken destiny. On the 50th anniversary of the Tokyo earthquake, I remember reading stories of vengeance against Korean people who were thought -- by some, to have caused the disaster.
There is a deep human temptation to respond to violence with violence. Tit for tat. We may be able to mitigate some of the geological violence-- but we can't control it. But we can -- and should, stand up to the physical, verbal and theological violence that flares in reaction. Even --and especially, if it means standing up to yourself.
And then there is the temptation to just get away from the violence of the earth gone wild. There is just too much misery. It either hurts too much -- or we become steeled against it.
There is another way to respond to the world's pain. Take it to the heart of God. That's what Jesus learned to do in his sojourn in the wilderness, which we commemorate each Lent. Jesus brought himself to the heart of God -- and by doing so he was then able to better see the divine in everyone else.
Take it to the heart of God -- through prayer, through giving, through whatever means available that will keep your heart open in the face of overwhelming misery or the temptation to respond with some sort of violence. That can be a part of a Lenten discipline.
Henri Nouwen used to say that the shortest distance between two people is God. At a time when so many have literally been swept away, may we resist the temptation of being swept up in attempts to spiritually escape (which is its own form of violence) or come down with pernicious explanations -- and instead stay grounded in God. Take it to the heart of God -- which mysteriously keeps us in closer relationship with one another. And can contribute to the binding of the world's brokenness.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
The public processing of pain
It has been said that Twitter and Facebook are the electronic engines behind the waves of demonstrations that are sweeping across the Middle East. Social media have indeed kept people apprised of events, issued important information -- and have helped create a virus for change, but the real catalyst for these huge actions has been the courage to speak. And speak publicly.
In any and every totalitarian regime, the freedom to speak is the first thing that is taken away. Sharing hope or pain generates a power that is not easily controlled, and so any gatherings where people can converse become illegal. Offenders are hauled off and rendered silent -- for days, for years or forever. Fear becomes a cultural norm. With the exception of a few among the elite, the populace is marginalized -- unless and until the gatherings become so large and the voices become so loud that the power of it all cannot be stopped.
These are historic demonstrations, which will be remembered for generations, and which will reshape the future of each country. As we follow the unfolding of events in North Africa and the Arabian Peninsula, I keep being drawn to our less dramatic, but critically important weekly liturgical demonstrations, which have the capacity to transform lives as well as propose a reshaping of the future. I cannot escape the parallels between the two.
In ancient Egypt, Pharaoh kept the Jewish people silent by making them slaves. They groaned under their oppression. God heard their groaning (Exodus 2:3-4); and God responded by appointing Moses to lead them to freedom. In so doing, God announced that pain is not meant to be a normal social cost. The Exodus story is the foundation of the Passover liturgy. It is a liturgy that begins in pain -- and results in freedom.
Which is also the case in Christian worship. Worship is the public processing of pain. Eucharistic language is very clear about the pain of Jesus' death, and the celebration of his Resurrection. Our worship is designed so that people can freely offer up their individual or community pain in the prayers of the people, and bringing that pain up with us to the altar -- and then have it blessed and transformed through the receiving of bread and wine.
Our worship is a demonstration of hope rising out of hurt. It empowers people with that hope -- to a degree that they become committed to transform systems that render us silent, oppressed -- or exhausted (and sometimes all three). Liturgy practices a critique of our world. It proposes a love from God in Christ and from the Christ-centered community; which lives in some contrast to a culture that regards people anonymously at best -- and marginalized or oppressed at worst.
The demonstrations in Tunisia, Egypt, Bahrain, Libya and Yemen have released a huge groaning, and have exposed the limits of their local regime's despotic power. God invited Moses and his followers to hearken to an abiding power that defeated the armies of Pharaoh. Jesus beckons us to subscribe to a power beyond our knowing, and to a peace which surpasses all understanding.
The purpose of worship is to provide a framework for us to express our confusion and pain, and to receive God's blessing, freedom and love. All the elements of worship -- the choreography, the space, the music, the color -- are crafted in such a way that we are not just free to speak -- but free to have our imaginations unleashed so that we can -- with the living Christ, work together in order to create a world of abiding justice.
In any and every totalitarian regime, the freedom to speak is the first thing that is taken away. Sharing hope or pain generates a power that is not easily controlled, and so any gatherings where people can converse become illegal. Offenders are hauled off and rendered silent -- for days, for years or forever. Fear becomes a cultural norm. With the exception of a few among the elite, the populace is marginalized -- unless and until the gatherings become so large and the voices become so loud that the power of it all cannot be stopped.
These are historic demonstrations, which will be remembered for generations, and which will reshape the future of each country. As we follow the unfolding of events in North Africa and the Arabian Peninsula, I keep being drawn to our less dramatic, but critically important weekly liturgical demonstrations, which have the capacity to transform lives as well as propose a reshaping of the future. I cannot escape the parallels between the two.
In ancient Egypt, Pharaoh kept the Jewish people silent by making them slaves. They groaned under their oppression. God heard their groaning (Exodus 2:3-4); and God responded by appointing Moses to lead them to freedom. In so doing, God announced that pain is not meant to be a normal social cost. The Exodus story is the foundation of the Passover liturgy. It is a liturgy that begins in pain -- and results in freedom.
Which is also the case in Christian worship. Worship is the public processing of pain. Eucharistic language is very clear about the pain of Jesus' death, and the celebration of his Resurrection. Our worship is designed so that people can freely offer up their individual or community pain in the prayers of the people, and bringing that pain up with us to the altar -- and then have it blessed and transformed through the receiving of bread and wine.
Our worship is a demonstration of hope rising out of hurt. It empowers people with that hope -- to a degree that they become committed to transform systems that render us silent, oppressed -- or exhausted (and sometimes all three). Liturgy practices a critique of our world. It proposes a love from God in Christ and from the Christ-centered community; which lives in some contrast to a culture that regards people anonymously at best -- and marginalized or oppressed at worst.
The demonstrations in Tunisia, Egypt, Bahrain, Libya and Yemen have released a huge groaning, and have exposed the limits of their local regime's despotic power. God invited Moses and his followers to hearken to an abiding power that defeated the armies of Pharaoh. Jesus beckons us to subscribe to a power beyond our knowing, and to a peace which surpasses all understanding.
The purpose of worship is to provide a framework for us to express our confusion and pain, and to receive God's blessing, freedom and love. All the elements of worship -- the choreography, the space, the music, the color -- are crafted in such a way that we are not just free to speak -- but free to have our imaginations unleashed so that we can -- with the living Christ, work together in order to create a world of abiding justice.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Martin Luther King, Tucson and non-violence
Our country pauses this weekend to honor Martin Luther King on his birthday, January 15. Our prayer cycle remembers Dr. King on April 4, the day he died. I well remember that evening in 1968 -- the violence that cut him down, and the violence that erupted after his murder. I remember my sadness – and disorientation and fear. That settled down after awhile, only to spike again two months later when Robert Kennedy was killed.
The shootings in Tucson last week connect my psyche to the 1968 shootings in Memphis and Los Angeles – and the 1963 shooting in Dallas. And the scores of shootings in Newark last year – and several years ago at Columbine High School and Virginia Tech. Not to mention the recent bombings in Egypt and Baghdad and Afghanistan.
We know we live in a violent world. We cannot deny it, but most of us work very hard to keep ourselves removed from it.
And we can’t. Not just because the violence can emerge almost indiscriminately outside a Tucson Safeway (which could probably be described as Ground Zero for Anywhere, USA), but because of the violence that lurks just beneath the surface in most of us. And which surfaces more often than we care to admit. I am talking about verbal violence. The verbal violence that emerges when dialogue dissolves into diatribe; when civility dissolves into sniping, scoring points and assigning blame. The not so subtle violence of Schadenfreude, when our happiness is built on someone else’s misery – which we can easily create by putting someone down or shutting someone out.
Martin Luther King had a dream for America. Foundational to that dream was his commitment to nonviolence. And the challenge in his dream was that we embrace the biblical vision of nonviolence – and have the discipline to live it out. “No killer statements” was the mantra of every youth group I ever participated in. It took a lot of reminding to enable that mantra to take root.
Research has shown that violence spreads. Violence is a pernicious and toxic contagion. Martin Luther King’s death demonstrated that. My experience and faith has demonstrated that non-violence is also a contagion: a life-giving contagion of hope and peace. Martin Luther King’s witness engendered that. Non-violence won’t solve the problem of violence, but the commitment to non-violence can stymie its spread – in the world and in us.
The shootings in Tucson last week connect my psyche to the 1968 shootings in Memphis and Los Angeles – and the 1963 shooting in Dallas. And the scores of shootings in Newark last year – and several years ago at Columbine High School and Virginia Tech. Not to mention the recent bombings in Egypt and Baghdad and Afghanistan.
We know we live in a violent world. We cannot deny it, but most of us work very hard to keep ourselves removed from it.
And we can’t. Not just because the violence can emerge almost indiscriminately outside a Tucson Safeway (which could probably be described as Ground Zero for Anywhere, USA), but because of the violence that lurks just beneath the surface in most of us. And which surfaces more often than we care to admit. I am talking about verbal violence. The verbal violence that emerges when dialogue dissolves into diatribe; when civility dissolves into sniping, scoring points and assigning blame. The not so subtle violence of Schadenfreude, when our happiness is built on someone else’s misery – which we can easily create by putting someone down or shutting someone out.
Martin Luther King had a dream for America. Foundational to that dream was his commitment to nonviolence. And the challenge in his dream was that we embrace the biblical vision of nonviolence – and have the discipline to live it out. “No killer statements” was the mantra of every youth group I ever participated in. It took a lot of reminding to enable that mantra to take root.
Research has shown that violence spreads. Violence is a pernicious and toxic contagion. Martin Luther King’s death demonstrated that. My experience and faith has demonstrated that non-violence is also a contagion: a life-giving contagion of hope and peace. Martin Luther King’s witness engendered that. Non-violence won’t solve the problem of violence, but the commitment to non-violence can stymie its spread – in the world and in us.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Peace to the whole community
"Peace to the whole community, and love with faith, from God the Father and the Lord Jesus Christ." (Ephesians 6:23)
Peace indeed. On earth -- especially some parts of the earth which needs a good dose of peace. Goodwill to all -- especially to those who are approaching Christmas with the taste of dry ashes in their mouth. or knots in their stomach
May hope be our gift. Hope being what writer Jim Wallis describes as "believing in spite of the evidence, and then watching the evidence change."
As you gather at the creche -- at church or in your mind's eye, may you drink from that divine well of peace and hope. And allow yourself to be changed. May that be your gift.
Merry Christmas.
Peace indeed. On earth -- especially some parts of the earth which needs a good dose of peace. Goodwill to all -- especially to those who are approaching Christmas with the taste of dry ashes in their mouth. or knots in their stomach
May hope be our gift. Hope being what writer Jim Wallis describes as "believing in spite of the evidence, and then watching the evidence change."
As you gather at the creche -- at church or in your mind's eye, may you drink from that divine well of peace and hope. And allow yourself to be changed. May that be your gift.
Merry Christmas.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Put on the armor of God
One of our longest hymns is St. Patrick's breastplate, which begins "I bind unto myself today...."
It is often sung at ordinations. It is seven verses long. It is a variation of an ancient Celtic practice of getting dressed in Christ. As people put on whatever they were going to wear that day, they were intentional of adorning themselves with the presence of Christ. It is an ancient practice worth preserving
The hymn derives from the Celts -- and I suspect they got it from Paul: "Put on the whole armor of God." (Ephesians 6:11) This is not preparation for war, but is an admonition to be prepared for the struggle "against the rules, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places." (6:12)
It's a tough world out there, and we had better be ready. Fasten the belt of truth, put on the breastplate of righteousness, put on your feet whatever you need to proclaim the gospel of peace. Take the shield of faith, take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God (6: 14-17)
Get dressed. Be ready. The world needs our witness -- to grace, to hope, to peace -- to Christ's glory.
It is often sung at ordinations. It is seven verses long. It is a variation of an ancient Celtic practice of getting dressed in Christ. As people put on whatever they were going to wear that day, they were intentional of adorning themselves with the presence of Christ. It is an ancient practice worth preserving
The hymn derives from the Celts -- and I suspect they got it from Paul: "Put on the whole armor of God." (Ephesians 6:11) This is not preparation for war, but is an admonition to be prepared for the struggle "against the rules, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places." (6:12)
It's a tough world out there, and we had better be ready. Fasten the belt of truth, put on the breastplate of righteousness, put on your feet whatever you need to proclaim the gospel of peace. Take the shield of faith, take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God (6: 14-17)
Get dressed. Be ready. The world needs our witness -- to grace, to hope, to peace -- to Christ's glory.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Truth telling
Paul challenges us to challenge the principalities and powers. It requires truth telling -- which can be difficult at times -- and demands profound personal discipline: "Take no part in the unfruitful works of darkness, but instead expose them." (Ephesians 5:11)
In my lifetime, Martin Luther King stands out as the most eloquent and abiding truth teller -- exposer of darkness:
"We who engage in nonviolent direct action are not the creators of tension. We merely bring to the surface the hidden tension that is already alive. We bring it out in the open where it can be seen and dealt with...Injustice must likewise be exposed...to the light of human conscience and the air of national opinion before it can be cured." (Letter from a Birmingham Jail)
And then we get to the household code (Ephesians 5:21-6:9). It grates on the ears and seems to undermine everything else that Paul has said in his letter. At first reading, the household code seems to be proof text for wives to be subordinate to husbands, children to parents and slaves to masters. It seems to hold up social inequality as a cultural norm.
But -- and this is the key, "be subject to one another out of reverence for Christ." There is an emphasis on mutuality here. It undermines the hierarchy of the time, a hierarchy which engenders injustice. Paul addresses both parties in the three household relationships -- husbands/wives, children/parents, slaves/masters -- and admonishes them to be respectful of each other. Secular codes couldn't -- and wouldn't, do this. They were only addressed to the paterfamilias. Subordinates in the family system were deemed not worthy of ethical instruction.
Paul is leveling the family playing field. Some would say he could have done a better job. And he does -- at the end" ...for you know that both of you have the same Master in heaven, and with him there is no partiality."
Paul is exposing the injustice of wives, children and slaves having no voice -- and no value. There needs to be mutuality -- and relationships need to be gathered around -- and abide in, the living Christ.
In my lifetime, Martin Luther King stands out as the most eloquent and abiding truth teller -- exposer of darkness:
"We who engage in nonviolent direct action are not the creators of tension. We merely bring to the surface the hidden tension that is already alive. We bring it out in the open where it can be seen and dealt with...Injustice must likewise be exposed...to the light of human conscience and the air of national opinion before it can be cured." (Letter from a Birmingham Jail)
And then we get to the household code (Ephesians 5:21-6:9). It grates on the ears and seems to undermine everything else that Paul has said in his letter. At first reading, the household code seems to be proof text for wives to be subordinate to husbands, children to parents and slaves to masters. It seems to hold up social inequality as a cultural norm.
But -- and this is the key, "be subject to one another out of reverence for Christ." There is an emphasis on mutuality here. It undermines the hierarchy of the time, a hierarchy which engenders injustice. Paul addresses both parties in the three household relationships -- husbands/wives, children/parents, slaves/masters -- and admonishes them to be respectful of each other. Secular codes couldn't -- and wouldn't, do this. They were only addressed to the paterfamilias. Subordinates in the family system were deemed not worthy of ethical instruction.
Paul is leveling the family playing field. Some would say he could have done a better job. And he does -- at the end" ...for you know that both of you have the same Master in heaven, and with him there is no partiality."
Paul is exposing the injustice of wives, children and slaves having no voice -- and no value. There needs to be mutuality -- and relationships need to be gathered around -- and abide in, the living Christ.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Call to nonviolence
"Be angry but do not sin." (Ephesians 4:26) This is Paul's clarion call for nonviolence.
There is a lot to be angry about. Exploitation, oppression; those of high degree taking advantage over those of low or no degree. Paul's 4th and 5th chapter represent a virtual cathechism for how to live nonviolently in a violent world.
"Do not let the sun go down on your anger" (4:26). Violence -- be it physical violence or verbal violence -- often springs from anger that won't go away. Let it go, Paul admonishes us.
Several years ago, Ernesto Cortez, a community organizer for the Industrial Areas Foundation, wrote a book called Cold Anger. A second generation Mexican-American, Ernesto received a MacArthur Genius Fellowship for his work. Keeping his anger cold, so he could have an ongoing impact. Maintaining discipline and direction in the face of discrimination -- which he received regularly as a Latino growing up in Texas.
"Take up the armor of God." (6:13) Not to go to war -- but to engage in the practice of nonviolence.
There is a lot to be angry about. Exploitation, oppression; those of high degree taking advantage over those of low or no degree. Paul's 4th and 5th chapter represent a virtual cathechism for how to live nonviolently in a violent world.
"Do not let the sun go down on your anger" (4:26). Violence -- be it physical violence or verbal violence -- often springs from anger that won't go away. Let it go, Paul admonishes us.
Several years ago, Ernesto Cortez, a community organizer for the Industrial Areas Foundation, wrote a book called Cold Anger. A second generation Mexican-American, Ernesto received a MacArthur Genius Fellowship for his work. Keeping his anger cold, so he could have an ongoing impact. Maintaining discipline and direction in the face of discrimination -- which he received regularly as a Latino growing up in Texas.
"Take up the armor of God." (6:13) Not to go to war -- but to engage in the practice of nonviolence.
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