This is another entry from my sermon files. This one was delivered at the Memorial Service of my grandfather, Kenneth Jackson Silberberg: affectionately referred to as "Papa," who entered the Lord's presence on October 1, 2006. He enjoyed drinking Scotch, hence the sermon title, but you ought to know that my Grandmother ("Granny") strongly disapproved of it at the time:
"Papa would have loved it, Gran"
"But he's not going to be there!"
"Okay Granny. I'll take it out."
So - the title didn't make it into the program, but it stayed on my preaching copy, and I know that it fit with Papa's very dry sense of humor; much like his scotch. I still miss him, as I know my entire family does.
*****
Our reading from the Hebrew Bible comes from the 23rd Psalm, out of the King James version. Hear the Word of the Lord.
1The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.
2He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
he leadeth me beside the still waters.
3He restoreth my soul:
he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
4Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil:
for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
5Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
6Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.
(Let us pray)
Bless us, Oh God, with a reverent sense of your presence,
that we may be at peace.
And Grant that the Word you speak this day
may take root in our hearts,
and bear fruit to your honor and glory,
for the sake of Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.
My mom called to deliver the news I’d known would be coming – and she mentioned that it happened rather quickly, in the sense that one moment Papa was breathing and then – he wasn’t. When it comes right down to it – that really is the distance between that place and this one. You’re here, and then you’re not.
We’re told that while we have these times with each other we ought to enjoy them. And I think it’s fair to say, looking over it, that Papa was a man who in addition to having a life filled with years – was certainly a man who had years full of life.
My memories of Papa usually involve other family members – you see, holidays are a big deal in our family. Thanksgiving and Christmas especially, but then in early Spring we’d get together for the birthdays of Anne, Marshall, Meghan, Sally, and George. We’d usually combine Father’s Day with Papa’s birthday in June, and on the 4th of July we’d be at Lacy Park to watch fireworks. In the fall we would celebrate Ryan, me, Granny and for the past twelve years my brother-in-law Duane’s birthdays.
Then we’d be back at Thanksgiving and Christmas – combining Christmas with Scott’s and Linda’s birthdays – much to their chagrin - and starting the whole calendar over again. Really – I’m not sure we were all that concerned about celebrating the big events as much as we just wanted to get together – in fact, I’m not convinced that it’s the holidays that are such a big deal in our family as much that it’s family that’s a big deal in our family. At any rate, at every season in life we were together – and at the head of everything was Papa.
I learned from him about all the things you’re supposed to learn from your grandfather. I learned about fishing, golf, cigars and the joy of a very-old scotch opened up with just a splash of water. These are also the things Presbyterians love talking about from Methodist Pulpits – and I think he would get a kick out of hearing me speak of them.
When I was younger, I’d go to Granny and Papa’s house with my parents, and he would bring me into his dark room as he was developing film, usually after he and Granny had come home from one of their trips. He’d have taken hundreds of pictures – in the days before digital cameras when taking pictures involved actual film and actual talent and actual surprise when you got home and saw the pictures for the first time. As he developed the film he’d tell me about what they did and where they’d been – a lot like a slide show, but with chemicals, darkness, and strange smells from bottles and trays… it had a bit of mad-scientist flair to it, and it was pretty cool. Papa knew how to entertain us when we were small, educate us as we grew, and encourage us as adults – it’s like he always knew what we needed, and was always there.
He was injured during the War, as we know, which brought him home, but didn’t bring him down. He had a stroke in the 80’s which gave him pause – a bit - and then cancers of assorted varieties that tried to get him – but didn’t. And after a while, even though he was moving slower, it just seemed like nothing would ever stop him.
Which, of course, made it so strange a few years ago when he started to stop. And if it seemed strange to us, it was doubly strange for him. Not that he’d admit it, of course: he bore the weight of his failing body with the same dogged determination that drove him across the dunes of Iwo Jima. And you got the sense he wasn’t ready – he wasn’t done – there were things he still wanted to do; that he loved life, he loved his family and he wanted more of both.
I was thinking about this last week, and was reminded of a work by the poet Dylan Thomas:
“DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT”
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Papa looked at me on Father’s Day, and from a pair of tired eyes said simply, “it’s no fun getting old,” and I think he knew somewhere deep down that what had previously held him up was now giving way. I think the great tragedy of his passing is the obvious one – that it wasn’t so much that Papa stopped, but that his body, tired with its long raging, and spent from a life of not going gently – finally went, finally left.
Someone named John Calvin once said that “True and solid Wisdom, consists… of two parts: the knowledge of God and of ourselves.” Knowing ourselves reminds us of our limitations – our mortality. Knowing God reminds us of hope, and our eternal destination.
It’s situations like this when we are reminded that we are human, and God is not. When, echoing the sentiments of David who wrote the 23rd Psalm a better part of 3,000 years ago, we come back to knowing that we are but sheep in a pasture, and the Lord is our shepherd.
On the subject of sheep, I was reminded of my time in Ireland a few years ago. I decided I wanted to have my picture taken with some real Irish sheep, and as my friends and I were looking at some ruins in a field, there were sheep about 50 yards away; so I wandered over to say hello.
About 49 yards out, they saw me coming and wandered away. I started walking a little faster, and so did they. I saw that this was not going to go well, so naturally I did what any mature adult would do in the middle of an Irish pasture. I started chasing sheep.
Now sheep aren’t too bright, but they know who they belong to, and I was not that person. I was not their master, they did not know my voice. It probably also didn’t help that I was wearing an overcoat made of black wool, and that probably made them very nervous on a whole other level. But they have one defense mechanism – and it is housed entirely in their feet. A sheep in danger runs away.
But with a shepherd, there is nothing they lack. He has a rod to protect them, and a staff to guide them. There is food, drink, rest, and life. A sheep without a shepherd is a sheep in trouble. A sheep who wanders alone is not going to make it very far.
Halfway through his Psalm David shifts perspective from 3rd person to 2nd – from talking about the Lord to talking to the Lord. We move from the imagery of a sheep to that of a refugee. We know from the story of David’s life that he experienced both worlds – he started out in the fields as a shepherd, and then he killed Goliath and achieved notoriety to make the current King Saul jealous. Saul, of course, decided that if he couldn’t be more popular than David, he could at the very least have him killed – so David went into hiding.
And it’s from this life – begun in the fields guiding and protecting sheep, and running from powerful figures bringing death in their wake, that David writes this metaphor of dependence on God – recognizing who we are, and who we are not.
Scripture tells us – not just here – but everywhere from beginning to end, that God is our provider, supplier, guide, guardian – through darkness, beside stillness, in the presence of evil, that he restores our soul and overfills our cup….
On the night he was betrayed Jesus told his disciples, “I go to prepare a place for you” and as the Good Shepherd Jesus pointed into eternity he indicated – that’s where this all ends up, and that’s what this is all about. By the next evening Jesus had been killed, and three days after that he rose from the grave on that first Easter morning to break open the reality that eternity is our destination, and by faith in Him through his gracious, unconditional gift we will live in the house of the Lord forever.
And not because we’ve done anything special, or behaved appropriately – Lord knows it’s not because we behaved appropriately – but it’s because God’s goodness and mercy pursue us all the days of our lives – this shepherd does not lose track of his sheep. We will dwell there forever because he chose us, and by his grace we know that when our time in the pasture is through, we’ll go home to our place that Jesus has been preparing for us.
The sheep in Ireland knew I was not their shepherd, and they ran away, probably looking for him. If we are sheep – in God’s big pasture – it raises a question… can you tell the difference between the Lord as your shepherd, and something else? And – if you are on your own, or relying on something else – how’s that working out for you?
If you’ve felt something pulling at your heart, I wonder whether it might be a shepherd’s staff giving you a nudge. And if it is – my fellow sheep – maybe it’s time to let the shepherd take the lead, and stop trying to go it alone.
The great writer Henry Van Dyke, reflecting on the meaning of death and immortality, writes: “I am standing on the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength, and I stand and watch until at last she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come down to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says, “there she goes!”
“Gone where?” Gone from my sight – that is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and span as she was when she left my sight and just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of destination. Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says, “There she goes!” there are other eyes – watching her coming and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, “Here she comes! Here she comes!” on the other shore.
After a long, full life Papa has gone home – and as we say to ourselves, “there he goes,” we know that somewhere on the other side a great chorus is ringing “here he comes!” “Here he comes!” Would that we all recognize the Lord as our shepherd, and that we all shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Amen.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Unwitting Prophecy
As you'll see from the post below, I found a sermon hiding in a box at my parents' house. It had been in storage, like so many other things, since I moved back to Los Angeles from Atlanta back in 2003. The truly strange thing about this sermon, though, is that I completely forgot I had written it.
When I found it, the pages were in reverse order (which made for an interesting first read), that means I had not touched the manuscript since I preached it. I put it away, and didn't look back.
What's stranger? I preached this sermon exactly 7 years ago today.
Let me tell you: re-reading it was so good for me, especially in light of how my time in Atlanta came to an end. Seven years can do a lot to a man, but it can't do much to truth preached from God's Word.
I can't tell you how many times in that transition I was crying with my whole heart, "Save me, O God, by your name" - the opening line of the Psalm text for this sermon. If only I had read this while I was packing my apartment, while I was crying on the floor of my bedroom, my kitchen, my friend's house... when the whole world seemed exhausting, and every day was a new breath of failure and darkness. It wouldn't have made anything better, but I know it would have spoken to me in pretty powerful ways.
Give it a read: pass it to a friend if you like.
Sola Deo Gratia - to God alone be the Glory.
When I found it, the pages were in reverse order (which made for an interesting first read), that means I had not touched the manuscript since I preached it. I put it away, and didn't look back.
What's stranger? I preached this sermon exactly 7 years ago today.
Let me tell you: re-reading it was so good for me, especially in light of how my time in Atlanta came to an end. Seven years can do a lot to a man, but it can't do much to truth preached from God's Word.
I can't tell you how many times in that transition I was crying with my whole heart, "Save me, O God, by your name" - the opening line of the Psalm text for this sermon. If only I had read this while I was packing my apartment, while I was crying on the floor of my bedroom, my kitchen, my friend's house... when the whole world seemed exhausting, and every day was a new breath of failure and darkness. It wouldn't have made anything better, but I know it would have spoken to me in pretty powerful ways.
Give it a read: pass it to a friend if you like.
Sola Deo Gratia - to God alone be the Glory.
Don't Let the Ziphites Get You Down!
Let us Pray:
To the Leader with Stringed Instruments.
[Selah]
But - surely, God is my helper, the Lord is the upholder of my life.
*****
"Humble yourselves, therefore under the mighty hand of God, so that he may exalt you in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you."
This is the Word of the Lord
*****
How were you taught to pray? Were you in a group, or by yourself?
If you’re like me, you learned to pray as a young child while there were people around you. You might have sat very still in worship next to your parent or grandparent - with your head bowed, eyes closed, and hands folded.
Peeking during prayer was about the most scandalous thing you could think of.
You might have learned in this time - as I did - that prayer needed to be proper. Wise; Collected; Splendid even. Very... grown-up. Impressive, sophisticated, detached.
But maybe you didn't learn to pray in a group. Maybe you learned to pray - I mean really pray - when you were by yourself: when you were suddenly without work; when your child was in the hospital, or you couldn't shake the haunting feeling that you were completely alone in the world, and no one understood your pain.
When words in prayer were all the words you had left.
You can here it in our text, can't you?
"Save me, O God, by your name!"
Our prayers become simpler, don't they, when our overriding emotion is just pure fear...
Tradition holds that these were the words of David.
His father-in-law, King Saul, is trying to kill him - has, actually, tried to kill him three times already, and failed.
For the second time, David has brought freedom to a group of people by kicking out the Philistines among them, and for the second time is thanked... with betrayal.
So here he is in the wilderness, fleeing for his life - again - and there's nothing standing between him and certain destruction other than the faithfulness of the Lord.
So out of his mouth spills the most simple of prayers:
"Save me, O God, by your name!"
Now, truth be told, we don't know that this was the exact prayer David used when the Ziphites ran off and told Saul about their guest.
The ascription to David at this specific time, like all the Psalmic ascriptions, was added later by a Hebrew scholar. The goal of the ascription was simply to give context to the emotion - the raw feeling - behind the songs. They tell us what might have been going on when the Psalm was written - so that we know who we might be when we come before the Lord.
So - when we're there in the wilderness with David: when the heat of the sun is pounding on our backs as we stumble through the sand, when we're sticky with perspiration, desperate with fear... not only can we hear the voice of David on the run, but we hear the voice of our own hearts.
What we find in this Psalm is a prayer that is at the same time both brutally honest and completely faithful. It holds nothing back - the entire situation is laid out before the Lord: every fear and uncertainty is there, every secret wish is exposed. At the same time, it clings desperately to God - resolution will come not from any human efforts, but only from the Lord whose faithfulness and mercy are never ending.
I think our most extraordinary prayers - the ones we remember - our most intimate prayers - the ones that are most special - are those we pray by ourselves; when they rise, almost by themselves, from the deepest parts of our need, when we have nothing left to cry except,
"Save me, O God, by your name!"
and there is no one by the Lord to listen. When we are, at our very least, most honest with God.
These solitary prayers of grief or fear are some of the most profound gifts of faith we can ever lay at the throne of God.
We are never more vulnerable, more naked, more completely exposed than when we are alone in prayer before the Lord. We are never more faithful than when we pair the urgency of our need with our complete reliance on God.
I think, in some ways, these are our best prayers, because they tell us who we are.
When we can answer "Save me, O God, by your name!" with, "Surely God is my helper," we reveal ourselves as fundamentally God's.
When we find ourselves at our wit's end, and find God there waiting to take up our slack.
It is total honesty met with total faith.
"Surely God is my helper; the Lord is the upholder of my life"
You can imagine, I'm sure, the tear-stained face of a downtrodden soul, rising from the floor of the temple in reflection on this phrase, and those former tears of desperation feeding new seeds of resolve.
In 1st Peter, the writer makes very elegant use of the themes in this Psalm when he says, "Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you."
He knows this Psalm: We can be free to approach the throne of God with all of ourselves, just as we are, and give all our anxieties, suffering, terror, and trial to the God who became human. God is not afraid of our troubles - even if we are - the proof is that he cares for us with his very self, in the body of his only son.
I remember the events in my life that have taught me how to pray - that have taken me to my wit's end, and had me using the words of the Psalmist. But I was never really in doubt, I suppose, because when I was at the end of my rope, I still went back to the Lord - and God was still there.
But I'm sure that you, as well, can remember those events that have stretched your faith - simplified your prayer life - crafted a new honesty with the Lord, taught you how to pray... maybe that's where you are right now.
The good news of the Gospel is that God's mercy extends far beyond all the imaginations of humanity, and far beyond even our most tragic disasters. Sometimes hat we have is a reluctant faith - a faith which is afraid - but is still faith, nonetheless.
In faith, we make our daily prayers to God, we worship and serve the Lord, claiming his unending faithfulness. In faith, we boldly declare that we will be delivered from present distress and ultimately be delivered from whatever force is causing us pain.
We do these things because we know God cares for us more than we can ever imagine. We do these things because in Christ, our suffering is known, and through the power of the Holy Spirit, we are being completed in Christ's image.
So, really knowing how to pray is being able to take all of ourselves to the throne of God and be authentically us, in all of our tantrums, fits, frustrations and fears, and "cast all our anxiety on him, because he cares for us."
More than we can possible imagine. And deliver our total honesty with total faith.
In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Amen.
Guide us, O God,
by your Word and Spirit,
That in your light we may see light,
In your truth find freedom,
and in your will discover your peace;
Through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.
Our first reading is of Psalm 54, described in its ascription as follows:
Our first reading is of Psalm 54, described in its ascription as follows:
A Maskil of David, when the Ziphites went and told Saul, "David is in hiding among us."
And our second reading will be 1st Peter 5:6-7
Hear the Word of the Lord
And our second reading will be 1st Peter 5:6-7
Hear the Word of the Lord
"Save me, O God, by your name, and vindicate me in your might!
Hear my prayer, O God; give ear to the words of my mouth.
For the insolent have risen against me,
the ruthless seek my life;
They do not set God before them.
[Selah]
But - surely, God is my helper, the Lord is the upholder of my life.
He will repay my enemies for their evil.
In your faithfulness, put an end to them.
With a freewill offering I will sacrifice to you;
I will give thanks to your name, O Lord, for it is good.
For he has delivered me from every trouble,
and my eye has looked in triumph on my enemies."
*****
"Humble yourselves, therefore under the mighty hand of God, so that he may exalt you in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you."
This is the Word of the Lord
(Thanks be to God)
*****
How were you taught to pray? Were you in a group, or by yourself?
If you’re like me, you learned to pray as a young child while there were people around you. You might have sat very still in worship next to your parent or grandparent - with your head bowed, eyes closed, and hands folded.
Peeking during prayer was about the most scandalous thing you could think of.
You might have learned in this time - as I did - that prayer needed to be proper. Wise; Collected; Splendid even. Very... grown-up. Impressive, sophisticated, detached.
But maybe you didn't learn to pray in a group. Maybe you learned to pray - I mean really pray - when you were by yourself: when you were suddenly without work; when your child was in the hospital, or you couldn't shake the haunting feeling that you were completely alone in the world, and no one understood your pain.
When words in prayer were all the words you had left.
You can here it in our text, can't you?
"Save me, O God, by your name!"
Our prayers become simpler, don't they, when our overriding emotion is just pure fear...
Tradition holds that these were the words of David.
His father-in-law, King Saul, is trying to kill him - has, actually, tried to kill him three times already, and failed.
For the second time, David has brought freedom to a group of people by kicking out the Philistines among them, and for the second time is thanked... with betrayal.
So here he is in the wilderness, fleeing for his life - again - and there's nothing standing between him and certain destruction other than the faithfulness of the Lord.
So out of his mouth spills the most simple of prayers:
"Save me, O God, by your name!"
Now, truth be told, we don't know that this was the exact prayer David used when the Ziphites ran off and told Saul about their guest.
The ascription to David at this specific time, like all the Psalmic ascriptions, was added later by a Hebrew scholar. The goal of the ascription was simply to give context to the emotion - the raw feeling - behind the songs. They tell us what might have been going on when the Psalm was written - so that we know who we might be when we come before the Lord.
So - when we're there in the wilderness with David: when the heat of the sun is pounding on our backs as we stumble through the sand, when we're sticky with perspiration, desperate with fear... not only can we hear the voice of David on the run, but we hear the voice of our own hearts.
What we find in this Psalm is a prayer that is at the same time both brutally honest and completely faithful. It holds nothing back - the entire situation is laid out before the Lord: every fear and uncertainty is there, every secret wish is exposed. At the same time, it clings desperately to God - resolution will come not from any human efforts, but only from the Lord whose faithfulness and mercy are never ending.
I think our most extraordinary prayers - the ones we remember - our most intimate prayers - the ones that are most special - are those we pray by ourselves; when they rise, almost by themselves, from the deepest parts of our need, when we have nothing left to cry except,
"Save me, O God, by your name!"
and there is no one by the Lord to listen. When we are, at our very least, most honest with God.
These solitary prayers of grief or fear are some of the most profound gifts of faith we can ever lay at the throne of God.
We are never more vulnerable, more naked, more completely exposed than when we are alone in prayer before the Lord. We are never more faithful than when we pair the urgency of our need with our complete reliance on God.
I think, in some ways, these are our best prayers, because they tell us who we are.
When we can answer "Save me, O God, by your name!" with, "Surely God is my helper," we reveal ourselves as fundamentally God's.
When we find ourselves at our wit's end, and find God there waiting to take up our slack.
It is total honesty met with total faith.
"Surely God is my helper; the Lord is the upholder of my life"
You can imagine, I'm sure, the tear-stained face of a downtrodden soul, rising from the floor of the temple in reflection on this phrase, and those former tears of desperation feeding new seeds of resolve.
In 1st Peter, the writer makes very elegant use of the themes in this Psalm when he says, "Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you."
He knows this Psalm: We can be free to approach the throne of God with all of ourselves, just as we are, and give all our anxieties, suffering, terror, and trial to the God who became human. God is not afraid of our troubles - even if we are - the proof is that he cares for us with his very self, in the body of his only son.
I remember the events in my life that have taught me how to pray - that have taken me to my wit's end, and had me using the words of the Psalmist. But I was never really in doubt, I suppose, because when I was at the end of my rope, I still went back to the Lord - and God was still there.
But I'm sure that you, as well, can remember those events that have stretched your faith - simplified your prayer life - crafted a new honesty with the Lord, taught you how to pray... maybe that's where you are right now.
The good news of the Gospel is that God's mercy extends far beyond all the imaginations of humanity, and far beyond even our most tragic disasters. Sometimes hat we have is a reluctant faith - a faith which is afraid - but is still faith, nonetheless.
In faith, we make our daily prayers to God, we worship and serve the Lord, claiming his unending faithfulness. In faith, we boldly declare that we will be delivered from present distress and ultimately be delivered from whatever force is causing us pain.
We do these things because we know God cares for us more than we can ever imagine. We do these things because in Christ, our suffering is known, and through the power of the Holy Spirit, we are being completed in Christ's image.
So, really knowing how to pray is being able to take all of ourselves to the throne of God and be authentically us, in all of our tantrums, fits, frustrations and fears, and "cast all our anxiety on him, because he cares for us."
More than we can possible imagine. And deliver our total honesty with total faith.
In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Amen.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Unpacking Boxes...
So my mom calls - for probably the 8th time - and says, "when you get the chance, if you could come home and sort through your stuff in the garage..."
What she's referring to is an enormous pile of my boxes and belongings from a move 6 years ago. Long story - to be told in another place (and I'll even link to it from here) - but suffice to say, I moved home to LA, and dropped a ton of boxes at my parents' house.
This past week, I returned some borrowed camping equipment, and as I was standing in my parents' garage, I started "sorting through my stuff." My big decision was to return to Culver City with my books, which, as an English major who also got a Theology degree, you can imagine the stockpile of literature and reference material I amassed over 8 years of higher education.
It's true: I own a small library.
It's weird what you pack, not knowing what you'll need, thinking it's important. Some of my discoveries amazed me:
- A stack of bills - obviously unpaid - neatly piled in a box with stuff from my desk.
- A complete set of audio tapes from Forest Home's college Briefing '97 (I think) - with Brennan Manning speaking. Thank God I drive a 1999 Toyota with a tape deck.
- A journal from college. Oh, the things I wrote about that girl. And the terrible poetry we write in college. I mean - really awful stuff. If you're my friend, someday we'll drink wine and read it and laugh hysterically.
- My copy of Against Forgetting, edited by Carolyn Forche - a wonderful, powerful book of 20th century poetry written in the midst of some of the worst suffering imaginable. I was so afraid I'd lost this book, and so glad to find it again. And - while we're on Carolyn Forche - read her poetry. It's phenomenal.
- 5 years of GQ Magazines. Truly. I packed, and paid to ship, probably 200 pounds of fashion and style advice from 6-10 years ago. Really? Really.
- I own 9 copies of the Bible. 6 versions. Not including my Greek New Testament (hey - where's my Septuagint? Next box...) and Hebrew Testaments (I have 2 of those). If you're buying me a present, for mercy's sake, skip the Bible aisle. Unless it's a version I don't have, in which case it's totally cool.
- I have a copy of every Hymnal the Presbyterian Church has published since 1933. Which means I own 3 Hymnals, including the 1990 doggerel, with that time honored favorite "Earth and All Stars" with the epic line "Loud boiling test tubes... sing to the Lord a new song"
. Why I keep that trash is beyond me; perhaps its so I can write lines like this, and use words like "doggerel." - I didn't know I owned a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. I was so glad to see it - tucked away under MacBeth, Hamlet, Othello, Measure for Measure, and the Tempest (in addition to a host of others). Holden would riot if he knew that's where he lived for 6 years. Part of me is wondering if I packed it that way to be ironic.
It's interesting. Each box has its mystery and discovery and "ooh what's next" quality. It's a bit like Christmas, without the wrapping. Also, I'm finding that my bookshelves are not as vast and limitless as I once thought: my humidor may have to be moved to make room for the stampeding hordes.
One last thing: my bookshelves are wood with glass shelves. I really hope they don't break. And I hope Crate and Barrel still sells them; I might need more.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
I suck at Blogging.
OK kids, Andy has flaws.
I know I know - it came as a shock to me as well. (Although, truthfully it came early. I was 4 years old and discovered that I physically cannot enjoy bleach as a beverage. Who knew?)
But truthfully I wrote that last post, fully intending to make notes along the way about reading Everything Must Change, and frankly, I HATED IT SO MUCH I couldn't bring myself to finish it. I got six chapters in, filling the pages of the book with assorted lines, circles, snarky comments... and just couldn't take the idiocy any more.
And here I am, 5 months later, grudgingly admitting I'm just not going to get to it. Frankly, to give this book the proper dissection and destruction it needs would require the kind of free time I just don't have.
Also (joyously), I discovered a blistering critique of McLaren's work (generally speaking) in the first chapter of Donald Miller's book Searching for God Knows What.
In it, Miller describes a (hopefully fictional) Christian writers' conference in Memphis, and a presentation by a nice southern lady on how to write a successful self-help book. Here's the 4-step formula:
1) Name a crisis. This isn't a problem, or a nuisance, it is a CRISIS. This crisis is life/world/eternity THREATENING, and your reader must FEAR the results of the crisis.
2) Name your enemy in said crisis. This can be a person, a group, a philosophy that has caused the crisis. That cause must be equated with the enemy of all that is good.
3) Describe the ramifications of the crisis, if left unchecked; compare this to the dramatic glory and beauty of the crisis if it is averted. You must describe a WAR against the enemy, and enlist the reader in this war. Your reader must feel they are the "good guy" railing against the forces of evil in this crisis.
4) Finally, detail a 3-to-4 step plan to deal with the crisis.
Now - Miller's point is that life, God, everything, is not so simple as to be summed up in a few neat bullet points. Our relationship with the Living God is a living thing - like any relationship (a marvellously obvious and profound truth). A book like McLaren's not only doesn't get the point of Christ's life on earth, it doesn't even grasp the point of its author's life.
My delight with Miller is that he calls McLaren out on the very exercise in shallow, uncomplicated thinking that is rife in evangelicalism. In the parlance of Volleyball, as McLaren tried to loft a ball over the net, Miller blocked McLaren's shot. More than that - it slammed an Ace right through the center of his court. It was so awesome I just wanted to yell "ROOOOOF!!!" (My apologies for the sports analogy).
McLaren's search for a "framing story" should stop with our identity as God's children. He should recognize two of his "deep dysfunctions" as borrowed from Marx. He should realize that "response called for by Jesus" is not just "hope" - but the actual power of God. Finally, he should recognize the apology he gives for his modes of expression as a page straight out of the Gnostic playbook ("the more passionate language would have been off-putting for uninformed readers (just as the understatement may be off-putting for informed readers, which shows my bias)." In that beauty of a sentence, he "dresses the emperor" (my phrase) to let you know that your qualms are probably just due to ignorance. Suffice to say, the word "nice" was sarcastically scribbled in this margin). These were just notes from the first chapter.
I've been around the block a few times. I met some of the most brilliant theologians and Biblical scholars alive today while I was at Princeton. I make no claims to any original brilliance myself, but I was trained well: know a skunk when I smell one, and Everything Must Change just stinks.
I know I know - it came as a shock to me as well. (Although, truthfully it came early. I was 4 years old and discovered that I physically cannot enjoy bleach as a beverage. Who knew?)
But truthfully I wrote that last post, fully intending to make notes along the way about reading Everything Must Change, and frankly, I HATED IT SO MUCH I couldn't bring myself to finish it. I got six chapters in, filling the pages of the book with assorted lines, circles, snarky comments... and just couldn't take the idiocy any more.
And here I am, 5 months later, grudgingly admitting I'm just not going to get to it. Frankly, to give this book the proper dissection and destruction it needs would require the kind of free time I just don't have.
Also (joyously), I discovered a blistering critique of McLaren's work (generally speaking) in the first chapter of Donald Miller's book Searching for God Knows What.
In it, Miller describes a (hopefully fictional) Christian writers' conference in Memphis, and a presentation by a nice southern lady on how to write a successful self-help book. Here's the 4-step formula:
1) Name a crisis. This isn't a problem, or a nuisance, it is a CRISIS. This crisis is life/world/eternity THREATENING, and your reader must FEAR the results of the crisis.
2) Name your enemy in said crisis. This can be a person, a group, a philosophy that has caused the crisis. That cause must be equated with the enemy of all that is good.
3) Describe the ramifications of the crisis, if left unchecked; compare this to the dramatic glory and beauty of the crisis if it is averted. You must describe a WAR against the enemy, and enlist the reader in this war. Your reader must feel they are the "good guy" railing against the forces of evil in this crisis.
4) Finally, detail a 3-to-4 step plan to deal with the crisis.
Now - Miller's point is that life, God, everything, is not so simple as to be summed up in a few neat bullet points. Our relationship with the Living God is a living thing - like any relationship (a marvellously obvious and profound truth). A book like McLaren's not only doesn't get the point of Christ's life on earth, it doesn't even grasp the point of its author's life.
My delight with Miller is that he calls McLaren out on the very exercise in shallow, uncomplicated thinking that is rife in evangelicalism. In the parlance of Volleyball, as McLaren tried to loft a ball over the net, Miller blocked McLaren's shot. More than that - it slammed an Ace right through the center of his court. It was so awesome I just wanted to yell "ROOOOOF!!!" (My apologies for the sports analogy).
McLaren's search for a "framing story" should stop with our identity as God's children. He should recognize two of his "deep dysfunctions" as borrowed from Marx. He should realize that "response called for by Jesus" is not just "hope" - but the actual power of God. Finally, he should recognize the apology he gives for his modes of expression as a page straight out of the Gnostic playbook ("the more passionate language would have been off-putting for uninformed readers (just as the understatement may be off-putting for informed readers, which shows my bias)." In that beauty of a sentence, he "dresses the emperor" (my phrase) to let you know that your qualms are probably just due to ignorance. Suffice to say, the word "nice" was sarcastically scribbled in this margin). These were just notes from the first chapter.
I've been around the block a few times. I met some of the most brilliant theologians and Biblical scholars alive today while I was at Princeton. I make no claims to any original brilliance myself, but I was trained well: know a skunk when I smell one, and Everything Must Change just stinks.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
The McLaren Project
Well.
I've supported the Emergent Church movement from the outside, as one who heard some of the critiques of American Evangelicalism, and threw a fist in the air with an enthusiastic "hurrah!" when speakers told suburbanites to start serving. For example, my first taste of Donald Miller - reading Blue Like Jazz - was like drinking cool water on a stiflingly hot day. I love that book; I've lost count of the times I've read it. I even inflicted it on my Bible Study.
But.
I'd never read anything by Brian McLaren.
Having graduated from a place like Princeton Seminary, naturally I've been exposed to some alternative theologies. Some of my friends profoundly disagree with me theologically, yet we are dear friends and I love them. Even though they're wrong (teehee!). In my very first church interview, I was asked "how has your theology changed at Princeton?" and I said, "well, if I can be anachronistic," (which one should never be while interviewing with a church) "I think I've realized God is more of a Democrat than I'd have thought before." I could have thrown up on my shoes and not done a better job of ruining my chances for that job.
I was right and wrong that day. God is, in fact, more progressive in many ways than Republicans, but of course, he's also not nearly as indulgent as Democrats (not to mention that the Lord has a flat tax, and it's only 10%... which is freakin awesome). What I should have said that day was "I thought I knew a few things about God before I got here... but God is much bigger than that, and the kingdom of God is in the physical as well as the spiritual realms, and the call of god is to us in our spiritual lives as well as into the physical realm of the earth."
You know - something deeply profound and well thought-out, delivered right off the top of my head. Like you do.
But I've got my brain wrapped around taking the kingdom to the world, pressing for justice, feeding the hungry, clothing the poor, etc. I'm no big fan of the modern American Christian Enterprise (ACE, Inc. let's call it). I think most Christian devotional writers aren't worth they're salt unless they're dead (not to be graphic, but if their popularity outlasts them, you know they're not just the latest ACE, Inc.-sponsored fad).
So bundling all that together, I had heard some very good things about Brian McLaren. Then, I heard some deeply troubling things. I had a spirited conversation with a friend regarding these things, and I knew I needed to read the man for myself.
So - here launcheth The McLaren Project.
Phase 1 - Everything Must Change
I'm going to read and respond to his book, asking questions, and probably questioning his presumptions (you know - like you do). I welcome your suggestions along the way, and any of your own observations if you've read McLaren yourselves. It should be interesting, and I look forward to sharing the journey with all of you.
I've supported the Emergent Church movement from the outside, as one who heard some of the critiques of American Evangelicalism, and threw a fist in the air with an enthusiastic "hurrah!" when speakers told suburbanites to start serving. For example, my first taste of Donald Miller - reading Blue Like Jazz - was like drinking cool water on a stiflingly hot day. I love that book; I've lost count of the times I've read it. I even inflicted it on my Bible Study.
But.
I'd never read anything by Brian McLaren.
Having graduated from a place like Princeton Seminary, naturally I've been exposed to some alternative theologies. Some of my friends profoundly disagree with me theologically, yet we are dear friends and I love them. Even though they're wrong (teehee!). In my very first church interview, I was asked "how has your theology changed at Princeton?" and I said, "well, if I can be anachronistic," (which one should never be while interviewing with a church) "I think I've realized God is more of a Democrat than I'd have thought before." I could have thrown up on my shoes and not done a better job of ruining my chances for that job.
I was right and wrong that day. God is, in fact, more progressive in many ways than Republicans, but of course, he's also not nearly as indulgent as Democrats (not to mention that the Lord has a flat tax, and it's only 10%... which is freakin awesome). What I should have said that day was "I thought I knew a few things about God before I got here... but God is much bigger than that, and the kingdom of God is in the physical as well as the spiritual realms, and the call of god is to us in our spiritual lives as well as into the physical realm of the earth."
You know - something deeply profound and well thought-out, delivered right off the top of my head. Like you do.
But I've got my brain wrapped around taking the kingdom to the world, pressing for justice, feeding the hungry, clothing the poor, etc. I'm no big fan of the modern American Christian Enterprise (ACE, Inc. let's call it). I think most Christian devotional writers aren't worth they're salt unless they're dead (not to be graphic, but if their popularity outlasts them, you know they're not just the latest ACE, Inc.-sponsored fad).
So bundling all that together, I had heard some very good things about Brian McLaren. Then, I heard some deeply troubling things. I had a spirited conversation with a friend regarding these things, and I knew I needed to read the man for myself.
So - here launcheth The McLaren Project.
Phase 1 - Everything Must Change
I'm going to read and respond to his book, asking questions, and probably questioning his presumptions (you know - like you do). I welcome your suggestions along the way, and any of your own observations if you've read McLaren yourselves. It should be interesting, and I look forward to sharing the journey with all of you.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
The Importance of Craziness, part 2
Artistry, it seems, is bound up in experience. It is experience, of a sort. My experience, the artist's experience, my experience of the srtist's work, and the experience of place and time - bound together in our mutual experiences of each other (both myself and the artist, and myself with their work).
But the question I raised a couple weeks ago, to what extent have we medicated away some of our finest artists? To what extent do we fear experiences of angst, depression, or mania, such that we pour pharmaceuticals down our throats and thus make everything "okay."
I considered this again with respect to Virginia Woolf. While gifted in remarkable ways, she was also (by most accounts) manic-depressive. She wrote powerfully moving things, and then one day put rocks in her pockets and walked into the river.
Probably if we'd had her on Xanax, Zoloft, Prozac, or something equally stunning, she'd be "just fine." But I doubt she'd be interesting. Or worth reading.
I find that I wonder about these things when I consider all our great artists who have been tortured and gifted... folks like Vincent VanGogh, Auguste Rodin... the list goes on. I wonder sometimes, if they lived in the modern age, whether they would contribute the same gifts to our common benefit, or would they just settle down and become Business Consultants at Deloitte?
I also wonder about this when I'm going through one of my depressive phases. You know - when the biochemistry dips a little, from lack of sunshine, or a crappy week of work, or the besetting of various traumas... and I wake up thinking, "just a few more days of sleep, and I"ll be fine. When a trip to the grocery store is a mammoth undertaking, and I have to plan all day in order to go to the driving range...
If I was on medication, I'd be "just fine." But owuld I cease to be Andy? Is our identity tied up in our experience of who we are, along with others' experiences of us... and along the way - does this make us a piece of art all to ourselves?
Scripturally, we are described as God's artistry - we are the experience of his creation, and we experience God's handiwork as we experience ourselves and know ourselves better. Along the way, then, it seems reasonable to suggest that if we are altering who we are in the application of self-altering medication, we cease to become who we are meant to be.
Of course, the big caveat her is the question of betterment: do we become more, or less of who we are because of the medication? Probably this is an answer that can only be answered by the individual in consultation with their physician, but the book Listening to Prozac offers an intriguing look into the psychology of psychiatric medication.
For myself, I refuse the application of medication because I don't find my moments of depresison all that stifling. (Plus - the ability to know I'm depressed excites my competitive nature, and I defiantly shout down the depression, and refuse to be subdued by it. Plus - I have rules against calling in sick simply because I'm tired.) But I deeply respect the needs of others who have to have the medicine in order to function.
I just hope we haven't lost any artists along the way, or that the voices of prophets aren't being drowned in pharmaceuticals.
But the question I raised a couple weeks ago, to what extent have we medicated away some of our finest artists? To what extent do we fear experiences of angst, depression, or mania, such that we pour pharmaceuticals down our throats and thus make everything "okay."
I considered this again with respect to Virginia Woolf. While gifted in remarkable ways, she was also (by most accounts) manic-depressive. She wrote powerfully moving things, and then one day put rocks in her pockets and walked into the river.
Probably if we'd had her on Xanax, Zoloft, Prozac, or something equally stunning, she'd be "just fine." But I doubt she'd be interesting. Or worth reading.
I find that I wonder about these things when I consider all our great artists who have been tortured and gifted... folks like Vincent VanGogh, Auguste Rodin... the list goes on. I wonder sometimes, if they lived in the modern age, whether they would contribute the same gifts to our common benefit, or would they just settle down and become Business Consultants at Deloitte?
I also wonder about this when I'm going through one of my depressive phases. You know - when the biochemistry dips a little, from lack of sunshine, or a crappy week of work, or the besetting of various traumas... and I wake up thinking, "just a few more days of sleep, and I"ll be fine. When a trip to the grocery store is a mammoth undertaking, and I have to plan all day in order to go to the driving range...
If I was on medication, I'd be "just fine." But owuld I cease to be Andy? Is our identity tied up in our experience of who we are, along with others' experiences of us... and along the way - does this make us a piece of art all to ourselves?
Scripturally, we are described as God's artistry - we are the experience of his creation, and we experience God's handiwork as we experience ourselves and know ourselves better. Along the way, then, it seems reasonable to suggest that if we are altering who we are in the application of self-altering medication, we cease to become who we are meant to be.
Of course, the big caveat her is the question of betterment: do we become more, or less of who we are because of the medication? Probably this is an answer that can only be answered by the individual in consultation with their physician, but the book Listening to Prozac offers an intriguing look into the psychology of psychiatric medication.
For myself, I refuse the application of medication because I don't find my moments of depresison all that stifling. (Plus - the ability to know I'm depressed excites my competitive nature, and I defiantly shout down the depression, and refuse to be subdued by it. Plus - I have rules against calling in sick simply because I'm tired.) But I deeply respect the needs of others who have to have the medicine in order to function.
I just hope we haven't lost any artists along the way, or that the voices of prophets aren't being drowned in pharmaceuticals.
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