I believe Jesus confronted the deep social, political, and theological illness of his society. This illness isolated and excluded those who were sick, different, and foreign. This illness created segregated poolside communities, dumping grounds for the tainted, Bantustans for the disabled... Jesus spent his life shooting holes in the philosophical and theological rationale that under-girded such segregation. He sought to bring the powerless to the powerful in order to question the nature and distribution of power. He sought to bring the labellers of illness to those so labelled in order that labels were lifted from the backs of the excluded. Jesus physically challenged and confronted the system of oppression.
Those who believe Jesus was a faith-healer who cured people’s disability have a problem. They have to believe that God physically intervenes to cure some and not others. This belief, however, apart from being irrational and immoral does not critique society at all. The disability is the man’s problem, not the society’s. The cure is fixing the man, not society. ‘There is nothing wrong with society,’ say the advocates of Jesus the faith-healer, ‘What is wrong is the man’s disability’. They paint Jesus as a healer of individuals, not a revolutionary out to change the world. He’s safer that way.
Jesus’ challenge to the lepers and disabled he met was to walk into confrontation. Following him wasn’t going to be all nice, safe, and predictable. It was going to be awkward, hard, and scary. Instead of sitting safe amongst the excluded waiting for some Benny Hinn, Jesus asked them to get up, and hobble along with Jesus into the so-called clean and able community and to challenge their prejudice. They weren’t going to be welcomed there. Sure they might find a few allies but generally they were going to be labelled anarchists, parasites, and told to go far away.
5/22/2007
5/17/2007
Did Jesus Heal?
Medical anthropology distinguishes between a disease and an illness. A disease is between me, my doctor, and a bug.[i] Illness is between me, my family, neighbours and society. Disease refers to the physical effects; illness refers to the social effects. AIDS then, for example, is both a disease - a bug affecting the individual, and an illness - how society relates to that individual.
Jesus healed illness by refusing to accept the ritual uncleanness and social rejection that accompanied disease in his time and culture. He forced others to either reject him from society or to include the diseased within it as well. He aligned himself with the outsiders in order to challenge the whole power structure of insider/outsider relationships.
I don’t believe that God endows particular people with the ability to go around laying their hands on those who are sick, disabled, and terminally ill, in order to instantaneously and supernaturally heal them. I don’t think that Jesus supernaturally healed diseases.
However, I do think there are people who by nature are therapeutic, and Jesus was one of them. I also think there is a lot about medicine we still don’t know and so-called alternative medicine should not be dismissed out of hand. Further, I think that prayer is often helpful and can affect both physical and social healing. There is still a lot of unknowns and mystery around healing.
On the other hand I am aware that people who are sick, and their families, are very vulnerable to charlatans and religious quackery. I am very sceptical about the antics of religious faith-healers, like Benny Hinn who has a billboard down the street. They invariably fail to answer why some are healed and some are not, and why some experience so-called ‘healing’ at the time and then regress shortly afterwards. If we believe that God is love, consistently wants the best for us, and can suspend the natural laws of the universe to effect that, then one needs to ask why some of the most loving and saintly people never heal and continue to suffer, and why some of the worst rogues seem to get a miraculous reprieve.
Benny of course, like many infamous faith-healers believes that God requires that he live as opulently as possible, including having a $49 million jet.[ii]
[i] Crossan, J. D. Jesus: A Revolutionary Biography, San Francisco : Harper, 1989, p.81
[ii] For further reading exposing Benny Hinn’s teachings search http://www.deceptioninthechurch.com/bhinn.html
Jesus healed illness by refusing to accept the ritual uncleanness and social rejection that accompanied disease in his time and culture. He forced others to either reject him from society or to include the diseased within it as well. He aligned himself with the outsiders in order to challenge the whole power structure of insider/outsider relationships.
I don’t believe that God endows particular people with the ability to go around laying their hands on those who are sick, disabled, and terminally ill, in order to instantaneously and supernaturally heal them. I don’t think that Jesus supernaturally healed diseases.
However, I do think there are people who by nature are therapeutic, and Jesus was one of them. I also think there is a lot about medicine we still don’t know and so-called alternative medicine should not be dismissed out of hand. Further, I think that prayer is often helpful and can affect both physical and social healing. There is still a lot of unknowns and mystery around healing.
On the other hand I am aware that people who are sick, and their families, are very vulnerable to charlatans and religious quackery. I am very sceptical about the antics of religious faith-healers, like Benny Hinn who has a billboard down the street. They invariably fail to answer why some are healed and some are not, and why some experience so-called ‘healing’ at the time and then regress shortly afterwards. If we believe that God is love, consistently wants the best for us, and can suspend the natural laws of the universe to effect that, then one needs to ask why some of the most loving and saintly people never heal and continue to suffer, and why some of the worst rogues seem to get a miraculous reprieve.
Benny of course, like many infamous faith-healers believes that God requires that he live as opulently as possible, including having a $49 million jet.[ii]
[i] Crossan, J. D. Jesus: A Revolutionary Biography, San Francisco : Harper, 1989, p.81
[ii] For further reading exposing Benny Hinn’s teachings search http://www.deceptioninthechurch.com/bhinn.html
5/11/2007
The Great Easter Deception
Like in the parable of the fire-maker, the first post-resurrection Christians found the liberating spirit of Jesus wonderful, enlightening, and world changing. However, in time, other Christians, especially some in positions of power, found it frightening. They wanted to restrain and control the Jesus spirit. They were anxious that people would take courage, turn the world upside down, and thus upset the way things are. They were anxious that their power would be reduced.
So what some leaders did was take the metaphorical language about sacrifice [that had been around awhile] and applied it definitively to the Easter stories. They turned Jesus’ death into a once-for-all blood sacrifice to cleanse us of our alleged sin. Instead of the forces of injustice killing Jesus all of us so-called sinners were responsible. His death was de-politicized. If it weren’t for our sin, so the story was re-told, he wouldn’t have had to die.
Jesus was now no longer the confrontational revolutionary prophet but a self-sacrificing lamb. Good Friday was not the Romans killing off a pestilent rebel but the assisted suicide of the forgiving martyr. Easter Sunday was not the days of new hope, determination, and resistance congealing among his followers but a 40-day power display in order to show the benefits of having Jesus forgive us.
Like in the story of the fire-maker, the religious elite believing that the spark of life, hope, and power had to be controlled turned Easter into an apolitical gratitude ritual. The elite wanted the fire-maker’s followers to feel grateful for what the fire-maker had done. The fire-maker had given his life. The fire-maker had given his life for their lives. The fire-maker had come back from the dead to prove it. The followers should always remember this and be grateful. And hopefully they’d forget how to make fire.
The Eucharistic meal, Holy Communion, was also subverted, turning it into a remembrance of Jesus’ forgiving love rather than as a challenge to take up the task of breaking open prison doors. The political status quo is quite happy to tolerate a religion of forgiving love. However a religion that is bent on literally setting captives free is both a problem and a threat.
In the parable of the fire-maker there are two villages with very different perspectives on the world. They have different understandings of fire, religion, and governance. In my experience of the Church there are two rivers. One is a river of life that flows through me, sustaining me, and challenging me to love and to liberate. That river has as one of its sources the resurrected spirit of Jesus. The other river is a river of guilt, cleansed by the blood of Jesus. People are warned that if they don’t drink from this river they will not have life.
Two villages. Two rivers. Two theologies. Our choice.
So what some leaders did was take the metaphorical language about sacrifice [that had been around awhile] and applied it definitively to the Easter stories. They turned Jesus’ death into a once-for-all blood sacrifice to cleanse us of our alleged sin. Instead of the forces of injustice killing Jesus all of us so-called sinners were responsible. His death was de-politicized. If it weren’t for our sin, so the story was re-told, he wouldn’t have had to die.
Jesus was now no longer the confrontational revolutionary prophet but a self-sacrificing lamb. Good Friday was not the Romans killing off a pestilent rebel but the assisted suicide of the forgiving martyr. Easter Sunday was not the days of new hope, determination, and resistance congealing among his followers but a 40-day power display in order to show the benefits of having Jesus forgive us.
Like in the story of the fire-maker, the religious elite believing that the spark of life, hope, and power had to be controlled turned Easter into an apolitical gratitude ritual. The elite wanted the fire-maker’s followers to feel grateful for what the fire-maker had done. The fire-maker had given his life. The fire-maker had given his life for their lives. The fire-maker had come back from the dead to prove it. The followers should always remember this and be grateful. And hopefully they’d forget how to make fire.
The Eucharistic meal, Holy Communion, was also subverted, turning it into a remembrance of Jesus’ forgiving love rather than as a challenge to take up the task of breaking open prison doors. The political status quo is quite happy to tolerate a religion of forgiving love. However a religion that is bent on literally setting captives free is both a problem and a threat.
In the parable of the fire-maker there are two villages with very different perspectives on the world. They have different understandings of fire, religion, and governance. In my experience of the Church there are two rivers. One is a river of life that flows through me, sustaining me, and challenging me to love and to liberate. That river has as one of its sources the resurrected spirit of Jesus. The other river is a river of guilt, cleansed by the blood of Jesus. People are warned that if they don’t drink from this river they will not have life.
Two villages. Two rivers. Two theologies. Our choice.
5/08/2007
What the Church did to Easter - Part 2
“I’ve got a river of life flowing out through me…” goes the song, “opens prison doors sets the captives free…” The tune gets inside one’s head, and the theology isn’t too bad either. The truth of the resurrection is found not so much in a historic time and place but in the present reality of breaking open prison doors and setting captives free. Jesus is risen when we break the chains of oppression. Jesus stays dead when life and liberty are locked up.
In Anthony De Mello’s parable, the fire-maker is the Christ figure bringing light and warmth to those without. He is not concerned about personal glory but simply wants to share what he knows with others. In the first village, once he has taught the art of fire, he disappears. He does not want to patent it, profit from it, or use it to exercise power. Such was Jesus’ approach.
However in the second village the leaders know about power. They think everyone is competing for it, and therefore the stranger is a competitor. The knowledge the fire-maker has fuels his popularity and threatens their own. So, in the time-honoured tradition of weak people in leadership they turn on the stranger and dispose of him. The leaders then create a new religion out of his memory, while making sure people forget the radical way that could bring light and warmth to all.
De Mello’s parable is a critique of religion’s propensity to protect itself from new insights, especially those outside the elite’s control. Bad religion spins the stranger into a sinner or a saviour rather than takes seriously anything revolutionary the stranger did or said. Bad religion is not good news for the powerless.
In Anthony De Mello’s parable, the fire-maker is the Christ figure bringing light and warmth to those without. He is not concerned about personal glory but simply wants to share what he knows with others. In the first village, once he has taught the art of fire, he disappears. He does not want to patent it, profit from it, or use it to exercise power. Such was Jesus’ approach.
However in the second village the leaders know about power. They think everyone is competing for it, and therefore the stranger is a competitor. The knowledge the fire-maker has fuels his popularity and threatens their own. So, in the time-honoured tradition of weak people in leadership they turn on the stranger and dispose of him. The leaders then create a new religion out of his memory, while making sure people forget the radical way that could bring light and warmth to all.
De Mello’s parable is a critique of religion’s propensity to protect itself from new insights, especially those outside the elite’s control. Bad religion spins the stranger into a sinner or a saviour rather than takes seriously anything revolutionary the stranger did or said. Bad religion is not good news for the powerless.
5/06/2007
What the Church did to Easter - Part 1
The Parable of the Fire-Maker by Anthony De Mello
After many years of labour an inventor discovered the art of making fire. He took his tools to the snow-clad northern regions and initiated a tribe into the art – and the advantages – of making fire. The people became so absorbed in this novelty that it did not occur to them to thank the inventor who one day quietly slipped away. Being one of those rare human beings endowed with greatness, he had no desire to be remembered or revered; all he sought was the satisfaction of knowing that someone had benefited from his discovery.
The next he went to was just as eager to learn as the first. But the local priests, jealous of the stranger’s hold on the people, had him assassinated. To allay any suspicion of the crime, they had a portrait of the Great Inventor enthroned upon the main altar of the temple; and a liturgy designed so that his name would be revered and his memory kept alive. The greatest care was taken that not a single rubric of the liturgy was altered or omitted. The tools for making fire were enshrined within a casket and were said to bring healing to all who laid their hands on them with faith.
The High Priest himself undertook the task of compiling a Life of the Inventor. This became the Holy book in which his loving kindness was offered as an example for all to emulate, his glorious deeds were eulogized, his superhuman nature made an article of faith. The priests saw to it that the Book was handed down to future generations, while they authoritatively interpreted the meaning of his words and the significance of his holy life and death.
Caught up as they were in these religious tasks, the people completely forgot the art of making fire.
After many years of labour an inventor discovered the art of making fire. He took his tools to the snow-clad northern regions and initiated a tribe into the art – and the advantages – of making fire. The people became so absorbed in this novelty that it did not occur to them to thank the inventor who one day quietly slipped away. Being one of those rare human beings endowed with greatness, he had no desire to be remembered or revered; all he sought was the satisfaction of knowing that someone had benefited from his discovery.
The next he went to was just as eager to learn as the first. But the local priests, jealous of the stranger’s hold on the people, had him assassinated. To allay any suspicion of the crime, they had a portrait of the Great Inventor enthroned upon the main altar of the temple; and a liturgy designed so that his name would be revered and his memory kept alive. The greatest care was taken that not a single rubric of the liturgy was altered or omitted. The tools for making fire were enshrined within a casket and were said to bring healing to all who laid their hands on them with faith.
The High Priest himself undertook the task of compiling a Life of the Inventor. This became the Holy book in which his loving kindness was offered as an example for all to emulate, his glorious deeds were eulogized, his superhuman nature made an article of faith. The priests saw to it that the Book was handed down to future generations, while they authoritatively interpreted the meaning of his words and the significance of his holy life and death.
Caught up as they were in these religious tasks, the people completely forgot the art of making fire.
5/04/2007
Entombed Theology
The seduction of living in the tomb is that the conventional God is there too. You can sit in your comfortable grave clothes and talk to the God who is the same yesterday, today and forever. You can sing “Our God reigns”, soak up the acoustics, and feel all holy. You can memorise verses that affirm that God as the way, the truth and the life. It’s all very nice in the tomb.
Out of the tomb however it is not nice. The God of liberation is not a pleasant puppet you can sing to and feel all holy with. God, like truth, is bigger than our experiences and projections. Even our convictions are tempered by the disturbing thought that maybe God isn’t on our side. Out of the tomb we discover that people are complex, life is complex, and God, like love, manifests itself in a variety of forms and relationships. God is out of our control.
Trapped in the grave, the churches have invented all sorts of theological nonsense. In the desire to keep God small, predictable and safe, a plethora of so-called miracles have been manufactured to suit the pre-modernism of the entombed mind. There’s a windup literal devil - he’s the bad guy. There’s a literal seven-day creation – nothing is impossible when you create your own truth. There’s a literal virgin birth - fairyland doesn’t have to follow any biological rules. Here supernatural miracles happen in the wink of the eye, without even using a wand. Even the dead literally come back to life depending on what’s on the barbeque.
When churches only talk to themselves, those who agree with them, and their marionette God, it’s not long before tomb reality becomes the only reality.
The God of the Risen Jesus however is very different. This is a God of whom we need to be afraid. This God breaks open our tombs. This God disturbs our thinking. This God allows niggly questions to visit us in the small hours of the night. This God drives prayer from our lips and peace from our soul. This God blows us into the furnace of unrest, change, and freedom. This God compels us to shred the trappings of death and break free of the grave.
This is the God we celebrate at Easter.
Out of the tomb however it is not nice. The God of liberation is not a pleasant puppet you can sing to and feel all holy with. God, like truth, is bigger than our experiences and projections. Even our convictions are tempered by the disturbing thought that maybe God isn’t on our side. Out of the tomb we discover that people are complex, life is complex, and God, like love, manifests itself in a variety of forms and relationships. God is out of our control.
Trapped in the grave, the churches have invented all sorts of theological nonsense. In the desire to keep God small, predictable and safe, a plethora of so-called miracles have been manufactured to suit the pre-modernism of the entombed mind. There’s a windup literal devil - he’s the bad guy. There’s a literal seven-day creation – nothing is impossible when you create your own truth. There’s a literal virgin birth - fairyland doesn’t have to follow any biological rules. Here supernatural miracles happen in the wink of the eye, without even using a wand. Even the dead literally come back to life depending on what’s on the barbeque.
When churches only talk to themselves, those who agree with them, and their marionette God, it’s not long before tomb reality becomes the only reality.
The God of the Risen Jesus however is very different. This is a God of whom we need to be afraid. This God breaks open our tombs. This God disturbs our thinking. This God allows niggly questions to visit us in the small hours of the night. This God drives prayer from our lips and peace from our soul. This God blows us into the furnace of unrest, change, and freedom. This God compels us to shred the trappings of death and break free of the grave.
This is the God we celebrate at Easter.
5/01/2007
Escaping From The Tomb
We live in a time in the history of the Church when a great deal of entombed thinking, and its accompanying solidified structures, are being broken open by people who want to be free.
A photograph taken of the Auckland Synod in the 1950s, compared with a photograph of that body today, is remarkable for two things – the number of ties, and the total absence of women. Those were the days when old white men were in charge. Autocracy was the norm, paternalism was expected, and accountability was negligible. In many parts of Anglicanism, let alone other denominations or religions, this pattern continues. It is a pattern of oppression.
Since the 1970s in Aotearoa New Zealand we have been trying to exhibit a form of leadership where women and men, laity and clergy, form partnerships; where power is both transparent and accountable; and where those without power have avenues of redress. This is a journey. It doesn’t happen overnight. Mistakes are made. Systems can easily turn sour. But we have travelled a significant distance from the oppressive structures and thinking of the past.
I once told my children that it wasn’t so long ago that teachers caned pupils. They looked at me incredulously. ‘Oh Dad you’re making up stories again!’ My children have no experience of the violence that was endemic in New Zealand High Schools. Similarly when we come into contact with the hierarchies of the English or Central African Anglican churches we are incredulous. We can’t believe that ecclesiastical feudalism is still alive.
The walls of the tomb are solid rock. They have been there for generations and have the word ‘immovable’ scrawled upon them.
Of course the political and social structures affect, for better or for worse, the theology. Where the male is God, God is male. Where the hierarchy is God, God is hierarchical. Where the all-powerful are God, God is all-powerful. ‘Convention, comfort and civility’ disguise autocracy, sexism, and oppression.
On the other hand however where God is more below than above, more feminine than masculine, more dirty than clean, more uncontained and surprising than restrained and boring… there is hope, change, and justice to be found. The tomb-breaking God chooses the foolish, the weak, the rebels, and outsiders. Truth is not the sole preserve of powerful men, nor the wisdom of what’s always been.
Are our prayers, worship, preaching, and theology entombing us in yesteryear or inviting us to break free? Is worship emancipating? Or are we slowly being seduced by the formulas of old, pickled and placed with the other preserves on the shelf, there to collect dust and wait? Are we cementing convention or stimulating change?
A photograph taken of the Auckland Synod in the 1950s, compared with a photograph of that body today, is remarkable for two things – the number of ties, and the total absence of women. Those were the days when old white men were in charge. Autocracy was the norm, paternalism was expected, and accountability was negligible. In many parts of Anglicanism, let alone other denominations or religions, this pattern continues. It is a pattern of oppression.
Since the 1970s in Aotearoa New Zealand we have been trying to exhibit a form of leadership where women and men, laity and clergy, form partnerships; where power is both transparent and accountable; and where those without power have avenues of redress. This is a journey. It doesn’t happen overnight. Mistakes are made. Systems can easily turn sour. But we have travelled a significant distance from the oppressive structures and thinking of the past.
I once told my children that it wasn’t so long ago that teachers caned pupils. They looked at me incredulously. ‘Oh Dad you’re making up stories again!’ My children have no experience of the violence that was endemic in New Zealand High Schools. Similarly when we come into contact with the hierarchies of the English or Central African Anglican churches we are incredulous. We can’t believe that ecclesiastical feudalism is still alive.
The walls of the tomb are solid rock. They have been there for generations and have the word ‘immovable’ scrawled upon them.
Of course the political and social structures affect, for better or for worse, the theology. Where the male is God, God is male. Where the hierarchy is God, God is hierarchical. Where the all-powerful are God, God is all-powerful. ‘Convention, comfort and civility’ disguise autocracy, sexism, and oppression.
On the other hand however where God is more below than above, more feminine than masculine, more dirty than clean, more uncontained and surprising than restrained and boring… there is hope, change, and justice to be found. The tomb-breaking God chooses the foolish, the weak, the rebels, and outsiders. Truth is not the sole preserve of powerful men, nor the wisdom of what’s always been.
Are our prayers, worship, preaching, and theology entombing us in yesteryear or inviting us to break free? Is worship emancipating? Or are we slowly being seduced by the formulas of old, pickled and placed with the other preserves on the shelf, there to collect dust and wait? Are we cementing convention or stimulating change?
4/22/2007
Breaking Free
Last month was the 200th anniversary of the abolition of the slave trade in the British Empire. Every year for 18 years William Wilberforce brought a motion to the House of Commons seeking the end of slavery. And every year, save one, he lost. He rallied against a trade seen as fundamental to the British economy. Wilberforce defied the silent consent of bishops, the Church, the common interpretation of the Bible, and of course the polls, in order to be faithful to the simple truth that all were created equal and deserved to be treated the same.
The story of Wilberforce’s life, coming soon in the movie Amazing Grace, is one of choosing between Gods. Choosing between the God of his upbringing – a God of convention, comfort, and civility – and between the God who gripped and drove him – a God of justice and change. Wilberforce followed a God who led him into unpopularity and vilification.
‘Convention, comfort, and civility’ is a description of the grave. The grave is a solid tomb, with solid boundaries, and a solid door. It’s thinking is found in churches, clubs, pubs, and parliaments. The grave protects the insider. The clothes the grave provides are secure, warm, and comforting. The décor might be plain, but it’s predictable. The outside world is repulsed. Inside certainty is assured. The grave is safe.
Resurrection is not primarily a past event that happened once upon a time in a Jerusalem cemetery. Resurrection is a present event, a way of talking about the challenge to leave the deadly mummified structures and thinking of the past and to live in the spirit of Jesus. It is about breaking free. It is about justice and change. And it is not safe.
The story of Wilberforce’s life, coming soon in the movie Amazing Grace, is one of choosing between Gods. Choosing between the God of his upbringing – a God of convention, comfort, and civility – and between the God who gripped and drove him – a God of justice and change. Wilberforce followed a God who led him into unpopularity and vilification.
‘Convention, comfort, and civility’ is a description of the grave. The grave is a solid tomb, with solid boundaries, and a solid door. It’s thinking is found in churches, clubs, pubs, and parliaments. The grave protects the insider. The clothes the grave provides are secure, warm, and comforting. The décor might be plain, but it’s predictable. The outside world is repulsed. Inside certainty is assured. The grave is safe.
Resurrection is not primarily a past event that happened once upon a time in a Jerusalem cemetery. Resurrection is a present event, a way of talking about the challenge to leave the deadly mummified structures and thinking of the past and to live in the spirit of Jesus. It is about breaking free. It is about justice and change. And it is not safe.
4/19/2007
Abandoned by God
The wind is one of the metaphors that I use when trying to explain the limitations of an intimate deity. Like God you can’t see the wind but you can feel its effects. God blows where it wills. God can’t be wrapped up, domesticated, or walk hand in hand with us. God is more than relational metaphors. Unlike a loving parent, sometimes the wind abandons us and we are left bereft and alone.
Abandonment is a spiritual place that many have ventured into. “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?” Jesus cried from the cross. Abandonment is to wake up in the morning to an empty universe, and to go to bed at night with no comforting presence. Abandonment is when prayer is meaningless, and worship no better. With any and every call to God there isn’t even an engaged signal – just an eerie silence on the end of the line. This is the valley of the shadow.
If you are not at the place of abandonment, then be thankful. And be gentle with those who might be experiencing it.
If you are in the valley of shadow then remember those rules many of us learnt as children about being lost in the New Zealand bush: Don’t panic. Don’t run. Don’t let fear or depression overwhelm you. Stay still. Fretting will not help. Light a little fire if you can. If you are with others huddle together for warmth – for you body and your soul. And trust, as the Jewish mystics say, that the Hidden God will be seeking you.
None of the great spiritual traditions of the world offer simple solutions to the question of abandonment by God. At best they offer a series of stories or metaphors that in part contradict one another. There is no one answer that will fit every time.
So here is another metaphor I sometimes use when trying to make sense of abandonment. I talk about God as journey. God isn’t the destination, or the road, or the travelling companion, but the journey itself. God is the different places we come to, places of joy and serenity but also of pain and despair. The valley of shadow is therefore a place within God. It’s a place that we arrive at sometimes through no wish or failing of our own, sometimes through the connivance of others, and sometimes through our own stupid fault.
The cross was Jesus’ place of abandonment. The sky, on cue, darkened. Pain and death resulted. His crucifixion was seen as a political and religious necessity by the powerful, and totally destructive and pointless by his followers. Whatever you believe about Easter Sunday one thing is clear: Jesus’ didn’t carry on living, growing old with Mrs Jesus and having grandkids. His death was real. His pain was real. His abandonment was real. The God that he had lived was gone; and until we take that seriously we will not begin to fathom Good Friday or to understand our pain.
Abandonment is a spiritual place that many have ventured into. “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?” Jesus cried from the cross. Abandonment is to wake up in the morning to an empty universe, and to go to bed at night with no comforting presence. Abandonment is when prayer is meaningless, and worship no better. With any and every call to God there isn’t even an engaged signal – just an eerie silence on the end of the line. This is the valley of the shadow.
If you are not at the place of abandonment, then be thankful. And be gentle with those who might be experiencing it.
If you are in the valley of shadow then remember those rules many of us learnt as children about being lost in the New Zealand bush: Don’t panic. Don’t run. Don’t let fear or depression overwhelm you. Stay still. Fretting will not help. Light a little fire if you can. If you are with others huddle together for warmth – for you body and your soul. And trust, as the Jewish mystics say, that the Hidden God will be seeking you.
None of the great spiritual traditions of the world offer simple solutions to the question of abandonment by God. At best they offer a series of stories or metaphors that in part contradict one another. There is no one answer that will fit every time.
So here is another metaphor I sometimes use when trying to make sense of abandonment. I talk about God as journey. God isn’t the destination, or the road, or the travelling companion, but the journey itself. God is the different places we come to, places of joy and serenity but also of pain and despair. The valley of shadow is therefore a place within God. It’s a place that we arrive at sometimes through no wish or failing of our own, sometimes through the connivance of others, and sometimes through our own stupid fault.
The cross was Jesus’ place of abandonment. The sky, on cue, darkened. Pain and death resulted. His crucifixion was seen as a political and religious necessity by the powerful, and totally destructive and pointless by his followers. Whatever you believe about Easter Sunday one thing is clear: Jesus’ didn’t carry on living, growing old with Mrs Jesus and having grandkids. His death was real. His pain was real. His abandonment was real. The God that he had lived was gone; and until we take that seriously we will not begin to fathom Good Friday or to understand our pain.
4/11/2007
The Problem of Good Friday
I often talk about God as transformative love - a powerful and compassionate energy that surrounds, infuses, and transcends our existence. Jesus understood God as a personal force, ‘Abba’, which embraced the excluded and championed the ostracised. This personal force was therefore both contentious and upsetting for those who liked societal arrangements as they were. However for those who were on the margins of society this force was surprising and liberating. ‘Love’, ‘compassion’, ‘freedom’ and ‘inclusion’ are all words that point to the power that operated through Jesus and impacted on their lives. That power we call God.
Most traditionally minded Christians who pray to God as “Father” or Jesus as “Lord” would not generally dispute this understanding of God. They use “Father” as shorthand for God’s caring and protecting nature. Similarly “Lord” they would say is not a hierarchical militaristic metaphor but a way of talking about the primacy of Jesus’ love. ‘God is love’, as the writer of the Johannine epistles said centuries ago, remains the normative Christian understanding of the Divine.
The problem for both Traditionalists and I is Good Friday. On that day the Divine ceases to be love, we experience abandonment, and normative comforting theology is tsunamied. It is a day of disconcerting silence.
Some paint Good Friday as God the Father and God the Son working out a deal. “Look kid,” says Mr Deity, “if you want to save the world you got to do this suffering number. I’ll look the other way, and you just hang in there.” “Okay Dad”, says the kid, “I’ll try not to look sad.” Both are said to be acting in and out of love. Good Friday is just the pain before the gain.
The problem is that it doesn’t take much to figure the deal is morally bankrupt. Loving fathers don’t freeze their feelings and let their sons be tortured and killed. The means does not justify the ends. If God were all loving then God would have intervened. End of story. So either God couldn’t have intervened [not all powerful] or wouldn’t intervene [not all loving]. The cosmic deal doesn’t stand up to scrutiny when you have an anthropomorphic deity who is supposedly the final word on love.
Good Friday is vital in the Christian calendar because it challenges us to wrestle with the notion that God is more than anthropomorphic projections or metaphors of intimacy.
Most traditionally minded Christians who pray to God as “Father” or Jesus as “Lord” would not generally dispute this understanding of God. They use “Father” as shorthand for God’s caring and protecting nature. Similarly “Lord” they would say is not a hierarchical militaristic metaphor but a way of talking about the primacy of Jesus’ love. ‘God is love’, as the writer of the Johannine epistles said centuries ago, remains the normative Christian understanding of the Divine.
The problem for both Traditionalists and I is Good Friday. On that day the Divine ceases to be love, we experience abandonment, and normative comforting theology is tsunamied. It is a day of disconcerting silence.
Some paint Good Friday as God the Father and God the Son working out a deal. “Look kid,” says Mr Deity, “if you want to save the world you got to do this suffering number. I’ll look the other way, and you just hang in there.” “Okay Dad”, says the kid, “I’ll try not to look sad.” Both are said to be acting in and out of love. Good Friday is just the pain before the gain.
The problem is that it doesn’t take much to figure the deal is morally bankrupt. Loving fathers don’t freeze their feelings and let their sons be tortured and killed. The means does not justify the ends. If God were all loving then God would have intervened. End of story. So either God couldn’t have intervened [not all powerful] or wouldn’t intervene [not all loving]. The cosmic deal doesn’t stand up to scrutiny when you have an anthropomorphic deity who is supposedly the final word on love.
Good Friday is vital in the Christian calendar because it challenges us to wrestle with the notion that God is more than anthropomorphic projections or metaphors of intimacy.
4/10/2007
Washing Feet
Who wipes up the kid’s mess? You know, when there is a cordial spill, or when mud is traipsed in? Ideally, so the family theory goes, ‘the one who made the mess cleans it up’. But you know and I know that ideals and theories don’t always work. Inevitably it comes back to Mum or Dad - or, in Jesus day, the servants.
Not that Jesus had servants. He wasn’t from the wealthy end of town. But, being the local popular healer [or was it just the novelty factor?] he seems to have got a lot of invitations to the homes of wealthy people. “Come in, Mr Jesus.” “Pleased to meet you, Mr Jesus.” “Care for some wine Mr Jesus?”
When one arrived at such a home the host would admit you and a servant would wash your feet. While this custom may seem rather nice to us the dirt and mud of Palestine was not particularly nice inside one’s house. People’s feet carried the world with them. The washing was a menial task, one that wasn’t popular among the servants, and therefore usually left to the least influential. One could imagine that a child, lowest on the pecking order, would get this task.
In the Last Supper account we are told that Jesus ‘knowing that he had come from God and was going to God’ got up from the table and began to wash his disciples feet. The preface is important. Knowing the end was coming Jesus wanted to convey and pass on the things that he considered essential. He chose to teach about leadership by ritually symbolizing their primary call to be a community of equals.
Jesus didn’t take up the towel and basin in order to show his humility. He didn’t need to. Nor was it in order to encourage those who would be leaders in the emerging Church to do menial tasks. This wasn’t about so called “servant ministry”. There was, and is, nothing glorious about being a servant – as many of us whose ancestors came here to escape the English class system know.
The foot washing was a demonstration of equality. The master [Jesus] is not greater than the servant [Peter, you, or me]. Neither is the reverse true – the servant is not greater than the master. The Jesus movement sought to encourage servant-less and master-less communities where people were brothers and sisters to one another and the only ‘master’ was God.
Leadership in the Jesus realm is not based on who is the greatest, or who is the most powerful or popular. Nor is the inverse true. Rather within the community of equals each person’s gifts and talents are accepted, nurtured, and used. These gifts and talents are God-given, and to God we are accountable as a community regarding their usage.
When choosing people to be bishops or priests I often hear “servant” language – that clergy should be involved in the menial tasks of church life and life in general. While all of us have menial chores to perform, and some of us [especially parents and workers in the hospitality industry] have more than others, I don’t think they are a prerequisite for leadership. What is a prerequisite is an attitude - an attitude that no task or person is beneath you; an attitude that the number of menial tasks doesn’t means you are better or worse than anyone else. In other words the leader must have an innate knowledge that they are fundamentally the same as anyone else – they are no better or worse. The leader will be given, or acquire, a degree of power. Power does not mean they are better, or worse, than anyone else.
Of course, there is a problem with power. When power comes your way the temptation is to think that you earned it, or it’s your right, or that you are somehow better than others. There are many examples of monarchs, politicians, bishops, business people, and clergy who have fallen into this pit. Maybe Jesus was aware of what his followers would have to face in the future, and he was trying to warn them.
So, the ritual foot washing of Maundy Thursday is a reminder to us all. It reminds us of our vision of Christian community, equals in the sight of God and one another, encouraging each other in our gifts and ministries. It reminds us who have positions of leadership that we are no better or no worse than anyone else, and at any time we may be called upon to serve God and our community in ways we don’t expect, even in ways we think are beneath us.
Not that Jesus had servants. He wasn’t from the wealthy end of town. But, being the local popular healer [or was it just the novelty factor?] he seems to have got a lot of invitations to the homes of wealthy people. “Come in, Mr Jesus.” “Pleased to meet you, Mr Jesus.” “Care for some wine Mr Jesus?”
When one arrived at such a home the host would admit you and a servant would wash your feet. While this custom may seem rather nice to us the dirt and mud of Palestine was not particularly nice inside one’s house. People’s feet carried the world with them. The washing was a menial task, one that wasn’t popular among the servants, and therefore usually left to the least influential. One could imagine that a child, lowest on the pecking order, would get this task.
In the Last Supper account we are told that Jesus ‘knowing that he had come from God and was going to God’ got up from the table and began to wash his disciples feet. The preface is important. Knowing the end was coming Jesus wanted to convey and pass on the things that he considered essential. He chose to teach about leadership by ritually symbolizing their primary call to be a community of equals.
Jesus didn’t take up the towel and basin in order to show his humility. He didn’t need to. Nor was it in order to encourage those who would be leaders in the emerging Church to do menial tasks. This wasn’t about so called “servant ministry”. There was, and is, nothing glorious about being a servant – as many of us whose ancestors came here to escape the English class system know.
The foot washing was a demonstration of equality. The master [Jesus] is not greater than the servant [Peter, you, or me]. Neither is the reverse true – the servant is not greater than the master. The Jesus movement sought to encourage servant-less and master-less communities where people were brothers and sisters to one another and the only ‘master’ was God.
Leadership in the Jesus realm is not based on who is the greatest, or who is the most powerful or popular. Nor is the inverse true. Rather within the community of equals each person’s gifts and talents are accepted, nurtured, and used. These gifts and talents are God-given, and to God we are accountable as a community regarding their usage.
When choosing people to be bishops or priests I often hear “servant” language – that clergy should be involved in the menial tasks of church life and life in general. While all of us have menial chores to perform, and some of us [especially parents and workers in the hospitality industry] have more than others, I don’t think they are a prerequisite for leadership. What is a prerequisite is an attitude - an attitude that no task or person is beneath you; an attitude that the number of menial tasks doesn’t means you are better or worse than anyone else. In other words the leader must have an innate knowledge that they are fundamentally the same as anyone else – they are no better or worse. The leader will be given, or acquire, a degree of power. Power does not mean they are better, or worse, than anyone else.
Of course, there is a problem with power. When power comes your way the temptation is to think that you earned it, or it’s your right, or that you are somehow better than others. There are many examples of monarchs, politicians, bishops, business people, and clergy who have fallen into this pit. Maybe Jesus was aware of what his followers would have to face in the future, and he was trying to warn them.
So, the ritual foot washing of Maundy Thursday is a reminder to us all. It reminds us of our vision of Christian community, equals in the sight of God and one another, encouraging each other in our gifts and ministries. It reminds us who have positions of leadership that we are no better or no worse than anyone else, and at any time we may be called upon to serve God and our community in ways we don’t expect, even in ways we think are beneath us.
3/25/2007
Going to hell
There is an episode in Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn where Huck is deeply uncertain if he should tell Miss Watson where her runaway slave Jim is located. His uncertainty is magically overcome when he realizes that the ‘plain hand of God’ requires that he turn Jim in. Everything he has learned in Sunday School, everything his mother drummed into him, points in that direction. He writes the letter of betrayal to Miss Watson, feels all clean and pure, and is able to pray. But then he thinks some more, thinks of his love for Jim and the laughter they have had together. He finally tears up the letter, says no to god, and declares, “All right, then, I’ll go to hell.”[i]
Welcome to hell! When your passion and commitment to justice, to doing what is right, leads you beyond the conventions of society and religion it won’t be long before someone damns you to hell. When you get to that place, be assured you’re not alone.
Sometimes in life we come to a chasm. Behind us is all we have known, including god, mother, and morality. Ahead of us is the unknown: godless, motherless, and immoral. And breathing deeply, letting the visionary within us feel, the fool within us act, saying no to fear and yes to courage, we jump...
[i] Adapted from Hamilton, W. A Quest For The Post-Historical Jesus London : SCM, 193, p.15.
Welcome to hell! When your passion and commitment to justice, to doing what is right, leads you beyond the conventions of society and religion it won’t be long before someone damns you to hell. When you get to that place, be assured you’re not alone.
Sometimes in life we come to a chasm. Behind us is all we have known, including god, mother, and morality. Ahead of us is the unknown: godless, motherless, and immoral. And breathing deeply, letting the visionary within us feel, the fool within us act, saying no to fear and yes to courage, we jump...
[i] Adapted from Hamilton, W. A Quest For The Post-Historical Jesus London : SCM, 193, p.15.
3/22/2007
Is God only manifested in a male Jesus?
My understanding of Jesus being 'paramount expression of God' is at odds with those who would have no problem saying 'God is Jesus'. Jesus life might have offered a definition of Love/God but it didn’t limit it or constrict it. His life didn’t fence Love in, although some would dearly have liked it to. Saying ‘God is Jesus’ can be understood as limiting the vast, boundless, mysterious, energy of Love that courses through the universe and beyond to one man, in one place, at one time in history with all his particular male Jewish 1st century prejudices intact. This understanding shackles God to the texts and understandings of a period in time.
I can believe that after Jesus’ death the Love that flowed through him co-mingled with that great universal source of Love, and still does. I can understand too how the Church used pictorial anthropomorphic kingly language – ‘forever sitting at the right hand of God’ – to describe this mingling of love. I can understand it, but I wish they hadn’t.
I don’t think however that the limitless Love called God is solely manifested in Jesus. Surely the whole notion of sacred or holy Spirit is saying that the seeds of divinity are thriving within many people, including many who would not call themselves Christian. When the author of the 4th Gospel talks about the Spirit leading us into all truth, I understand that as an unshackling of God out of the cultural particularity of any person, age, gender, sexual orientation, knowledge, and politics and allow that transformative Love to re-emerge, to incarnate, in every time, culture, gender, orientation, and circumstance. Even to incarnate in non-human form.
In the 1980s Rosemary Radford Ruether asked a great unshackling question: “Can a male saviour save women?” Rosemary’s contemporary, Mary Daly, put it more provocatively: ‘If God is male, male is God’. For those who wish to eternally elevate, or beget, a 1st century male into the heart of God, is there any space for women? If the Godhead is masculine then those who worship will elevate the masculine, preferring even oppressive male leadership to female alternatives. If the Godhead is masculine it also becomes oppressive for all who don’t fit masculine hierarchical categories, including many men.
The transformative Love called God is not only known in the male Jesus. God is bigger than that. Love of course is manifest in women too, and a great many others beside. If we allow Love to be only sculptured by the words and actions of men, then the Love that is good news for all genders becomes distorted and misshapen. If Love is locked into the historical Jesus there is little liberation for any one who wants change.
The divinity of Jesus depends on your definition of divine. If you wish to consider Jesus as more than human – and therefore non-human - transforming him into a cosmic superman in the sky, then there are considerable flow-on effects including monotheistic integrity, solidarity with humanity, and the gender/culture of God. If however you understand the divine as transformative Love that is both transcendent and immanent, and Jesus’ life and actions as paramount expression of that Love - but not the boundaries of that Love - then Jesus is not more or less human than anyone else, God is not a Palestinian 1st century male, and we have the seeds of divinity within us.
I can believe that after Jesus’ death the Love that flowed through him co-mingled with that great universal source of Love, and still does. I can understand too how the Church used pictorial anthropomorphic kingly language – ‘forever sitting at the right hand of God’ – to describe this mingling of love. I can understand it, but I wish they hadn’t.
I don’t think however that the limitless Love called God is solely manifested in Jesus. Surely the whole notion of sacred or holy Spirit is saying that the seeds of divinity are thriving within many people, including many who would not call themselves Christian. When the author of the 4th Gospel talks about the Spirit leading us into all truth, I understand that as an unshackling of God out of the cultural particularity of any person, age, gender, sexual orientation, knowledge, and politics and allow that transformative Love to re-emerge, to incarnate, in every time, culture, gender, orientation, and circumstance. Even to incarnate in non-human form.
In the 1980s Rosemary Radford Ruether asked a great unshackling question: “Can a male saviour save women?” Rosemary’s contemporary, Mary Daly, put it more provocatively: ‘If God is male, male is God’. For those who wish to eternally elevate, or beget, a 1st century male into the heart of God, is there any space for women? If the Godhead is masculine then those who worship will elevate the masculine, preferring even oppressive male leadership to female alternatives. If the Godhead is masculine it also becomes oppressive for all who don’t fit masculine hierarchical categories, including many men.
The transformative Love called God is not only known in the male Jesus. God is bigger than that. Love of course is manifest in women too, and a great many others beside. If we allow Love to be only sculptured by the words and actions of men, then the Love that is good news for all genders becomes distorted and misshapen. If Love is locked into the historical Jesus there is little liberation for any one who wants change.
The divinity of Jesus depends on your definition of divine. If you wish to consider Jesus as more than human – and therefore non-human - transforming him into a cosmic superman in the sky, then there are considerable flow-on effects including monotheistic integrity, solidarity with humanity, and the gender/culture of God. If however you understand the divine as transformative Love that is both transcendent and immanent, and Jesus’ life and actions as paramount expression of that Love - but not the boundaries of that Love - then Jesus is not more or less human than anyone else, God is not a Palestinian 1st century male, and we have the seeds of divinity within us.
3/20/2007
seeds of divinity within us
It is difficult to contemplate how Jesus is both God and human. How can a human being be the Supreme Being of the universe? How can that human God suffer? Some theological contortionists posit that Super Jesus voluntarily gave up his ability to feel no pain and command angelic armies to identify with us mere mortals. But any one who has a choice to end their torture and doesn’t is either masochistic or deranged. My reading of the Gospel story is that Jesus was not a self-flagellating saviour.
If however you begin the Jesus/divinity discussion like I do with a working definition of God as boundless and transformative Love the shape of the conversation changes. Instead of thinking about how Jesus could be a divine Supreme Being and a man, we can think about how the immense power and potential of transformative Love could be so prevalent in a person’s life that it defines that life. Athanasius had the Creator [Father] as eternally begetting, and the Son [Jesus] as eternally being begotten. One was the Source and one was the Expression. Cannot we think of transformative Love being source and its manifestation in Jesus being an expression?
I believe that in every person are seeds of that divine transforming Love. Some people water and nourish those seeds, and some don’t. Some people live out the results of that nourishing by loving and giving, generously and unreservedly. And some don’t.
There are plenty of seeds, wind blown or planted, that come into the gardens of our lives. There are seeds of greed, violence, and selfishness. There are seeds of kindness, hospitality, and justice. We have choices about which ones we water and which ones we don’t, which ones we weed out and which ones we fertilise.
The divine Love seeds are somewhat different from other seeds. They not only take water and nutrients, but they also give to the garden – enriching the soil, supporting other emergent plants, and perfuming the whole environment. Love is cultivated by the garden, and the garden by Love.
I think divine Love not only shone out of Jesus by his words and actions, but also was so powerful that his followers would later say something like: ‘When we saw Jesus we saw God, when we experienced Jesus we experienced God’. Transformative Love was so prevalent in his life that it defined his life and his life came to define Love. Not only was Jesus a billboard pointing to God, the very billboard was as if God was here appointing you and me. Still today Christians, me included, use the words and actions of Jesus to shape our definition of the very nature and essence of God. In this sense Jesus is unique.
If however you begin the Jesus/divinity discussion like I do with a working definition of God as boundless and transformative Love the shape of the conversation changes. Instead of thinking about how Jesus could be a divine Supreme Being and a man, we can think about how the immense power and potential of transformative Love could be so prevalent in a person’s life that it defines that life. Athanasius had the Creator [Father] as eternally begetting, and the Son [Jesus] as eternally being begotten. One was the Source and one was the Expression. Cannot we think of transformative Love being source and its manifestation in Jesus being an expression?
I believe that in every person are seeds of that divine transforming Love. Some people water and nourish those seeds, and some don’t. Some people live out the results of that nourishing by loving and giving, generously and unreservedly. And some don’t.
There are plenty of seeds, wind blown or planted, that come into the gardens of our lives. There are seeds of greed, violence, and selfishness. There are seeds of kindness, hospitality, and justice. We have choices about which ones we water and which ones we don’t, which ones we weed out and which ones we fertilise.
The divine Love seeds are somewhat different from other seeds. They not only take water and nutrients, but they also give to the garden – enriching the soil, supporting other emergent plants, and perfuming the whole environment. Love is cultivated by the garden, and the garden by Love.
I think divine Love not only shone out of Jesus by his words and actions, but also was so powerful that his followers would later say something like: ‘When we saw Jesus we saw God, when we experienced Jesus we experienced God’. Transformative Love was so prevalent in his life that it defined his life and his life came to define Love. Not only was Jesus a billboard pointing to God, the very billboard was as if God was here appointing you and me. Still today Christians, me included, use the words and actions of Jesus to shape our definition of the very nature and essence of God. In this sense Jesus is unique.
3/12/2007
Divinity - Athanasius and Arius
Occasionally I am quizzed about whether I believe in the divinity of Jesus. It’s one of the tests of orthodoxy and some are keen to prove that I am outside its bounds.
There is a great history associated with this debate, not least the theological turf war between Athanasius and Arius in the 4th century. Athanasius, that fiery bishop of Alexandria, was of the view that Jesus had eternally existed and was both God and human. A lowly Palestinian carpenter, Jesus, was not only elevated into the heart of the mystery and magnificence of God, but also had always been there. God was not upper class, or class-less, but of the peasantry. This was highly contentious and revolutionary in a class-ridden society. The emperors, when they figured out the political ramifications, were not pleased and regularly banished Athanasius.
Arius on the other hand was concerned about preserving monotheism. He believed that Athanasian theology led to two Gods: the Father and Jesus. Further, deification politically removed Jesus from any meaningful identification and suffering with humans. The placing of a heavenly crown on his head beamed Jesus away from earthly solidarity. Jesus would be a chaplain to kings not a champion for the poor. In this Arius’ foresight would prove to be right.
In time Athanasius won, and we have the dubious legacy of the Nicene Creed. Unfortunately however the potential of Athanasius’s theology to bring down the mighty from their thrones, to relativize their power, and to lift up the lowly and meek was not realized. If the proof of the theological pudding is in how effectively it feeds the poor, we may have been better off with Arius.
There is a great history associated with this debate, not least the theological turf war between Athanasius and Arius in the 4th century. Athanasius, that fiery bishop of Alexandria, was of the view that Jesus had eternally existed and was both God and human. A lowly Palestinian carpenter, Jesus, was not only elevated into the heart of the mystery and magnificence of God, but also had always been there. God was not upper class, or class-less, but of the peasantry. This was highly contentious and revolutionary in a class-ridden society. The emperors, when they figured out the political ramifications, were not pleased and regularly banished Athanasius.
Arius on the other hand was concerned about preserving monotheism. He believed that Athanasian theology led to two Gods: the Father and Jesus. Further, deification politically removed Jesus from any meaningful identification and suffering with humans. The placing of a heavenly crown on his head beamed Jesus away from earthly solidarity. Jesus would be a chaplain to kings not a champion for the poor. In this Arius’ foresight would prove to be right.
In time Athanasius won, and we have the dubious legacy of the Nicene Creed. Unfortunately however the potential of Athanasius’s theology to bring down the mighty from their thrones, to relativize their power, and to lift up the lowly and meek was not realized. If the proof of the theological pudding is in how effectively it feeds the poor, we may have been better off with Arius.
3/07/2007
The Oak In Aotearoa - part 2
The Anglican Church Mission Society [CMS] egalitarian tendencies in turn gave rise to social concern and justice. One can think of William Wilberforce, for example, who was a great influence on Marsden. Wilberforce’s concerns included slavery of course, but also the treatment of animals, the literacy of children, and the control of vice. The concern for social justice in the 19th century was expressed in a very paternalist ‘we know best’ way. However that concern in time gave birth to the social work agencies of today, like our neighbour the City Mission, and the justice-centred political stances of our Church, as evidenced in the Hikoi of Hope and anti-tour movements.
New Zealand spirituality has long known, almost instinctively, the difference between power and wisdom. Whether someone was a Prime Minister, a Bishop, or a local Minister, their position of power did not make them wise. It was rather what they did and said. We expect of our leaders people who can understand us, regardless of their intellectual or business acumen. We expect too our spiritual leaders to be forthright in defending the vulnerable and criticising the powerful. Politics and religion have always mixed, but thankfully not always smoothly.
George Augustus Selwyn arrived here in 1842 having been consecrated the year before at Lambeth as Bishop of New Zealand. Like Marsden he brought enthusiasm, prodigious energy, versatility, and organisational nous to the task. His first visitation was characteristic. In six months Selwyn visited every settlement and mission station in the North Island; and he traveled 3,664 kilometres -1,900 by ship, 400 in canoes, 134 on horseback and 1,226 on foot. He spread the English broad-church notion that the Church was there for everyone; it was not just a club for the religiously minded.
Like the CMS Selwyn valued the participation of the laity, and their financial support. When the first constitution was drafted in 1857 it radically gave the lay representatives the same voting rights as the clergy. Similarly too to the CMS Selwyn had a paternal evangelistic and social concern towards Maori. He was critical of the Government’s land policy, and this infuriated many European settlers. His inclusive educational vision at St John’s, giving equal opportunity of education and spiritual nourishment to settler as well as to Maori, also provoked many settlers and even clergy to be quite hostile.
Selwyn was of the English broad-church tradition and not an evangelical. He introduced clergy to the country who represented a wide range of churchmanship. Though there were some fierce arguments, especially with the CMS, Selwyn didn’t seem to be threatened by difference. Amongst the clergy were men like Frederick Thatcher, John Kinder, and Arthur Purchas. The beauty of neo-Gothic architecture as seen in the Selwyn Churches and surrounding us here in St Matthew’s, and the sublime music of the English choral tradition were introduced. Painting, photography, poetry, medicine, geology… all were manifestations of the glory of God.
The spiritual gift is an appreciation of beauty wherever it is to be found. Whether it is architecture, music, movement, or poetry, our English heritage inspires us. It also challenges us to go on creating beauty in our worship, buildings, music, and language. Today that appreciation extends eclectically across our numerous cultures and art forms. Part of this gift of appreciation is realizing too that all learning is an opportunity to excite the soul with wonder and mystery.
The oak in Aotearoa, English Anglican spirituality in this land, is very different from England. A spiritual visit to the Church of England while initially inspiring with the architecture and music can soon deteriorate when confronted with the liturgy, elitism, and theological blindness one can easily find. The English people of course are wonderful; it is just that their past sometimes seems more a burden than a blessing, an encouragement to stagnate rather than be creative.
A spiritual visit also can awaken in us fresh appreciation of the gifts our English forbears in the faith bequeathed. They helped found a church that values beauty, imagination, and innovation; a church that delights in finding ways around problems – ways that include rather than exclude difference; a church that stands up to the powerful and criticizes them; a church that is broad; and that is at its best there for everyone – not just those for the morally and religiously sanctioned.
The oak stands beside the pohutukawa proudly on our soil, and justly so.
New Zealand spirituality has long known, almost instinctively, the difference between power and wisdom. Whether someone was a Prime Minister, a Bishop, or a local Minister, their position of power did not make them wise. It was rather what they did and said. We expect of our leaders people who can understand us, regardless of their intellectual or business acumen. We expect too our spiritual leaders to be forthright in defending the vulnerable and criticising the powerful. Politics and religion have always mixed, but thankfully not always smoothly.
George Augustus Selwyn arrived here in 1842 having been consecrated the year before at Lambeth as Bishop of New Zealand. Like Marsden he brought enthusiasm, prodigious energy, versatility, and organisational nous to the task. His first visitation was characteristic. In six months Selwyn visited every settlement and mission station in the North Island; and he traveled 3,664 kilometres -1,900 by ship, 400 in canoes, 134 on horseback and 1,226 on foot. He spread the English broad-church notion that the Church was there for everyone; it was not just a club for the religiously minded.
Like the CMS Selwyn valued the participation of the laity, and their financial support. When the first constitution was drafted in 1857 it radically gave the lay representatives the same voting rights as the clergy. Similarly too to the CMS Selwyn had a paternal evangelistic and social concern towards Maori. He was critical of the Government’s land policy, and this infuriated many European settlers. His inclusive educational vision at St John’s, giving equal opportunity of education and spiritual nourishment to settler as well as to Maori, also provoked many settlers and even clergy to be quite hostile.
Selwyn was of the English broad-church tradition and not an evangelical. He introduced clergy to the country who represented a wide range of churchmanship. Though there were some fierce arguments, especially with the CMS, Selwyn didn’t seem to be threatened by difference. Amongst the clergy were men like Frederick Thatcher, John Kinder, and Arthur Purchas. The beauty of neo-Gothic architecture as seen in the Selwyn Churches and surrounding us here in St Matthew’s, and the sublime music of the English choral tradition were introduced. Painting, photography, poetry, medicine, geology… all were manifestations of the glory of God.
The spiritual gift is an appreciation of beauty wherever it is to be found. Whether it is architecture, music, movement, or poetry, our English heritage inspires us. It also challenges us to go on creating beauty in our worship, buildings, music, and language. Today that appreciation extends eclectically across our numerous cultures and art forms. Part of this gift of appreciation is realizing too that all learning is an opportunity to excite the soul with wonder and mystery.
The oak in Aotearoa, English Anglican spirituality in this land, is very different from England. A spiritual visit to the Church of England while initially inspiring with the architecture and music can soon deteriorate when confronted with the liturgy, elitism, and theological blindness one can easily find. The English people of course are wonderful; it is just that their past sometimes seems more a burden than a blessing, an encouragement to stagnate rather than be creative.
A spiritual visit also can awaken in us fresh appreciation of the gifts our English forbears in the faith bequeathed. They helped found a church that values beauty, imagination, and innovation; a church that delights in finding ways around problems – ways that include rather than exclude difference; a church that stands up to the powerful and criticizes them; a church that is broad; and that is at its best there for everyone – not just those for the morally and religiously sanctioned.
The oak stands beside the pohutukawa proudly on our soil, and justly so.
3/06/2007
The Oak In Aotearoa - part 1
Outside the rear of St Matthew’s are two trees, an oak and a pohutukawa, symbolising the two spiritual traditions, English and Maori, which continue to influence us.
The English Anglican spiritual tradition came to this land in the 1800s. For those early missionaries it wasn’t a matter of trying to replicate the Church of England in these green and pleasant lands. They sought instead to create something new and better than England, and dare I say they succeeded.
When the Revd Samuel Marsden, through the interpretation of Ruatara, first preached in Aotearoa on December 25th 1814 he knowingly, and unknowingly, brought gifts.
Marsden was an evangelical. He believed that by introducing Maori to the Bible and Prayerbook in their own language he would introduce them to God. Evangelicals believe in the power of the written word, and therefore put great store on literacy and translation.
The gift of literacy opens up for us the worlds of others’ imagination and reasoning. It is still, despite the dominance of visual media, the key to unlocking the boundaries of parochialism. Spiritually literacy can take us beyond ourselves, opening possibilities, challenging assumptions, and plunging us into the limitless God.
In the best of the evangelical tradition there is a touch of anarchy. If you give someone a Bible and say ‘discover God for yourself’, you are relinquishing control. The Church of England, like the State to which it is wedded, has been historically concerned about control. God was kept on a tight leash, only to be addressed by the theologically certified and episcopally approved. The Church Missionary Society [CMS], who backed Marsden’s venture, often kept the leash slack - except in moral matters. Allied to this disregard for rigidity, dislike of bureaucracy, and ambivalence about control, the evangelicals valued the participation of laity and clergy, women and men. The CMS had egalitarian tendencies.
The Anglican Church in Aotearoa New Zealand is today highly participatory, democratic, and innovative compared with Mother England. Partly this is due to the CMS influence, partly to Bishop Selwyn and his visionary model for the Church of England that he constructed here, and partly it is due to the many women and men, Maori and Pakeha, who have guided our Church since. Our theology, liturgy, and governance have been shaped not just by the traditions of old, but by what worked for us, what made sense to us, and what justice demanded of us. Is it any surprise therefore that New Zealand was one of the leaders in the quest for the ordination of women to the priesthood?
This spiritual gift I am talking about could be symbolised with a piece of number eight fencing wire. It is the kiwi ‘can do’ attitude. We make things happen, even if the imported components are faulty. What we care about is community, about helping our neighbours, and giving each other a fair go. If transplanted religion doesn’t quite fit with our cares, we modify the religion not our cares. We change the rules to fit the people rather than change the people to fit the rules. We value ‘what works’ rather than ‘what’s always been done’.
The English Anglican spiritual tradition came to this land in the 1800s. For those early missionaries it wasn’t a matter of trying to replicate the Church of England in these green and pleasant lands. They sought instead to create something new and better than England, and dare I say they succeeded.
When the Revd Samuel Marsden, through the interpretation of Ruatara, first preached in Aotearoa on December 25th 1814 he knowingly, and unknowingly, brought gifts.
Marsden was an evangelical. He believed that by introducing Maori to the Bible and Prayerbook in their own language he would introduce them to God. Evangelicals believe in the power of the written word, and therefore put great store on literacy and translation.
The gift of literacy opens up for us the worlds of others’ imagination and reasoning. It is still, despite the dominance of visual media, the key to unlocking the boundaries of parochialism. Spiritually literacy can take us beyond ourselves, opening possibilities, challenging assumptions, and plunging us into the limitless God.
In the best of the evangelical tradition there is a touch of anarchy. If you give someone a Bible and say ‘discover God for yourself’, you are relinquishing control. The Church of England, like the State to which it is wedded, has been historically concerned about control. God was kept on a tight leash, only to be addressed by the theologically certified and episcopally approved. The Church Missionary Society [CMS], who backed Marsden’s venture, often kept the leash slack - except in moral matters. Allied to this disregard for rigidity, dislike of bureaucracy, and ambivalence about control, the evangelicals valued the participation of laity and clergy, women and men. The CMS had egalitarian tendencies.
The Anglican Church in Aotearoa New Zealand is today highly participatory, democratic, and innovative compared with Mother England. Partly this is due to the CMS influence, partly to Bishop Selwyn and his visionary model for the Church of England that he constructed here, and partly it is due to the many women and men, Maori and Pakeha, who have guided our Church since. Our theology, liturgy, and governance have been shaped not just by the traditions of old, but by what worked for us, what made sense to us, and what justice demanded of us. Is it any surprise therefore that New Zealand was one of the leaders in the quest for the ordination of women to the priesthood?
This spiritual gift I am talking about could be symbolised with a piece of number eight fencing wire. It is the kiwi ‘can do’ attitude. We make things happen, even if the imported components are faulty. What we care about is community, about helping our neighbours, and giving each other a fair go. If transplanted religion doesn’t quite fit with our cares, we modify the religion not our cares. We change the rules to fit the people rather than change the people to fit the rules. We value ‘what works’ rather than ‘what’s always been done’.
3/03/2007
Mana and Manaakitanga
It is a mistake to assume that spirituality is a sort of holy exercise that one does on Sundays disconnected from the rest of the week and the rest of life. In Maori spirituality, as in the best of the English tradition, spirituality is the holy art of weaving the connections between community and individuals, play and work, the happy and the hapless, the sacred and the secular.
There is a saying that Maori don’t meet to worship but worship when they meet. Although it is very much a generalisation, it points to the understanding of Wairua Tapu, the sacred spirit, permeating all of life. So when a meeting is about to start – whether it be on a marae, a school, or in home, or place of work – it begins with prayer. The karakia acknowledges that in all we do the spiritual is present. It acknowledges too that we are part of something bigger than ourselves.
One of the most well known Maori proverbs is ‘He aha te mea nui? He tangata, he tangata, he tangata.’ ‘What is the most important thing? It is people, it is people, it is people.’ It goes to the heart of Maori understandings of community. The purpose and priority is the good of the people. The English notion therefore of striving for individual excellence and personal fulfilment is tempered by the Maori notion that the purpose of such excellence and fulfilment is to serve the needs of the community.
Regarding Mana. Earlier I interpreted it as ‘spiritual power’. It means a lot more than that, but there is no simple English translation. It includes self-worth, self-respect, status and identity.
The spiritual work of community is to build one another’s mana. The purpose say of a Church community, like us, is to build each individual’s mana. When arguments arise and hurts are voiced, the task of us all is to find solutions that build the mana of the other. Mana is more important than personal prestige and aggrandizement. As the proverb says, ‘waiho ma te tangata e mihi’ ‘Let someone else acknowledge your virtues.’ Let us be that someone else to one another.
Manaakitanga is the exercise of hospitality. It is symbolically enacted at every powhiri [welcoming ceremony]. The karanga [call], like the korero [speeches] that follow, acknowledge firstly the dead. The dead are part of the living, and shape us. By ritually respecting them and not ignoring them, we draw out their goodwill and remove the poison from any bad memories.
The korero acknowledges the whakapapa [genealogy], that is the linkages between past and present, between the hosts and the guests, and the simple truth pressing noses], and kai [food] follow. Music, physical touch, and the sharing of food are all spiritual tools for the building of community.
The poet James K. Baxter, once penned the following words about the discipline, difficulty and calling of hospitality [Manaakitanga]:
Feed the hungry;
Give drink to the thirsty;
Give clothes to those who lack them;
Give hospitality to strangers;
Look after the sick;
Bail people out of jail, visit them in jail, and look after them when they come out;
Go to neighbours funerals;
Tell other ignorant people what you in your ignorance think you know;
Help the doubtful clarify their minds and make their own decisions;
Console the sad;
Reprove sinners, but gently, my friends, gently;
Forgive what seems to be harm done to yourself;
Put up with difficult people;
Pray for whatever has life, including the spirits of the dead.
There is a saying that Maori don’t meet to worship but worship when they meet. Although it is very much a generalisation, it points to the understanding of Wairua Tapu, the sacred spirit, permeating all of life. So when a meeting is about to start – whether it be on a marae, a school, or in home, or place of work – it begins with prayer. The karakia acknowledges that in all we do the spiritual is present. It acknowledges too that we are part of something bigger than ourselves.
One of the most well known Maori proverbs is ‘He aha te mea nui? He tangata, he tangata, he tangata.’ ‘What is the most important thing? It is people, it is people, it is people.’ It goes to the heart of Maori understandings of community. The purpose and priority is the good of the people. The English notion therefore of striving for individual excellence and personal fulfilment is tempered by the Maori notion that the purpose of such excellence and fulfilment is to serve the needs of the community.
Regarding Mana. Earlier I interpreted it as ‘spiritual power’. It means a lot more than that, but there is no simple English translation. It includes self-worth, self-respect, status and identity.
The spiritual work of community is to build one another’s mana. The purpose say of a Church community, like us, is to build each individual’s mana. When arguments arise and hurts are voiced, the task of us all is to find solutions that build the mana of the other. Mana is more important than personal prestige and aggrandizement. As the proverb says, ‘waiho ma te tangata e mihi’ ‘Let someone else acknowledge your virtues.’ Let us be that someone else to one another.
Manaakitanga is the exercise of hospitality. It is symbolically enacted at every powhiri [welcoming ceremony]. The karanga [call], like the korero [speeches] that follow, acknowledge firstly the dead. The dead are part of the living, and shape us. By ritually respecting them and not ignoring them, we draw out their goodwill and remove the poison from any bad memories.
The korero acknowledges the whakapapa [genealogy], that is the linkages between past and present, between the hosts and the guests, and the simple truth pressing noses], and kai [food] follow. Music, physical touch, and the sharing of food are all spiritual tools for the building of community.
The poet James K. Baxter, once penned the following words about the discipline, difficulty and calling of hospitality [Manaakitanga]:
Feed the hungry;
Give drink to the thirsty;
Give clothes to those who lack them;
Give hospitality to strangers;
Look after the sick;
Bail people out of jail, visit them in jail, and look after them when they come out;
Go to neighbours funerals;
Tell other ignorant people what you in your ignorance think you know;
Help the doubtful clarify their minds and make their own decisions;
Console the sad;
Reprove sinners, but gently, my friends, gently;
Forgive what seems to be harm done to yourself;
Put up with difficult people;
Pray for whatever has life, including the spirits of the dead.
2/16/2007
I am the river and the river is in me
One of the interesting things about sitting in international conferences is realising you know more than one spiritual language. My spirituality has not only been shaped by the English Anglican tradition and its evolving manifestations but also by Maori understandings of life and faith. Often in international debates those of us thus schooled see issues with a ‘double vision’.
Outside the rear of St Matthew’s Church are two large trees – an English oak and a native Pohutukawa. Our environment nurtures the trees, and the trees in turn nurture others. Both trees also influence, shade and protect each other. English and Maori spiritualities are like those two trees. We have learnt and are learning to appreciate the strengths and weaknesses of both ‘trees’; and being patient when they brush up against one another.
I want to name some of the aspects of Maori spirituality that have shaped and influenced me. In doing so I am interpreting aspects of a spiritual tradition that is essentially not my own. So I do it tentatively, conscious that it is my interpretation and not definitive.
English spirituality usually begins with the individual and then expands out to encompass family, then community, and then environment. Maori spirituality works the other way round. It begins with the land, then the community and family, and lastly with the individual within it.
The word for land is whenua. It is also the word for afterbirth. Traditionally your placenta was buried in the land belonging to your tribe. This land is an individual’s turangawaewae - one’s place to stand. It is the basis of one’s mana or spiritual power. The intimacy with the land is also expressed in its mythical name: Papatuanuku, earth mother.
Depending on the location of a particular tribe this intimacy with the land can also be expressed in terms of connection with a mountain or river. The people along the Whanganui River, for example, talk of their interdependence with the river in a proverb, “I am the river, and the river is in me.”
Unlike the common notion that land belongs to people, Maori understand people as belonging to the land. The idea of selling or polluting one’s ancestral land has therefore the same appeal as selling or polluting one’s mother. The materialist approach to land of ‘take, use, and go’, is countered by the spiritual approach of ‘give, nurture, and stay’. When a tribe has given land, for example when Ngati Whatua gifted nearly half the Auckland isthmus to Governor Hobson and the settlers, it is for the purpose of building relationship, for the good of both donor and recipient.
Maori spirituality is therefore, first and foremost, rooted in an intimate connection with the land and environment. It gives rise to an ethic of treating the earth and all that is sustained by her, gently and with respect. It is a mistake therefore to assume that the loss of land, as has happened repeatedly through the processes of colonization and neo-colonization, is primarily an economic loss. It is a spiritual loss.
Outside the rear of St Matthew’s Church are two large trees – an English oak and a native Pohutukawa. Our environment nurtures the trees, and the trees in turn nurture others. Both trees also influence, shade and protect each other. English and Maori spiritualities are like those two trees. We have learnt and are learning to appreciate the strengths and weaknesses of both ‘trees’; and being patient when they brush up against one another.
I want to name some of the aspects of Maori spirituality that have shaped and influenced me. In doing so I am interpreting aspects of a spiritual tradition that is essentially not my own. So I do it tentatively, conscious that it is my interpretation and not definitive.
English spirituality usually begins with the individual and then expands out to encompass family, then community, and then environment. Maori spirituality works the other way round. It begins with the land, then the community and family, and lastly with the individual within it.
The word for land is whenua. It is also the word for afterbirth. Traditionally your placenta was buried in the land belonging to your tribe. This land is an individual’s turangawaewae - one’s place to stand. It is the basis of one’s mana or spiritual power. The intimacy with the land is also expressed in its mythical name: Papatuanuku, earth mother.
Depending on the location of a particular tribe this intimacy with the land can also be expressed in terms of connection with a mountain or river. The people along the Whanganui River, for example, talk of their interdependence with the river in a proverb, “I am the river, and the river is in me.”
Unlike the common notion that land belongs to people, Maori understand people as belonging to the land. The idea of selling or polluting one’s ancestral land has therefore the same appeal as selling or polluting one’s mother. The materialist approach to land of ‘take, use, and go’, is countered by the spiritual approach of ‘give, nurture, and stay’. When a tribe has given land, for example when Ngati Whatua gifted nearly half the Auckland isthmus to Governor Hobson and the settlers, it is for the purpose of building relationship, for the good of both donor and recipient.
Maori spirituality is therefore, first and foremost, rooted in an intimate connection with the land and environment. It gives rise to an ethic of treating the earth and all that is sustained by her, gently and with respect. It is a mistake therefore to assume that the loss of land, as has happened repeatedly through the processes of colonization and neo-colonization, is primarily an economic loss. It is a spiritual loss.
2/13/2007
Unlocking the Bible
The other Anglican keys for unlocking the Bible are 'reason' and 'community'.
The rational-historical- scientific method is not an enemy of religion. Indeed it opens up for us many of the wonders of life and the universe. We are born with the capacity to think. Faith does not require us to switch off that capacity – even when it leads us to doubt our understandings of God.
A number of letters I received in opposition to my public sermon on Mary described Christianity as akin to a CD of indisputable truths. God had posted this CD from heaven. Our task is to load the disk and run it – but not to doubt the programme, try to rewrite it, or to question its source.
Contrary to this, I think that belief needs to resonate with our experience of life and spirituality; it needs to reasonably resonate, affirming but also challenging; and it needs to be publicly and corporately weighed and deliberated upon. Just because a 3rd century Church council proclaimed a belief and gave it the divine stamp of approval doesn’t mean that a 21st century critical reading of the Bible texts has to or does agree with that belief; nor that scientific advances in two millennia doesn’t negate many of the suppositions surrounding that belief; nor that that belief resonates with community of people committed to the propagation of transformational love [the community that I would call the Church].
The last interpretative key is the community. Traditionally this has been called the Church, and it has expressed its opinion through councils, synods and bishops. I though am somewhat wary of limiting the community’s interpretation of God to groups of predominantly old, European men. The experience of God is the experience too of the young, middle-aged, the poor, women, and the marginalized. It is also the experience of people who don’t think of themselves as particularly Christian or religious. This is why public discourse is vital to the health of religion. Just because the papers are full of letters from people believing in a cosmic superman doesn’t mean that the public concur. Every day I am talking with new and unique visitors about God, and every day I am hearing that God as being, God as transformational love, connects more with their understandings and experience than a supreme being ever has.
Of course want Dean Randerson and me out of the Church. They don’t want anyone to challenge the smallness and irrelevancy of their God. And, in part, that’s why we stay.
The rational-historical- scientific method is not an enemy of religion. Indeed it opens up for us many of the wonders of life and the universe. We are born with the capacity to think. Faith does not require us to switch off that capacity – even when it leads us to doubt our understandings of God.
A number of letters I received in opposition to my public sermon on Mary described Christianity as akin to a CD of indisputable truths. God had posted this CD from heaven. Our task is to load the disk and run it – but not to doubt the programme, try to rewrite it, or to question its source.
Contrary to this, I think that belief needs to resonate with our experience of life and spirituality; it needs to reasonably resonate, affirming but also challenging; and it needs to be publicly and corporately weighed and deliberated upon. Just because a 3rd century Church council proclaimed a belief and gave it the divine stamp of approval doesn’t mean that a 21st century critical reading of the Bible texts has to or does agree with that belief; nor that scientific advances in two millennia doesn’t negate many of the suppositions surrounding that belief; nor that that belief resonates with community of people committed to the propagation of transformational love [the community that I would call the Church].
The last interpretative key is the community. Traditionally this has been called the Church, and it has expressed its opinion through councils, synods and bishops. I though am somewhat wary of limiting the community’s interpretation of God to groups of predominantly old, European men. The experience of God is the experience too of the young, middle-aged, the poor, women, and the marginalized. It is also the experience of people who don’t think of themselves as particularly Christian or religious. This is why public discourse is vital to the health of religion. Just because the papers are full of letters from people believing in a cosmic superman doesn’t mean that the public concur. Every day I am talking with new and unique visitors about God, and every day I am hearing that God as being, God as transformational love, connects more with their understandings and experience than a supreme being ever has.
Of course want Dean Randerson and me out of the Church. They don’t want anyone to challenge the smallness and irrelevancy of their God. And, in part, that’s why we stay.
2/09/2007
Password: Jesus
Right from the beginning Jesus was too powerful to fit comfortably into literary and religious constraints. It is no accident that four different and at times conflicting accounts of Jesus where incorporated into the canon of scripture. It is no accident that at various times in the Church’s history, when it has become bogged down with its own importance, power and piety, a small group of people, claiming inspiration from Jesus, have broken free.
A Christian needs to breathe in the stories and spirit of Jesus. She or he needs to let those stories radically affect how they view the world. When one group is proclaiming they are right and others are wrong, the Christian needs to think about Jesus - who usually took the unpopular position of leaving the game to stand with the marginalized. When one group is saying they have the truth, or the correct interpretation of God, then the Christian needs to remember Jesus who was usually highly critical of people who thought they had a monopoly on God.
Every Sunday in our worship we symbolically place great value on hearing the Gospel read. It is the Jesus story that is our interpretative key for understanding all the other writings of the Bible. If a text doesn’t measure up to the Jesus standard, then it’s not worth listening to.
We need to understand though that Jesus wasn’t faultless. He made mistakes – like when he ridiculed the Syro-Phoenician woman. His views were shaped by his context: male, Jewish, first century, Palestine. He would have been appalled to think that people would spend centuries after his death worshipping his literal words, as if words from the past have a sacredness devoid of context. He would though have been pleased to think that people would interpret his message of radical, inclusive, forgiving and self-giving love into their own time and day, and live it.
Jesus was an unrepentant iconoclast – smashing oppressive images of God. I think it is much more faithful for us to follow in his questioning, challenging, and confrontational tradition – even when we are in conflict with individual texts of scripture – than to try to replicate his worldview, moral code, and theological givens. We are called to be Jesus’ disciples, not his imitators.
A Christian needs to breathe in the stories and spirit of Jesus. She or he needs to let those stories radically affect how they view the world. When one group is proclaiming they are right and others are wrong, the Christian needs to think about Jesus - who usually took the unpopular position of leaving the game to stand with the marginalized. When one group is saying they have the truth, or the correct interpretation of God, then the Christian needs to remember Jesus who was usually highly critical of people who thought they had a monopoly on God.
Every Sunday in our worship we symbolically place great value on hearing the Gospel read. It is the Jesus story that is our interpretative key for understanding all the other writings of the Bible. If a text doesn’t measure up to the Jesus standard, then it’s not worth listening to.
We need to understand though that Jesus wasn’t faultless. He made mistakes – like when he ridiculed the Syro-Phoenician woman. His views were shaped by his context: male, Jewish, first century, Palestine. He would have been appalled to think that people would spend centuries after his death worshipping his literal words, as if words from the past have a sacredness devoid of context. He would though have been pleased to think that people would interpret his message of radical, inclusive, forgiving and self-giving love into their own time and day, and live it.
Jesus was an unrepentant iconoclast – smashing oppressive images of God. I think it is much more faithful for us to follow in his questioning, challenging, and confrontational tradition – even when we are in conflict with individual texts of scripture – than to try to replicate his worldview, moral code, and theological givens. We are called to be Jesus’ disciples, not his imitators.
2/08/2007
Religious Experience and Sacred Writings
Religious experience of course is as diverse as humanity. We are each shaped by our experience. As a 14 year old, for example, I remember feeling overawed and giving myself to that awe as I invited a Jesus-shaped God into my life. Of course God, that power of love, was already there; only I didn’t know it at the time.
It was a mystical experience. Friends encountered God similarly. Powerful feelings, circumstantial oddities, potent dreams, strange plays of light and sound, goose-bumpy tingles… all of which pointed to the wonder of something bigger than ourselves which was not to be feared but was a mystery that held us and strangely loved us.
It is not difficult to find books or conversations of people having similar numinous experiences. These experiences are not limited to Christians, much to the angst of some! Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, even agnostics, also experience the numinous – although they usually use a different vocabulary to express it.
To base one’s theology on these feelings can by vacuous. There are no theological tools or ethical direction offered automatically with religious experience. One needs to turn to other sources for that.
Some start to build their understanding of God by turning to sacred writings; in particular Christians turn to the Bible. To accompany my numinous experience as a 14 year old I was given a Bible and told to read and memorise it - which I did. I can still quote large portions of it off by heart. The premise was that if one knew the Bible, it would provide both theological construct and ethical direction.
I loved the Bible, and still do. I have read it repeatedly most days in the last 33 years. However the initial appeal in time wears off, unless one goes deeper, and then deeper again. To fail to bring all our whole self, including our critical and academic faculties, to our reading is to not take the Bible seriously. It makes me mad, for example, when a Christian minister insists on interpreting Paul’s writings about homosexuality as condemnatory of mutual same-sex relationships today, when the context and focus of most of Paul’s comments concern pederasty. Similarly it makes me mad when the Bible is used to support male hegemony, or anti-Semitism.
All sacred writings, including the Bible, are written by people. The authors are people with foibles, as well as insights. Communities and individuals have for centuries edited out the bits they don’t like, but thankfully have not sanitised it too much. Wisdom as well as folly are both present in the Bible.
Just because sacred writings are old does not mean they are right. Just because church councils have said they are inspired by God does not make them free from error or relevant to our world today. The Bible in the hands of a 14-year-old literalist can offer a map for inflicting pious condemnation, heterosexism, male chauvinism, slavery, and bigotry. And plenty have followed those paths.
We need interpretative keys into order to unlock the Bible and creatively find our way further into the mystery called God. Anglican Christianity offers three: Jesus, reason, and community.
It was a mystical experience. Friends encountered God similarly. Powerful feelings, circumstantial oddities, potent dreams, strange plays of light and sound, goose-bumpy tingles… all of which pointed to the wonder of something bigger than ourselves which was not to be feared but was a mystery that held us and strangely loved us.
It is not difficult to find books or conversations of people having similar numinous experiences. These experiences are not limited to Christians, much to the angst of some! Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, even agnostics, also experience the numinous – although they usually use a different vocabulary to express it.
To base one’s theology on these feelings can by vacuous. There are no theological tools or ethical direction offered automatically with religious experience. One needs to turn to other sources for that.
Some start to build their understanding of God by turning to sacred writings; in particular Christians turn to the Bible. To accompany my numinous experience as a 14 year old I was given a Bible and told to read and memorise it - which I did. I can still quote large portions of it off by heart. The premise was that if one knew the Bible, it would provide both theological construct and ethical direction.
I loved the Bible, and still do. I have read it repeatedly most days in the last 33 years. However the initial appeal in time wears off, unless one goes deeper, and then deeper again. To fail to bring all our whole self, including our critical and academic faculties, to our reading is to not take the Bible seriously. It makes me mad, for example, when a Christian minister insists on interpreting Paul’s writings about homosexuality as condemnatory of mutual same-sex relationships today, when the context and focus of most of Paul’s comments concern pederasty. Similarly it makes me mad when the Bible is used to support male hegemony, or anti-Semitism.
All sacred writings, including the Bible, are written by people. The authors are people with foibles, as well as insights. Communities and individuals have for centuries edited out the bits they don’t like, but thankfully have not sanitised it too much. Wisdom as well as folly are both present in the Bible.
Just because sacred writings are old does not mean they are right. Just because church councils have said they are inspired by God does not make them free from error or relevant to our world today. The Bible in the hands of a 14-year-old literalist can offer a map for inflicting pious condemnation, heterosexism, male chauvinism, slavery, and bigotry. And plenty have followed those paths.
We need interpretative keys into order to unlock the Bible and creatively find our way further into the mystery called God. Anglican Christianity offers three: Jesus, reason, and community.
2/07/2007
Expelling the Cosmic Superman
Well, it's been a long and lovely summer here in New Zealand. Lucky has been at the beach, doing his thing, chilling out and all that.
While Lucky has been playing the Auckland press has been having a go at our assistant bishop and dean, Richard Randerson. It is both sad and surprising that many of the writers submitting letters to the paper have little understanding of Christianity’s God. Dean Richard’s critique of a Supreme Being with anthropomorphic attributes has led to cries for his resignation.
I find theologian John Macquarie’s distinction between ‘God as a being’ and ‘God as being’ helpful. ‘God as a being’ reduces God to some sort of cosmic superman, with the power to control, create, love, etc. ‘God as being’ however points to the understanding of God as a transformational love energy that infuses our world.
The superman idea, which admittedly can be easily supposed from the traditional metaphors of ‘almighty’, ‘father’, and ‘lord’, is essentially idolatry. It makes God into our creation. It is about fitting God into our moulds, and keeping God there. It is a small God.
In the Bible this moulding of God repeatedly happens, and repeatedly the spirit of transformational love iconoclastically breaks those moulds. God is bigger than anthropomorphic constructs. It is easy to read the Bible and collect all the references to prove that supergod exists. It is also not that difficult to read the Bible and find the ongoing iconoclastic tradition. We need to expel the cosmic superman back to the Krypton of our needy imagination.
While Lucky has been playing the Auckland press has been having a go at our assistant bishop and dean, Richard Randerson. It is both sad and surprising that many of the writers submitting letters to the paper have little understanding of Christianity’s God. Dean Richard’s critique of a Supreme Being with anthropomorphic attributes has led to cries for his resignation.
I find theologian John Macquarie’s distinction between ‘God as a being’ and ‘God as being’ helpful. ‘God as a being’ reduces God to some sort of cosmic superman, with the power to control, create, love, etc. ‘God as being’ however points to the understanding of God as a transformational love energy that infuses our world.
The superman idea, which admittedly can be easily supposed from the traditional metaphors of ‘almighty’, ‘father’, and ‘lord’, is essentially idolatry. It makes God into our creation. It is about fitting God into our moulds, and keeping God there. It is a small God.
In the Bible this moulding of God repeatedly happens, and repeatedly the spirit of transformational love iconoclastically breaks those moulds. God is bigger than anthropomorphic constructs. It is easy to read the Bible and collect all the references to prove that supergod exists. It is also not that difficult to read the Bible and find the ongoing iconoclastic tradition. We need to expel the cosmic superman back to the Krypton of our needy imagination.
12/23/2006
Christmas Thoughts - Santa
It is a mistake to underestimate Santa Claus. He didn’t get a part in the Bible, but he’s sure a big part of Christmas.
On Christmas Eve there is a children’s service here. It’s one of the biggest of the year. Children and chaos abound, and the atmosphere is charged. We sing, we laugh, and we tell stories of cribs and candles and Christmases past. We also have Santa.
For years I’ve had trouble with Santa. No, it’s not the reindeer parking problems or the resultant pooh… it’s finding Santa himself. It takes a special person to don the red suit, and frankly some of them haven’t been up to it. There’s more to being Santa than sticking out your stomach, chuckling ‘Ho, ho, ho’, and answering smart seven year olds. But – and this is the interesting bit – Santa is never a flop. He never falls from the grace the children extend.
On Santa’s entrance – from the roof of course – the energy levels rise. Whatever he says is listened to. Whatever he does is received with rapt attention. The power of Santa is quite formidable.
Many people take a low view of Santa. He is paraded in every shopping mall in the country encouraging people to buy, and buy more. He doesn’t say, “Pay off that car you drive” or “pay that phone bill”. No, he’s saying buy new and buy now things we know we could do without. Santa is a slave of rampant consumerism.
Then there is the bribery brigade. “Listen boys and girls, if you aren’t good [read: do what I say] then Santa won’t come this year.” Santa’s morality is reduced to the suspect morality of these parents. Everything in life has to be earned. Including love. Including Santa.
Max, my neighbour, also takes a low view of what he calls “the Santa myth”. He objects to the portrayal of vertically challenged people merrily working in cramped sweat shop conditions. He objects to reindeer being used as promotional aids with no benefits accruing to the threatened herds of Northern Europe. He objects to an obese elderly man being given, firstly, license to enter any home or premise, secondly, a monopoly on the disbursement of gifts, and thirdly, an annual parade in his honour. Santa to him is a symbol of inequity.
The original Santa was, of course, a saint. Dear old wealthy Bishop Nic lived in the ancient city of Myra and gave generously to others. One story has it that an angel visited him one night and said, “Nicholas, you must take a bag of gold to the pawnbroker’s, for he is very poor and has three daughters. Unless they have a dowry, they will be sold into slavery.” Nic took the gold and rushed to the pawnbroker’s house where he discreetly dropped it through a window. Naturally, the parents were overjoyed; now their eldest could marry.
As you would expect in a good story this angelic visitation and discreet dropping of gold happened three times. But on the third and last drop the Pawnbroker, curious to discover the identity of his benefactor, locked all the windows of the house. Nic not being short of ideas climbed up on the roof and deposited the bag down the chimney.
It’s a story about sympathy for those in poverty, about practical assistance, and innovative delivery systems. It’s about compassion. It’s about shedding wealth. It’s about the virtue of anonymous giving – a virtue that in our modern world of sponsorship seems almost quaint.
Personally I take a high view of Santa, and not just to infuriate my neighbour Max [which it does]. I simply believe in Santa Claus. And, like most beliefs, it has been refined and tempered by experience, especially year by year sitting with children at Christmas and trying to explain in simple, precise language the meaning of life, faith, and flying sleighs.
There comes a time in most children’s lives when some of the mathematics of Santa seem insurmountable. Consider the number of children in this city, the quantity and size of presents, the dimensions of your above average sleigh, the distance from Auckland to the North Pole, the aerodynamic potential of reindeer… So, inevitably the questions arise: “How come…?” “How does he do that?” And, looking at me as though I was deranged, “Do you actually believe in Santa Claus?”
If the inquisitor is worth their salt they won’t stop there. “What about the down the chimney bit eh?” “Yep,” I reply, “I’m into it.” “Look Glynn,” my young friend continues, “our chimney is designed for someone who only eats lettuce. It has a metal pipe of some 20 centimetres in diameter. Are you telling me that Santa can squeeze down that?”
“Well,” I respond, girding myself for the challenge, “tell me how your favourite music group can sing their stuff through cyberspace, enter your computer, and morph themselves onto a CD for you to enjoy whenever? And you think a bit of chimney pipe is a problem?” Around now my young friend will roll their eyes, code for ‘my silence is not my assent’. Failure to appreciate the fertile imagination is as big a problem in our society as consumerism.
The better questions for the young inquirer to ask are about meaning. For Santa means giving. Giving to others. Giving to those we don’t know. Giving with no strings attached - including no reciprocating gifts.
Santa is about dreaming that nothing is impossible when it comes to helping and sharing. No elf, no chimney, no amount of snow, or consumerism, or cynicism, is going to stop it. This is why I believe in Santa Claus.
The Santa saga is more powerful than any factual findings by the geek who sat for three consecutive Christmas Eves with a telescope and camcorder on a rooftop. Santa inspires and encourages the best in humanity, the best in you and me – selfless giving to others.
Christmas is simple really: Give what you can and then some. Don’t believe in the barriers to giving. Set your imagination free. Dream of a world where all can have enough and be satisfied with it.
These are the gifts that Santa brings time and again, time and again.
On Christmas Eve there is a children’s service here. It’s one of the biggest of the year. Children and chaos abound, and the atmosphere is charged. We sing, we laugh, and we tell stories of cribs and candles and Christmases past. We also have Santa.
For years I’ve had trouble with Santa. No, it’s not the reindeer parking problems or the resultant pooh… it’s finding Santa himself. It takes a special person to don the red suit, and frankly some of them haven’t been up to it. There’s more to being Santa than sticking out your stomach, chuckling ‘Ho, ho, ho’, and answering smart seven year olds. But – and this is the interesting bit – Santa is never a flop. He never falls from the grace the children extend.
On Santa’s entrance – from the roof of course – the energy levels rise. Whatever he says is listened to. Whatever he does is received with rapt attention. The power of Santa is quite formidable.
Many people take a low view of Santa. He is paraded in every shopping mall in the country encouraging people to buy, and buy more. He doesn’t say, “Pay off that car you drive” or “pay that phone bill”. No, he’s saying buy new and buy now things we know we could do without. Santa is a slave of rampant consumerism.
Then there is the bribery brigade. “Listen boys and girls, if you aren’t good [read: do what I say] then Santa won’t come this year.” Santa’s morality is reduced to the suspect morality of these parents. Everything in life has to be earned. Including love. Including Santa.
Max, my neighbour, also takes a low view of what he calls “the Santa myth”. He objects to the portrayal of vertically challenged people merrily working in cramped sweat shop conditions. He objects to reindeer being used as promotional aids with no benefits accruing to the threatened herds of Northern Europe. He objects to an obese elderly man being given, firstly, license to enter any home or premise, secondly, a monopoly on the disbursement of gifts, and thirdly, an annual parade in his honour. Santa to him is a symbol of inequity.
The original Santa was, of course, a saint. Dear old wealthy Bishop Nic lived in the ancient city of Myra and gave generously to others. One story has it that an angel visited him one night and said, “Nicholas, you must take a bag of gold to the pawnbroker’s, for he is very poor and has three daughters. Unless they have a dowry, they will be sold into slavery.” Nic took the gold and rushed to the pawnbroker’s house where he discreetly dropped it through a window. Naturally, the parents were overjoyed; now their eldest could marry.
As you would expect in a good story this angelic visitation and discreet dropping of gold happened three times. But on the third and last drop the Pawnbroker, curious to discover the identity of his benefactor, locked all the windows of the house. Nic not being short of ideas climbed up on the roof and deposited the bag down the chimney.
It’s a story about sympathy for those in poverty, about practical assistance, and innovative delivery systems. It’s about compassion. It’s about shedding wealth. It’s about the virtue of anonymous giving – a virtue that in our modern world of sponsorship seems almost quaint.
Personally I take a high view of Santa, and not just to infuriate my neighbour Max [which it does]. I simply believe in Santa Claus. And, like most beliefs, it has been refined and tempered by experience, especially year by year sitting with children at Christmas and trying to explain in simple, precise language the meaning of life, faith, and flying sleighs.
There comes a time in most children’s lives when some of the mathematics of Santa seem insurmountable. Consider the number of children in this city, the quantity and size of presents, the dimensions of your above average sleigh, the distance from Auckland to the North Pole, the aerodynamic potential of reindeer… So, inevitably the questions arise: “How come…?” “How does he do that?” And, looking at me as though I was deranged, “Do you actually believe in Santa Claus?”
If the inquisitor is worth their salt they won’t stop there. “What about the down the chimney bit eh?” “Yep,” I reply, “I’m into it.” “Look Glynn,” my young friend continues, “our chimney is designed for someone who only eats lettuce. It has a metal pipe of some 20 centimetres in diameter. Are you telling me that Santa can squeeze down that?”
“Well,” I respond, girding myself for the challenge, “tell me how your favourite music group can sing their stuff through cyberspace, enter your computer, and morph themselves onto a CD for you to enjoy whenever? And you think a bit of chimney pipe is a problem?” Around now my young friend will roll their eyes, code for ‘my silence is not my assent’. Failure to appreciate the fertile imagination is as big a problem in our society as consumerism.
The better questions for the young inquirer to ask are about meaning. For Santa means giving. Giving to others. Giving to those we don’t know. Giving with no strings attached - including no reciprocating gifts.
Santa is about dreaming that nothing is impossible when it comes to helping and sharing. No elf, no chimney, no amount of snow, or consumerism, or cynicism, is going to stop it. This is why I believe in Santa Claus.
The Santa saga is more powerful than any factual findings by the geek who sat for three consecutive Christmas Eves with a telescope and camcorder on a rooftop. Santa inspires and encourages the best in humanity, the best in you and me – selfless giving to others.
Christmas is simple really: Give what you can and then some. Don’t believe in the barriers to giving. Set your imagination free. Dream of a world where all can have enough and be satisfied with it.
These are the gifts that Santa brings time and again, time and again.
Christmas Thoughts - Mary
“With God all things are possible,” said the angelic Gabriel to a distressed Mary. Viewers of the recent movie Nativity might paraphrase Gabriel’s message: “With technology, cinematic license, and funding all religious fantasies are possible.”
Nativity is a marked improvement on its forebears, particularly in its portrayal of the repressive governance of Palestine and the patriarchal culture that impacted on women. However Nativity reminded me of a parish Christmas pageant, uncritically splicing the two infancy narratives together and using unbelievable tricks to explain the miraculous. Unlike the parish pageant though Nativity masquerades as history.
Liberal scholars have for decades told us that most of the supposed facts of the nativity are fictions. Angels, wise men, heavenly hosts, the census, Bethlehem… are all part of the story-telling craft, weaving meanings derived from Jesus’ life back into his birth. It makes for great stories, encapsulates great truths, but is lousy history.
As for the paternity of Jesus, these liberal scholars denounced the biological miracle thesis that Nativity went to some length to replicate. We all know that fertilized eggs don’t drop from the sky into wombs, despite what some in the Vatican think. Joseph, said these scholars, was the most likely father.
Scholarship has since moved on, now less concerned about history and more concerned about what the texts actually say. It makes no sense, for example, for both Matthew and Luke to sow doubt about Jesus’ paternity if Joseph was his actual father. The scandal that accompanied the pregnancy, as the movie Nativity showed, would have diminished if Joseph had owned up. Indeed the pregnancy of a betrothed girl by her fiancé was viewed as more positive than negative, for it was thought to guarantee children and ensure the male line.
Who then was the father? For those who like to use God, as the movie does, to explain the supposed unexplainable please note two things. Firstly, the words used by Gabriel “come upon” and “overshadow” have no sexual connotations. It’s not saying that Mary had sex with the Holy Spirit. Secondly, divine paternity and human paternity are not mutually exclusive. God is the power of all life. In other words, as with King David being called “Son of God”, it is possible to have human parents and still be hailed as of divine origin.
There has been growing acceptance during the last decades of the validity of Jane Schaberg’s work. Jane teaches at a Roman Catholic university. She posits that Mary was seduced or raped, a child was conceived, and that God owned, and declared as blessed, both mother and babe. When the Magnificat sings that God has looked with favour on the lowliness of Mary, and the Greek word for lowliness usually is translated ‘humiliation’[i], one has to ask how she was humiliated. Illegitimacy, despite the indoctrination of multiple Christmas pageants, is probably the answer.
You can read the rest of my article at http://www.stmatthews.org.nz/?sid=74&id=681
Further reading:
1. Schaberg, Jane The Illegitimacy of Jesus, Sheffield Phoenix Press 2006.
2. Summary of Schaberg’s work http://www.pinn.net/~sunshine/book-sum/illegit.html
3. Reilly, Frank “Jane Schaberg, Raymond E. Brown, and the Problem of the Illegitimacy of Jesus” http://muse.jhu.edu/about/publishers/indiana
4. Spong, John Born Of A Woman: A bishop rethinks the birth of Jesus, New York Harper Collins 1992
[i] The word is used in Genesis 34:2, Judges 19:24 and 20:5, II Kings 13:12, 14, 22, and 32; and Lamentations 5:11. These passages all address rapes.
Nativity is a marked improvement on its forebears, particularly in its portrayal of the repressive governance of Palestine and the patriarchal culture that impacted on women. However Nativity reminded me of a parish Christmas pageant, uncritically splicing the two infancy narratives together and using unbelievable tricks to explain the miraculous. Unlike the parish pageant though Nativity masquerades as history.
Liberal scholars have for decades told us that most of the supposed facts of the nativity are fictions. Angels, wise men, heavenly hosts, the census, Bethlehem… are all part of the story-telling craft, weaving meanings derived from Jesus’ life back into his birth. It makes for great stories, encapsulates great truths, but is lousy history.
As for the paternity of Jesus, these liberal scholars denounced the biological miracle thesis that Nativity went to some length to replicate. We all know that fertilized eggs don’t drop from the sky into wombs, despite what some in the Vatican think. Joseph, said these scholars, was the most likely father.
Scholarship has since moved on, now less concerned about history and more concerned about what the texts actually say. It makes no sense, for example, for both Matthew and Luke to sow doubt about Jesus’ paternity if Joseph was his actual father. The scandal that accompanied the pregnancy, as the movie Nativity showed, would have diminished if Joseph had owned up. Indeed the pregnancy of a betrothed girl by her fiancé was viewed as more positive than negative, for it was thought to guarantee children and ensure the male line.
Who then was the father? For those who like to use God, as the movie does, to explain the supposed unexplainable please note two things. Firstly, the words used by Gabriel “come upon” and “overshadow” have no sexual connotations. It’s not saying that Mary had sex with the Holy Spirit. Secondly, divine paternity and human paternity are not mutually exclusive. God is the power of all life. In other words, as with King David being called “Son of God”, it is possible to have human parents and still be hailed as of divine origin.
There has been growing acceptance during the last decades of the validity of Jane Schaberg’s work. Jane teaches at a Roman Catholic university. She posits that Mary was seduced or raped, a child was conceived, and that God owned, and declared as blessed, both mother and babe. When the Magnificat sings that God has looked with favour on the lowliness of Mary, and the Greek word for lowliness usually is translated ‘humiliation’[i], one has to ask how she was humiliated. Illegitimacy, despite the indoctrination of multiple Christmas pageants, is probably the answer.
You can read the rest of my article at http://www.stmatthews.org.nz/?sid=74&id=681
Further reading:
1. Schaberg, Jane The Illegitimacy of Jesus, Sheffield Phoenix Press 2006.
2. Summary of Schaberg’s work http://www.pinn.net/~sunshine/book-sum/illegit.html
3. Reilly, Frank “Jane Schaberg, Raymond E. Brown, and the Problem of the Illegitimacy of Jesus” http://muse.jhu.edu/about/publishers/indiana
4. Spong, John Born Of A Woman: A bishop rethinks the birth of Jesus, New York Harper Collins 1992
[i] The word is used in Genesis 34:2, Judges 19:24 and 20:5, II Kings 13:12, 14, 22, and 32; and Lamentations 5:11. These passages all address rapes.
Christmas Thoughts - Shepherds
There were some hands camped out in a paddock nearby, keeping an eye on their mob of sheep that night. Their eyes popped out on stalks when an angel breezed by and lit up the sky like Xmas-in-the-Park.
“Jeepers!” they said.
The angel replied, “Stop looking like a bunch of stunned mullets. Let me tell you what’s going down. Today in a one-horse town over the hill a kid has been born. No ordinary ankle-biter. Gonna turn the world upside down. You’ll find him wrapped in a blankie and lying in a feed-trough.”
And before you could say, “Gimme a break!” the whole sky was filled with more angels than Aucklanders in a traffic jam, and making just about as much noise.
When eventually the whole show had moved on, the hands looked at one another: “Reckon we’d better check this out.”
The Christmas story is more than a slice of ancient history. Its power reaches across time and culture to speak even in our language. It’s a story that can both comfort and challenge.
The country location of this angelic announcement was offensive. The appearance to the shepherds happened not in the holy temple in Jerusalem where religious, financial, and political power coalesced. Rather it happened in some unnamed rural setting, among people of little wealth.
The country location tells us that God’s business doesn’t revolve around the ‘Wellingtons’ or ‘Washingtons’. Nor is God closeted, and cosseted, in fancy Cathedrals, colleges or holy cloisters. God is out and about. God is not just in flash places, but also round the back, in the kitchen of life, among ordinary people, pitching in, using the tea towel, and having a natter.
In 1850 John Everett Millais, one of the English artists known as the Pre-Raphaelites, painted his Christ In The House Of His Parents. He tried to realistically depict the lowly life of a carpenter and his family – tools and wood shavings clutter the earthen floor.
The painting met with a storm of protest. Fancy the idea of Jesus living in such an unhealthy and primitive environment!! Millais threatened the boundaries of the class-structure still firmly embedded in 19th century English society.
The agrarian location of the angelic visit caused similar offence.
Shepherds were likewise offensive. While the word ‘shepherd’ may evoke Christmas card and nativity pictures of sandaled saints adorned in white headdress, caring souls with lambs tucked under their arms… the reality was otherwise.
Shepherds were a dodgy lot. Shifty. You wouldn’t buy a used camel off them – you might burn yourself on the bridle! They were known for their fencing, and I’m not talking about the sport or No. 8 wire. Maybe the words ‘crook’ and ‘fleeced’ originate from those times? Shepherds were social undesirables. In general they had the social standing of our tow-truck drivers or repossession agents.
The insertion of shepherds in the birth narrative alludes to the connection between the baby Jesus and the great King David, who was called from tending sheep to ascend the dizzy heights of monarchy. It’s the old poverty to power, or rags to riches theme. This little baby, born in a Bethlehem shed, was the one who would be great.
Yet the theme, as you read the whole gospel, works in reverse. The greatness of God, as seen in this baby and the adult Jesus, chooses to associate with marginal and undesirable people. Jesus was building an upside-down kingdom full of nuisances and nobodies. His vision was for a huge Christmas party, with plenty of good tucker – lamb, Pavlova, mince pies, joy, and laughter - to go around. A party where everyone, particularly those who were vulnerable, suffering in poverty, or despised by religion and society were made especially welcome. The sign on the door read: “Losers Welcome”. And the winners didn’t like it.
The shepherd story has a simple message really. God turns up in the most unlikely places and among the most unlikely people and saying the most unlikely things. You’ll probably find God round the back rather than out front, pulling weeds rather than pulling rank, looking grubby rather than looking grand. If God can visit shepherds God can even visit you, and just might.
If you go looking for God here are some hints: Firstly, avoid powerful people who think they can stuff God in their pockets. Secondly, don’t discount those in trouble with the law or who tell you about seeing white-winged apparitions. Thirdly, be mindful of the little things in life, like babies and animals. That which is small, local, fragile, and unpredictable is, in God’s upside-down scheme of things, often where hope is to be found.
“Jeepers!” they said.
The angel replied, “Stop looking like a bunch of stunned mullets. Let me tell you what’s going down. Today in a one-horse town over the hill a kid has been born. No ordinary ankle-biter. Gonna turn the world upside down. You’ll find him wrapped in a blankie and lying in a feed-trough.”
And before you could say, “Gimme a break!” the whole sky was filled with more angels than Aucklanders in a traffic jam, and making just about as much noise.
When eventually the whole show had moved on, the hands looked at one another: “Reckon we’d better check this out.”
The Christmas story is more than a slice of ancient history. Its power reaches across time and culture to speak even in our language. It’s a story that can both comfort and challenge.
The country location of this angelic announcement was offensive. The appearance to the shepherds happened not in the holy temple in Jerusalem where religious, financial, and political power coalesced. Rather it happened in some unnamed rural setting, among people of little wealth.
The country location tells us that God’s business doesn’t revolve around the ‘Wellingtons’ or ‘Washingtons’. Nor is God closeted, and cosseted, in fancy Cathedrals, colleges or holy cloisters. God is out and about. God is not just in flash places, but also round the back, in the kitchen of life, among ordinary people, pitching in, using the tea towel, and having a natter.
In 1850 John Everett Millais, one of the English artists known as the Pre-Raphaelites, painted his Christ In The House Of His Parents. He tried to realistically depict the lowly life of a carpenter and his family – tools and wood shavings clutter the earthen floor.
The painting met with a storm of protest. Fancy the idea of Jesus living in such an unhealthy and primitive environment!! Millais threatened the boundaries of the class-structure still firmly embedded in 19th century English society.
The agrarian location of the angelic visit caused similar offence.
Shepherds were likewise offensive. While the word ‘shepherd’ may evoke Christmas card and nativity pictures of sandaled saints adorned in white headdress, caring souls with lambs tucked under their arms… the reality was otherwise.
Shepherds were a dodgy lot. Shifty. You wouldn’t buy a used camel off them – you might burn yourself on the bridle! They were known for their fencing, and I’m not talking about the sport or No. 8 wire. Maybe the words ‘crook’ and ‘fleeced’ originate from those times? Shepherds were social undesirables. In general they had the social standing of our tow-truck drivers or repossession agents.
The insertion of shepherds in the birth narrative alludes to the connection between the baby Jesus and the great King David, who was called from tending sheep to ascend the dizzy heights of monarchy. It’s the old poverty to power, or rags to riches theme. This little baby, born in a Bethlehem shed, was the one who would be great.
Yet the theme, as you read the whole gospel, works in reverse. The greatness of God, as seen in this baby and the adult Jesus, chooses to associate with marginal and undesirable people. Jesus was building an upside-down kingdom full of nuisances and nobodies. His vision was for a huge Christmas party, with plenty of good tucker – lamb, Pavlova, mince pies, joy, and laughter - to go around. A party where everyone, particularly those who were vulnerable, suffering in poverty, or despised by religion and society were made especially welcome. The sign on the door read: “Losers Welcome”. And the winners didn’t like it.
The shepherd story has a simple message really. God turns up in the most unlikely places and among the most unlikely people and saying the most unlikely things. You’ll probably find God round the back rather than out front, pulling weeds rather than pulling rank, looking grubby rather than looking grand. If God can visit shepherds God can even visit you, and just might.
If you go looking for God here are some hints: Firstly, avoid powerful people who think they can stuff God in their pockets. Secondly, don’t discount those in trouble with the law or who tell you about seeing white-winged apparitions. Thirdly, be mindful of the little things in life, like babies and animals. That which is small, local, fragile, and unpredictable is, in God’s upside-down scheme of things, often where hope is to be found.
12/12/2006
Defying Sense
You get some cents. But it also defies sense. Why should you receive money for teeth? Teeth aren’t recyclable or usable in a commercial sense. There is no economic reason for the recompense.
Jim, my friend, is also suspicious about the recompense. “Why,” he asks me, “must we mark each transitional stage in a child’s life with gifts? We give them gifts at birth, baptism, and birthdays. Money, money, money. Why can’t we value children differently than this? Isn’t the Tooth Fairy just a manifestation of capitalism: everything has a price - even teeth!”
There is some sense in what Jim says. Yes, we could try and close down the whole gift-giving industry putting the Tooth Fairy, Santa, the Elves, and hundreds of Warehouse employees out of work. We would also close down part of ourselves. The part that wants to give to others.
In Tooth Fairy thought the cents, the coin under the pillow, is undeserved. It is gift. It is not earned. The tooth doesn’t earn money. But the gift does acknowledge the pain of the past. And it is a vehicle for the giver to express practical compassion.
The role of Tooth Fairy non-sense is to help us live out and encourage each other in compassion, undeserved giving, and providing recompense for pain and hardship. Justice needs to be cultivated, and at some point needs to be about cents.
Jim, my friend, is also suspicious about the recompense. “Why,” he asks me, “must we mark each transitional stage in a child’s life with gifts? We give them gifts at birth, baptism, and birthdays. Money, money, money. Why can’t we value children differently than this? Isn’t the Tooth Fairy just a manifestation of capitalism: everything has a price - even teeth!”
There is some sense in what Jim says. Yes, we could try and close down the whole gift-giving industry putting the Tooth Fairy, Santa, the Elves, and hundreds of Warehouse employees out of work. We would also close down part of ourselves. The part that wants to give to others.
In Tooth Fairy thought the cents, the coin under the pillow, is undeserved. It is gift. It is not earned. The tooth doesn’t earn money. But the gift does acknowledge the pain of the past. And it is a vehicle for the giver to express practical compassion.
The role of Tooth Fairy non-sense is to help us live out and encourage each other in compassion, undeserved giving, and providing recompense for pain and hardship. Justice needs to be cultivated, and at some point needs to be about cents.
12/01/2006
Simple Theology - courtesy of the Fairy
There is a myth that most children discard somewhere around the age of eight: the Tooth Fairy. They write off the Tooth Fairy as nonsense. The cents gained from the story have been spent. It was good while it lasted. Now on to other things. It’s like a cell-phone with no battery: throw it into a baby’s toy box and forget it!
I like the Tooth Fairy. She or he performs a simple function, for no apparent reasons, inspired by no apparent motive, save to compensate children for the pain they have endured in shedding a tooth. The Tooth Fairy stands for justice.
There are many questions one could ask of the Tooth Fairy and her/his admirers. A seven year old interrogates his father:
“Dad, prove the Tooth Fairy exists?”
“Well, Johnny your teeth disappear from under your pillow and money appears.”
“I know. You do it.”
“So, you think I’m a fairy?”
“Ahhh.. Yes.”
“Well, I know it seems difficult to believe but the Tooth Fairy is bigger than me.”
And so continues the dance between logic and illogic, between sense and nonsense.
The more sophisticated seven year old moves the questions up a notch:
“Dad, what use does the Tooth Fairy have for teeth?”
“Dad, what’s the going rate for teeth and who sets the rate?” [I have yet to hear an adult-to-adult conversation on this one].
“Dad, why must my tooth go under a pillow? Why not leave it beside my bed? Why’s the Fairy into pillows?”
“Dad, why does the Tooth Fairy leave money?”
The last question, in particular, is one that, similar to the opening of a curtain, allows the world to be seen differently. The horizon starts to expand. The Tooth Fairy leaves money as an acknowledgement that children suffer pain. That such suffering is as unfair as it is inevitable. The Tooth Fairy is a mythic figure of compassion and justice.
Tooth Fairy theology, when you think about it, has some great advantages:
1. It’s simple. Teeth for money. Only a pillow required. No sophisticated belief system with creeds, clergy, and churches.
2. It deftly avoids the politics of dress, gender, body, and religion. Our imaginations shape the Tooth Fairy. S/he doesn’t need a historical, cultural context, or a pouncy red suit with matching beard and reindeer, in order to be authentic. S/he can just do their own thing: conservative or camp, trendy or trashy. The Tooth Fairy fits every size, every political persuasion. S/he is user-friendly.
3. The Tooth Fairy has a single message: practical recompense for pain.
I like the Tooth Fairy. She or he performs a simple function, for no apparent reasons, inspired by no apparent motive, save to compensate children for the pain they have endured in shedding a tooth. The Tooth Fairy stands for justice.
There are many questions one could ask of the Tooth Fairy and her/his admirers. A seven year old interrogates his father:
“Dad, prove the Tooth Fairy exists?”
“Well, Johnny your teeth disappear from under your pillow and money appears.”
“I know. You do it.”
“So, you think I’m a fairy?”
“Ahhh.. Yes.”
“Well, I know it seems difficult to believe but the Tooth Fairy is bigger than me.”
And so continues the dance between logic and illogic, between sense and nonsense.
The more sophisticated seven year old moves the questions up a notch:
“Dad, what use does the Tooth Fairy have for teeth?”
“Dad, what’s the going rate for teeth and who sets the rate?” [I have yet to hear an adult-to-adult conversation on this one].
“Dad, why must my tooth go under a pillow? Why not leave it beside my bed? Why’s the Fairy into pillows?”
“Dad, why does the Tooth Fairy leave money?”
The last question, in particular, is one that, similar to the opening of a curtain, allows the world to be seen differently. The horizon starts to expand. The Tooth Fairy leaves money as an acknowledgement that children suffer pain. That such suffering is as unfair as it is inevitable. The Tooth Fairy is a mythic figure of compassion and justice.
Tooth Fairy theology, when you think about it, has some great advantages:
1. It’s simple. Teeth for money. Only a pillow required. No sophisticated belief system with creeds, clergy, and churches.
2. It deftly avoids the politics of dress, gender, body, and religion. Our imaginations shape the Tooth Fairy. S/he doesn’t need a historical, cultural context, or a pouncy red suit with matching beard and reindeer, in order to be authentic. S/he can just do their own thing: conservative or camp, trendy or trashy. The Tooth Fairy fits every size, every political persuasion. S/he is user-friendly.
3. The Tooth Fairy has a single message: practical recompense for pain.
11/19/2006
'Servant Leadership'??
The word “servant” or “serving” needs to be carefully used in relation to Church leadership. As a friend once said, “When I see cleaners, waitresses, and rubbish collectors becoming bishops and priests I’ll believe the Church has servants as leaders.” He has a point. ‘Servant’ has socio-political implications.
What do we mean in the Church by the word ‘serving’? Does it mean that our priest should be on every committee? I would say that reflects an inability to trust others. Does it mean that our priest knows every parishioner’s needs, and where possible attends to them? I think it is the vocation of every Christian to be a good neighbour and care for one another. By expecting the priest to do it we are neglecting our baptismal vocation.
I remember one vicar who for twenty years had a wonderful reputation among his parishioners. He was always there for them, always caring, always available. However in the 20 years he served that parish both his family and his health fell apart. He had succumbed to an uncritical understanding of ‘servant leadership’. There’s little chance that any oppressive government will crucify clergy like him because they’ve already laid down their lives for the Church!
Self-care is not optional. You live what you are. The first responsibility of a leader is to define reality. If reality is solely your business or your Church then you have failed to understand what spirituality is and the importance of the transformative love called God permeating all of your life and relationships. I think a priest’s job description should be simply “To pray Jesus’ vision into being”. Period. But please don’t think I mean something passive when I use the word ‘pray’.
When you are, like me, a recipient of privilege (and it is a privilege to lead) you have the obligation to use that privilege and its power wisely. This is what ‘serving’ is. ‘Serving’ doesn’t mean necessarily doing the dishes. Often it is harder to make small talk with the dignitaries out front than pick up a tea towel out back. ‘Serving’ is about being conscious of the good fortune and grace bestowed upon you, and treating all others with grace and dignity as equals. The opposite is arrogance, which unfortunately is all too common.
The task of the Christian leader is to articulate a vision and to lead people in the transformation of society in line with that vision. Further, and intimately connected with this, is the ability to live and engender the spirituality that will sustain both the struggle and its outcome. This is how Jesus led. When he died he left others to manage. Thankfully some of them had the courage and tenacity to lead.
What do we mean in the Church by the word ‘serving’? Does it mean that our priest should be on every committee? I would say that reflects an inability to trust others. Does it mean that our priest knows every parishioner’s needs, and where possible attends to them? I think it is the vocation of every Christian to be a good neighbour and care for one another. By expecting the priest to do it we are neglecting our baptismal vocation.
I remember one vicar who for twenty years had a wonderful reputation among his parishioners. He was always there for them, always caring, always available. However in the 20 years he served that parish both his family and his health fell apart. He had succumbed to an uncritical understanding of ‘servant leadership’. There’s little chance that any oppressive government will crucify clergy like him because they’ve already laid down their lives for the Church!
Self-care is not optional. You live what you are. The first responsibility of a leader is to define reality. If reality is solely your business or your Church then you have failed to understand what spirituality is and the importance of the transformative love called God permeating all of your life and relationships. I think a priest’s job description should be simply “To pray Jesus’ vision into being”. Period. But please don’t think I mean something passive when I use the word ‘pray’.
When you are, like me, a recipient of privilege (and it is a privilege to lead) you have the obligation to use that privilege and its power wisely. This is what ‘serving’ is. ‘Serving’ doesn’t mean necessarily doing the dishes. Often it is harder to make small talk with the dignitaries out front than pick up a tea towel out back. ‘Serving’ is about being conscious of the good fortune and grace bestowed upon you, and treating all others with grace and dignity as equals. The opposite is arrogance, which unfortunately is all too common.
The task of the Christian leader is to articulate a vision and to lead people in the transformation of society in line with that vision. Further, and intimately connected with this, is the ability to live and engender the spirituality that will sustain both the struggle and its outcome. This is how Jesus led. When he died he left others to manage. Thankfully some of them had the courage and tenacity to lead.
11/17/2006
Management or Leadership
Two stories, one of good management and one of good leadership:
“An influential British politician kept pestering Disraeli for a baronetcy. The Prime Minister could not see his way to obliging the man but he managed to refuse him without hurting his feelings. He said, “I am sorry I cannot give you a baronetcy, but I can give you something better: you can tell your friends that I offered you the baronetcy and that you turned it down.”[i]
Good management. Now for good leadership:
“Of the great Zen Master Rinzai it was said that each night the last thing he did before he went to bed was let out a great belly laugh that resounded through the corridors and was heard in every building of the monastery grounds. And the first thing he did when he woke at dawn was burst into peals of laughter so loud they woke up every monk no matter how deep his slumber.”[ii]
Good leadership. A leader defines reality - both for him/herself and for others. That’s what that laugh was doing. How much laughter is there in your Church or workplace?
[i] De Mello, A. The Prayer Of The Frog, Anand : Gujarat Sahitya Prakash, 1988, p.154
[ii] De Mello, A. The Prayer Of The Frog, p.172.
“An influential British politician kept pestering Disraeli for a baronetcy. The Prime Minister could not see his way to obliging the man but he managed to refuse him without hurting his feelings. He said, “I am sorry I cannot give you a baronetcy, but I can give you something better: you can tell your friends that I offered you the baronetcy and that you turned it down.”[i]
Good management. Now for good leadership:
“Of the great Zen Master Rinzai it was said that each night the last thing he did before he went to bed was let out a great belly laugh that resounded through the corridors and was heard in every building of the monastery grounds. And the first thing he did when he woke at dawn was burst into peals of laughter so loud they woke up every monk no matter how deep his slumber.”[ii]
Good leadership. A leader defines reality - both for him/herself and for others. That’s what that laugh was doing. How much laughter is there in your Church or workplace?
[i] De Mello, A. The Prayer Of The Frog, Anand : Gujarat Sahitya Prakash, 1988, p.154
[ii] De Mello, A. The Prayer Of The Frog, p.172.
11/16/2006
Jesus not managing contd.
Jesus promoted a political and spiritual vision of an upside down kingdom where the last are first and the first slaves. It is a place where the CEO’s wash the feet of the unemployed. It is a place where the outsiders are in, and the insiders choose to be out. It is a place where the 99 sheep are deserted in order that the lost one is found. It is a place where the despicable find a home.
In this vision Jesus, despite the wishful thinking of many of his followers, will not sit on a throne with his trusted lieutenants beside him, sycophants serving him, and his heavenly army available in the wings. Rather it is a vision that led to the cross. The forces of oppression nailed him. Two thieves were beside him. Roman soldiers took his meagre assets. His only faithful ‘army’ were a few wailing women. Siding with outsiders made Jesus an outsider. He died an outsider’s death. By threatening the powerful Jesus became a threat. There is a terrible cost to ignoring ideological safety.
The leadership of Jesus demanded something of his followers, and demands something of us. It demands commitment to making his vision a reality in our lives. As Ghandi said, “We must become the change we want to see.” It demands a commitment to stand with outsiders and both criticise and seek to dismantle the structures that keep them there. When you stand with outsiders in time you become one.
Most of what is called leadership today in the Church is a blend of management and leadership. We need both. The worry is that, firstly, in the order to maintain ‘productivity’ we will nurture risk-adverse strategies. ‘Keep doing the same things but just do them better!’ And secondly we will encourage our clergy to be managers more than leaders. Despite rhetoric to the contrary the Church employs pastors who primarily serve its institutional needs.
In this vision Jesus, despite the wishful thinking of many of his followers, will not sit on a throne with his trusted lieutenants beside him, sycophants serving him, and his heavenly army available in the wings. Rather it is a vision that led to the cross. The forces of oppression nailed him. Two thieves were beside him. Roman soldiers took his meagre assets. His only faithful ‘army’ were a few wailing women. Siding with outsiders made Jesus an outsider. He died an outsider’s death. By threatening the powerful Jesus became a threat. There is a terrible cost to ignoring ideological safety.
The leadership of Jesus demanded something of his followers, and demands something of us. It demands commitment to making his vision a reality in our lives. As Ghandi said, “We must become the change we want to see.” It demands a commitment to stand with outsiders and both criticise and seek to dismantle the structures that keep them there. When you stand with outsiders in time you become one.
Most of what is called leadership today in the Church is a blend of management and leadership. We need both. The worry is that, firstly, in the order to maintain ‘productivity’ we will nurture risk-adverse strategies. ‘Keep doing the same things but just do them better!’ And secondly we will encourage our clergy to be managers more than leaders. Despite rhetoric to the contrary the Church employs pastors who primarily serve its institutional needs.
11/12/2006
Embracing Life
To embrace and enjoy life is a holy act. Here are a few ideas about how we might do that.
Firstly, make time to stop. There is a child’s road safety maxim to be recited on the kerbside: “Stop, look, and listen.” This saying could equally be applied to those on a spiritual journey. We need to stop when the pressure of life says go. We need to look when we are told to act. And we need to listen when we are being exhorted to speak.
Cycling around the waterfront in the morning, as I often do - penance for all those pastries - it only takes a few moments to stop, dismount, look, breath deeply, listen, say “Gee, its good to be alive”, and then remount and cycle off.
In this busy, noisy world we need the courage to pause and give time to our soul.
Secondly, make time for the earth. Remember the days when most rural towns had a bend in the road when metallic debris was discarded. There was a belief that rubbish would decompose or rust away. The earth would cleanse and renew itself.
That belief is now dead and gone. We now know that we must care for the earth like we care for our aging parents. We can’t presume that the earth will always be able to do what it once did. To be faithful to life requires faithfulness to that which nurtures life’s plants, animals, water, and climate.
Thirdly, make time for outsiders. There are numerous people who feel themselves to be outside of the boundaries of ‘normal’. Whether it is due to wealth, health, sexuality, race, or circumstance, they experience life very differently and often oppressively.
We need to nurture the kindness that steps over or around barriers. ‘Normal’ is a word we need to be wary of. Kindness is a word we need to put into practice. Smiling at people, saying ‘Hi’, communicates that they matter. It also conveys the hope that we all will become better more hospitable neighbours to each other.
Lastly, make time for humour. Absurd and ludicrous things happen every day. We just need to pause and let that tickle touch our funny bone.
I remember once receiving a letter from a misguided environmentalist concerned about the impact of burying bodies in a cemetery. Being the curator of a cemetery at the time I responded in a somewhat warped fashion commenting upon the spirituality of worms. Imagine my amazement when I received an additional letter from the lady taking worm religion very seriously. I hope, and like to believe, that she was smiling when she wrote it.
Make time to laugh.
So let us enjoy and embrace life by remembering what is faithfully worth preserving: our soul, our earth, our hospitality, and our humour.
Firstly, make time to stop. There is a child’s road safety maxim to be recited on the kerbside: “Stop, look, and listen.” This saying could equally be applied to those on a spiritual journey. We need to stop when the pressure of life says go. We need to look when we are told to act. And we need to listen when we are being exhorted to speak.
Cycling around the waterfront in the morning, as I often do - penance for all those pastries - it only takes a few moments to stop, dismount, look, breath deeply, listen, say “Gee, its good to be alive”, and then remount and cycle off.
In this busy, noisy world we need the courage to pause and give time to our soul.
Secondly, make time for the earth. Remember the days when most rural towns had a bend in the road when metallic debris was discarded. There was a belief that rubbish would decompose or rust away. The earth would cleanse and renew itself.
That belief is now dead and gone. We now know that we must care for the earth like we care for our aging parents. We can’t presume that the earth will always be able to do what it once did. To be faithful to life requires faithfulness to that which nurtures life’s plants, animals, water, and climate.
Thirdly, make time for outsiders. There are numerous people who feel themselves to be outside of the boundaries of ‘normal’. Whether it is due to wealth, health, sexuality, race, or circumstance, they experience life very differently and often oppressively.
We need to nurture the kindness that steps over or around barriers. ‘Normal’ is a word we need to be wary of. Kindness is a word we need to put into practice. Smiling at people, saying ‘Hi’, communicates that they matter. It also conveys the hope that we all will become better more hospitable neighbours to each other.
Lastly, make time for humour. Absurd and ludicrous things happen every day. We just need to pause and let that tickle touch our funny bone.
I remember once receiving a letter from a misguided environmentalist concerned about the impact of burying bodies in a cemetery. Being the curator of a cemetery at the time I responded in a somewhat warped fashion commenting upon the spirituality of worms. Imagine my amazement when I received an additional letter from the lady taking worm religion very seriously. I hope, and like to believe, that she was smiling when she wrote it.
Make time to laugh.
So let us enjoy and embrace life by remembering what is faithfully worth preserving: our soul, our earth, our hospitality, and our humour.
11/09/2006
Jesus didn't manage
“Managers are people who do things right, while leaders are people who do the right thing.”
Jesus was a leader, not a manager.
Good management is essential in any organization. People need to be heard and understood. Good processes, protocols, and safety provisions need to be in place. Conflict needs to be mediated and resolved. Employees and clients’ hopes and expectations need to be taken seriously. Good management usually leads to increased productivity and profit. This is what many people understand to be leadership.
There is no evidence in the biblical texts that Jesus was a manager. There are few stories of him patiently mediating in conflicts between the disciples; or emphatically caring for those who gave up their jobs and businesses to follow him; or sitting down and listening to the hopes and fears of his followers. Commentators who believe Jesus pastorally coached his disciples are largely arguing from what is unsaid in the texts rather than what is said.
However there is no doubt in anyone’s mind that Jesus lived and preached a vision, and challenged others to follow him.
I think the Church has a bad habit of trying to domesticate Jesus. It paints him as meek, mild, and obedient, a kindly shepherd unifying the sheep, always ready to listen and comfort. It tries to portray him as apolitical, as if that was possible in 1st century Palestine! Similarly the Church has wanted its leaders to be meek, mild, and obedient, always ready to apolitically pacify and console. ‘Servant leadership’ is the term.
The Church wants to be safe. It wants leaders who will make people feel safe. It asks its leaders to faithfully adhere to the traditions and understandings of the past in the mistaken belief that repetition will bring security. It asks its leaders to care for the members. It asks its leaders to coach and equip the members in caring. And it asks its leaders to care for outsiders - but not at the cost of neglecting the members. Like a well-run club the wellbeing of members is paramount because the highest value in the Church is continuity. Is it accidental then that we appoint people into positions of authority who have highly developed managerial skills?
Jesus wouldn’t have got a job in the Church, and if he had he would have turned it down. The Bible portrays him as confrontational, challenging, and disturbing. He was rude to those in authority. He disregarded the rules. He spent more time with the unfaithful than he did with the faithful. He got into heated arguments and said outlandish things. He had grandiose ideas that didn’t seem to lead anywhere. He was impractical. The bottom line was: Jesus served no one but God. An employee of the club needs to serve the needs of the club.
Jesus was a leader, not a manager.
Good management is essential in any organization. People need to be heard and understood. Good processes, protocols, and safety provisions need to be in place. Conflict needs to be mediated and resolved. Employees and clients’ hopes and expectations need to be taken seriously. Good management usually leads to increased productivity and profit. This is what many people understand to be leadership.
There is no evidence in the biblical texts that Jesus was a manager. There are few stories of him patiently mediating in conflicts between the disciples; or emphatically caring for those who gave up their jobs and businesses to follow him; or sitting down and listening to the hopes and fears of his followers. Commentators who believe Jesus pastorally coached his disciples are largely arguing from what is unsaid in the texts rather than what is said.
However there is no doubt in anyone’s mind that Jesus lived and preached a vision, and challenged others to follow him.
I think the Church has a bad habit of trying to domesticate Jesus. It paints him as meek, mild, and obedient, a kindly shepherd unifying the sheep, always ready to listen and comfort. It tries to portray him as apolitical, as if that was possible in 1st century Palestine! Similarly the Church has wanted its leaders to be meek, mild, and obedient, always ready to apolitically pacify and console. ‘Servant leadership’ is the term.
The Church wants to be safe. It wants leaders who will make people feel safe. It asks its leaders to faithfully adhere to the traditions and understandings of the past in the mistaken belief that repetition will bring security. It asks its leaders to care for the members. It asks its leaders to coach and equip the members in caring. And it asks its leaders to care for outsiders - but not at the cost of neglecting the members. Like a well-run club the wellbeing of members is paramount because the highest value in the Church is continuity. Is it accidental then that we appoint people into positions of authority who have highly developed managerial skills?
Jesus wouldn’t have got a job in the Church, and if he had he would have turned it down. The Bible portrays him as confrontational, challenging, and disturbing. He was rude to those in authority. He disregarded the rules. He spent more time with the unfaithful than he did with the faithful. He got into heated arguments and said outlandish things. He had grandiose ideas that didn’t seem to lead anywhere. He was impractical. The bottom line was: Jesus served no one but God. An employee of the club needs to serve the needs of the club.
11/02/2006
Guy and the Sheik
Guy Fawkes Day is fundamentally not about fireworks, family, and frightened animals. It is about religious dissent. It asks what are appropriate expressions and responses to religious dissent, and whether even today diverse beliefs can coexist in the same society.
Guy Fawkes was born in Yorkshire in 1570 into an upper middle class family. At age 23 he joined the Spanish Army and spent ten years serving on the continent. It was during this time he converted to Roman Catholicism. Upon returning to England he was subjected, like all Catholics, to the repressive decrees instituted by Elizabeth and continued by her successor James I. One decree passed in 1604, for example, imposed heavy fines on Catholics and confiscated their property.
The prevailing 17th century orthodoxy was that England was Anglican and all other expressions of faith were evidence of allegiance to foreign powers and the doorway to treason. Monarchy, nationalism, race, and religion were blended into one. Plurality was not tolerated, and where difference existed it was persecuted.
When Guy Fawkes and his fellow plotters failed with their explosive plan they were hung, drawn, and quartered. Not content to punish just a few the authorities rounded up thousands of innocent Catholics and imprisoned them too. In the paranoiac traditions of religious scapegoating Guy was called the “Great Devil”, and for centuries his stuffed effigy was annually burnt on November 5th. Only in recent years has ‘burning the Guy’ gone out of fashion.
The delineation of the world into goodies and baddies, and good and bad religion, is unfortunately all too common. Fed by the surety of conviction, and satisfying the simple-minded with the promise of security, it has led to the justification of all manner of violence towards those who believe differently. Persecuting religious dissent is a symptom of a weak society, unsure of itself and thus defensive.
Sheikh Alhilali is a close-to-home example of religious dissent. His views to the sensibilities of most are repugnant. ‘Misogynist’, ‘anti-Semitic’, and ‘supporter of Islamic insurgents’ are all labels that have been stuck on him, and not without some justification. He and his supporters protest that he is misunderstood. Most Australians and New Zealanders though can recognise bigotry in religious drag. Anglicans know plenty of examples from our religious past and present!
In the deservedly strong response to the Sheikh’s comments there is a significant number who want to gag him. If the Muslim community to which he is accountable want to censor him that is one thing. When politicians however suggest revoking the Sheikh’s permanent residency status and deporting him that is something else. We need to ask whether we believe in a society where strong and offensive viewpoints can be exchanged.
I don’t want to live in a homogenized society where viewpoints are always sanitized before publication. Bigotry will always be among us. When expressed it is ugly. Yet it won’t go away by muting or banning it. Bigotry needs to be confronted by the reason and experience of others.
Religious history is peppered with the repression of minorities. Some groups within these minorities occasionally responded with violence, like the Gunpowder Plotters. No civil society can tolerate that. However civil society can treat minorities equally before the law and allow minority views to be aired – even the obnoxious ones. It can also then share one of the great gifts of a secular democracy by criticising those obnoxious beliefs to hell.
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