“No, dear, the cuddly, cross-eyed one with the well-worn look and wobbly head
is the churchwarden”
Cartoon: Noel Ford reprinted from the The Church Times
5/27/2006
5/26/2006
A Bear Prayer
God of holiness and love, of imagination and play;
We give thanks for Teddy Bears
And the wonderful ways love enters our lives.
May we value all that brings life and hope,
And be bearers of the same.
Amen.
We give thanks for Teddy Bears
And the wonderful ways love enters our lives.
May we value all that brings life and hope,
And be bearers of the same.
Amen.
5/25/2006
For Lovers of Bears
If you go down in the woods today you’re in for a big surprise. You’ll find the bears are being blessed. On Sunday 28th May, 10.30, St James Anglican Church, Ramsden, Oxfordshire, once in the ancient Wychwood forest, is inviting people to bring out their bears.
This is a wonderful opportunity for children and adults of the village to celebrate their cuddly friends. The service is a way to celebrate the gift of imagination and affirm that part of us that delights in giving and receiving love.
The idea arose on Easter morning over breakfast when a group of us thought it would be fun.
Bears are an important part of many people’s childhood. They come to us furry and clean and after seemingly only a little time start to lose both. As they’re cuddled, carried, sucked, and cherished they lose their pristine appearance and gain love instead. Then, smothered in love, toast crumbs and honey, they become real.
I heard last week of a bear being given to an elderly woman nearing the end of her life who had always enjoyed pets in the house. In her final months she directed her love towards that bear, and received comfort in return. The bear became real.
‘How can you bless Teddy Bears?’ asked one reporter over the phone, ‘They’re not real.’
Words like ‘real’ are given substance by our experience rather than by rational scientific method. We decide what is real. I base my decision to bless on what brings forth life and love.
And every bear that ever was will gather there for certain because…..
Blessed are the Teddy Bears and all who cuddle them.
This is a wonderful opportunity for children and adults of the village to celebrate their cuddly friends. The service is a way to celebrate the gift of imagination and affirm that part of us that delights in giving and receiving love.
The idea arose on Easter morning over breakfast when a group of us thought it would be fun.
Bears are an important part of many people’s childhood. They come to us furry and clean and after seemingly only a little time start to lose both. As they’re cuddled, carried, sucked, and cherished they lose their pristine appearance and gain love instead. Then, smothered in love, toast crumbs and honey, they become real.
I heard last week of a bear being given to an elderly woman nearing the end of her life who had always enjoyed pets in the house. In her final months she directed her love towards that bear, and received comfort in return. The bear became real.
‘How can you bless Teddy Bears?’ asked one reporter over the phone, ‘They’re not real.’
Words like ‘real’ are given substance by our experience rather than by rational scientific method. We decide what is real. I base my decision to bless on what brings forth life and love.
And every bear that ever was will gather there for certain because…..
Blessed are the Teddy Bears and all who cuddle them.
Dear Friends
Dear friends,
A week ago Lucky fell down the stairs and broke two bones in his hand – as well as some bruises elsewhere. Silly ol’ bear!
One effect of this not being able to type at the usual speed. Another effect is Lucky having to be careful – since he’s taking all the little bears to Europe in a fortnight.
Which reminds me: from June 6th to mid-July postings are going to be pretty much non-existent as the bear family go visiting museums, art galleries, etc.
Ciao.
A week ago Lucky fell down the stairs and broke two bones in his hand – as well as some bruises elsewhere. Silly ol’ bear!
One effect of this not being able to type at the usual speed. Another effect is Lucky having to be careful – since he’s taking all the little bears to Europe in a fortnight.
Which reminds me: from June 6th to mid-July postings are going to be pretty much non-existent as the bear family go visiting museums, art galleries, etc.
Ciao.
5/17/2006
Act 1, Scene 2, the biggest box for God
God is often shut up in containers of our making. We create a judging God, a merciful God, or an avenging God. We create a European God, a male God, or a kingly God. We make these containers in order to help us understand our world and God’s role in it. Yet these containers and the thoughts with which we construct them need to be changed and refreshed generation after generation in order that God doesn’t get boxed in.
In pre-democracy times, for example, to acknowledge God as king was to relativize the monarch’s power. The monarch was not absolute and therefore, in theory anyway, was answerable to God.
Similarly Athanasius’ insistence that the man Jesus was, as the Nicene Creed puts it, ‘Very God of very God’ effectively elevated a humble Palestinian carpenter to a position superior to the Emperor’s.
Yet ultimately if these containers aren’t understood as time-dependent metaphors, potentially helpful and harmful, but are expounded as eternal truths, then God is boxed. God is reduced, squeezed into, our understandings of yesteryear. God becomes our possession.
One of the containers we continually dump God into is ‘a being’. We make God into a being, a super-version of us. God ‘smiles’, ‘chuckles’, ‘loves’, etcetera. Many Christians call God ‘Father’, and some ‘Mother’. Some have replaced God with Jesus, and address their prayers to him. Indeed ‘him’ is consistently and uncritically applied to God.
On the one hand making God a being is a convenient and helpful way to talk about the nearness and empathy of God. On the other hand the inability of Christians to talk about God without using anthropomorphic language should alert us to how close we’ve come to making God a product of our projections. God has been dumped in one huge linguistic container and we’ve come close to sealing the lid.
In pre-democracy times, for example, to acknowledge God as king was to relativize the monarch’s power. The monarch was not absolute and therefore, in theory anyway, was answerable to God.
Similarly Athanasius’ insistence that the man Jesus was, as the Nicene Creed puts it, ‘Very God of very God’ effectively elevated a humble Palestinian carpenter to a position superior to the Emperor’s.
Yet ultimately if these containers aren’t understood as time-dependent metaphors, potentially helpful and harmful, but are expounded as eternal truths, then God is boxed. God is reduced, squeezed into, our understandings of yesteryear. God becomes our possession.
One of the containers we continually dump God into is ‘a being’. We make God into a being, a super-version of us. God ‘smiles’, ‘chuckles’, ‘loves’, etcetera. Many Christians call God ‘Father’, and some ‘Mother’. Some have replaced God with Jesus, and address their prayers to him. Indeed ‘him’ is consistently and uncritically applied to God.
On the one hand making God a being is a convenient and helpful way to talk about the nearness and empathy of God. On the other hand the inability of Christians to talk about God without using anthropomorphic language should alert us to how close we’ve come to making God a product of our projections. God has been dumped in one huge linguistic container and we’ve come close to sealing the lid.
5/14/2006
God - Act 1, Scene 1
God. That little three-letter word has caused unbelievable acts of selfless courage and kindness, and unbelievable acts of violence and destruction. In its name both the heights and depths of love and depravity have been achieved.
If we permanently deleted the God word, expunged it to eradicate the worst, we would soon need to find a replacement. For the word is a pointer to something mysterious, powerful, and ultimately unnameable in and beyond human experience.
That is the first thing to note: God can’t be contained. When a religious system creates boundaries around God, invariably God jumps the fence side. When a fundamentalist preacher proclaims, ‘Come tonight and God will heal you’, that impish God who refuses to be in anyone’s pocket smiles and says, ‘Maybe, maybe not.’ When a Pope, Archbishop, Synod, or academic says that God is on our side blessing the way we play and condemning our opponents, then God chuckles and says, ‘I’m not on anyone’s team.’
God however is not an open slate upon which any group or individual can write their own meaning. Each culture, time, and tradition has its controls on the story of God. Each say, ‘God is mostly like this.’ When the faithful adherents however leave out the ‘mostly’, they begin that slide into certainty and the condemnation of those who think differently. They begin to think they have a monopoly on God.
The Second Commandment in the Judeao-Christian heritage admonishes believers not to make any graven image of God. The Commandment is saying that God can’t be contained by our art or by our words. God can only be pointed to. Theology, doctrine, et al are at best pointers. When we enshrine them as absolutes we commit idolatry.
The life, death, and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth similarly needs to understood not as a reduction of God – a compressing of the infinite into the finite – but rather a manifestation of God’s nature and power. There is universe of difference between saying ‘God is Jesus’ and saying ‘Jesus is God’. The former is an idolatrous reduction. This is why the Church avoids such a statement. The latter, at its best, is a pointer to the radical love, compassion, and justice that shapes the Christian understanding of God.
Despite the wisdom of the past, the revelations, the deliberations, the texts, and the people, God remains to a significant extent outside of our containers and our knowledge. God is not humanity’s servant or puppet. This is why we must always remain both open and sceptical to the faith and insights of others, particularly to those who don’t believe like we do.
If we permanently deleted the God word, expunged it to eradicate the worst, we would soon need to find a replacement. For the word is a pointer to something mysterious, powerful, and ultimately unnameable in and beyond human experience.
That is the first thing to note: God can’t be contained. When a religious system creates boundaries around God, invariably God jumps the fence side. When a fundamentalist preacher proclaims, ‘Come tonight and God will heal you’, that impish God who refuses to be in anyone’s pocket smiles and says, ‘Maybe, maybe not.’ When a Pope, Archbishop, Synod, or academic says that God is on our side blessing the way we play and condemning our opponents, then God chuckles and says, ‘I’m not on anyone’s team.’
God however is not an open slate upon which any group or individual can write their own meaning. Each culture, time, and tradition has its controls on the story of God. Each say, ‘God is mostly like this.’ When the faithful adherents however leave out the ‘mostly’, they begin that slide into certainty and the condemnation of those who think differently. They begin to think they have a monopoly on God.
The Second Commandment in the Judeao-Christian heritage admonishes believers not to make any graven image of God. The Commandment is saying that God can’t be contained by our art or by our words. God can only be pointed to. Theology, doctrine, et al are at best pointers. When we enshrine them as absolutes we commit idolatry.
The life, death, and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth similarly needs to understood not as a reduction of God – a compressing of the infinite into the finite – but rather a manifestation of God’s nature and power. There is universe of difference between saying ‘God is Jesus’ and saying ‘Jesus is God’. The former is an idolatrous reduction. This is why the Church avoids such a statement. The latter, at its best, is a pointer to the radical love, compassion, and justice that shapes the Christian understanding of God.
Despite the wisdom of the past, the revelations, the deliberations, the texts, and the people, God remains to a significant extent outside of our containers and our knowledge. God is not humanity’s servant or puppet. This is why we must always remain both open and sceptical to the faith and insights of others, particularly to those who don’t believe like we do.
5/12/2006
Words didn't get in the way
I wandered into Dorchester Abbey the other night to a service unlike any other. It was called Contemplative Fire [www.contemplativefire.org] and was a blend of instrumental music, meditation, prayer and communion.
I wasn’t given a Prayerbook, hymnal, or notice sheet when I arrived. Instead a blank piece of paper and pen. This, we were told, was for doodling and writing anything we wished.
The 60 or so chairs were arranged in a semi-circle in one of the transepts facing the piano. It was here the service began with music, an introduction, and prayer. Importantly there was another similar semi-circle in the entrance area at the rear of the nave. After some 15 minutes we were invited to get up and walk to this area for readings and reflection. Later we would return.
The importance was in the movement. Unlike your standard Anglican fare we were being invited to move around. We would quietly chat as we moved; commenting to those we came with about this or that. We could look at the beautiful building on the way, or stop and sit in the main pews facing the High Altar. Like with the pen and paper inviting freedom of thought, the movement invited freedom to whisper, ponder, and pause in an un-orchestrated fashion. It respected our individuality and different spiritualities. We weren’t being squeezed through a sausage machine.
Later we had communion. It was both simple and profound. An unrobed priest simply took a large loaf of bread and offered a prayer of thanks – linking the bread with life, with the earth, with us, and with God. He then broke it into chunks as another priest recited Paul’s words, ‘On the night Jesus died he gathered with his friends. And after supper he took bread…’ We then filed past in silence, taking a chunk, dipping it in the wine, and walking to some place in the vast abbey to sit quietly and think.
There was no mention of blood sacrifice, there was no invoking of the Holy Spirit, there was no lambs taking away sin, there wasn’t even a Lord’s Prayer. Rather there was silence, and soft instrumental music.
Words didn’t get in the way of worship.
I wasn’t given a Prayerbook, hymnal, or notice sheet when I arrived. Instead a blank piece of paper and pen. This, we were told, was for doodling and writing anything we wished.
The 60 or so chairs were arranged in a semi-circle in one of the transepts facing the piano. It was here the service began with music, an introduction, and prayer. Importantly there was another similar semi-circle in the entrance area at the rear of the nave. After some 15 minutes we were invited to get up and walk to this area for readings and reflection. Later we would return.
The importance was in the movement. Unlike your standard Anglican fare we were being invited to move around. We would quietly chat as we moved; commenting to those we came with about this or that. We could look at the beautiful building on the way, or stop and sit in the main pews facing the High Altar. Like with the pen and paper inviting freedom of thought, the movement invited freedom to whisper, ponder, and pause in an un-orchestrated fashion. It respected our individuality and different spiritualities. We weren’t being squeezed through a sausage machine.
Later we had communion. It was both simple and profound. An unrobed priest simply took a large loaf of bread and offered a prayer of thanks – linking the bread with life, with the earth, with us, and with God. He then broke it into chunks as another priest recited Paul’s words, ‘On the night Jesus died he gathered with his friends. And after supper he took bread…’ We then filed past in silence, taking a chunk, dipping it in the wine, and walking to some place in the vast abbey to sit quietly and think.
There was no mention of blood sacrifice, there was no invoking of the Holy Spirit, there was no lambs taking away sin, there wasn’t even a Lord’s Prayer. Rather there was silence, and soft instrumental music.
Words didn’t get in the way of worship.
5/07/2006
Did Jesus commit suicide?
The four gospel accounts of Jesus death can give the reader the impression that Jesus committed suicide. Rather than his accusers and murderers being in control, it seems he was. Rather than the Romans nailing him to a cross it seems he ‘laid down his life for his friends’. How are we to understand this? Can the victim of a felony have any control over the crime?
Jesus did not commit suicide in the sense of saying to Pilate, ‘Here I am, people need redemption from sin and I’m going to do this cosmic thing… so kill me.’ Yet Jesus did give his life in the sense that he stayed true to his vocation.
When Jesus set his face towards Jerusalem he determined to travel to his culture’s centre of political and religious power to proclaim his message. Confrontational love could not stay hidden under a Galilean bushel, safe in the rural backwoods.
Jesus was not naïve. He knew in all probability that he would be killed. Yet he also knew that he must go and confront the destructive forces with his vision and theology of radical love. This was a decision that his followers found difficult to accept, both before and after his death. It seemed to be that he was just throwing his life away.
I think many of the great leaders of social change reach a point in their lives when it seems that injury or death is almost an inevitable outcome. I think of Mahatma Gandhi confronting the policies and practices of the British Raj. I think of Martin Luther King confronting the segregationist laws on the Southern United States. These people did not wish to die. Indeed they were lovers of life. Yet they were determined to pursue the vocation that they had both adopted and had been thrust upon them. Similarly Jesus remained true to his vocation despite the cost.
It is due to the cost of staying true that Christians honour Jesus on Good Friday. Despite the threat and actuality of physical torture, despite being misunderstood by both friends and foes, despite being betrayed by people he loved, and despite the despair of feeling abandoned by God, Jesus remained true to himself.
Jesus did not commit suicide in the sense of saying to Pilate, ‘Here I am, people need redemption from sin and I’m going to do this cosmic thing… so kill me.’ Yet Jesus did give his life in the sense that he stayed true to his vocation.
When Jesus set his face towards Jerusalem he determined to travel to his culture’s centre of political and religious power to proclaim his message. Confrontational love could not stay hidden under a Galilean bushel, safe in the rural backwoods.
Jesus was not naïve. He knew in all probability that he would be killed. Yet he also knew that he must go and confront the destructive forces with his vision and theology of radical love. This was a decision that his followers found difficult to accept, both before and after his death. It seemed to be that he was just throwing his life away.
I think many of the great leaders of social change reach a point in their lives when it seems that injury or death is almost an inevitable outcome. I think of Mahatma Gandhi confronting the policies and practices of the British Raj. I think of Martin Luther King confronting the segregationist laws on the Southern United States. These people did not wish to die. Indeed they were lovers of life. Yet they were determined to pursue the vocation that they had both adopted and had been thrust upon them. Similarly Jesus remained true to his vocation despite the cost.
It is due to the cost of staying true that Christians honour Jesus on Good Friday. Despite the threat and actuality of physical torture, despite being misunderstood by both friends and foes, despite being betrayed by people he loved, and despite the despair of feeling abandoned by God, Jesus remained true to himself.
5/05/2006
What Happened On Easter Morning
What exactly happened on the first Easter morning will probably never be known. The canonical gospels give us a series of life-changing episodes for various disciples – Mary in the garden, Thomas in the room, Peter out fishing... It is clear that these episodes are not consistent with each other and weren’t meant to be. It is clear that the Jesus they met on those occasions was not in a body like any other – it could pass through walls, or be initially unrecognisable. It is clear that Jesus was not resuscitated nor continued to live to a ripe old age. It is likely that these episodes did not all take place within a 40-day period but were spread out over many years and shaped by Early Church understandings. Was the resurrection phenomena experienced therefore a series of post-traumatic dreams, or imaginative theology consistent with the authors’ worldview, or a ‘real’ death-defying event?
There are a number of Christian responses to this question. The ‘how’ of the resurrection experiences do not overly concern me. While I remain sceptical of answers that defy the normal laws of nature and physics, I also recognize that human knowledge is still in its infancy. There are many things we do not know. I remain, in the best sense of these words, humbly agnostic.
We need to prize the virtue of humility in the encounter with the mystery and magnificence of God. Without switching off our brains we need to acknowledge that the paranormal is not necessarily explainable. We need to remain open to the unknown and unexpected, and being willing to suspend belief and disbelief. It is an attitude of engaging with a story, whether it really happened or not, in order to meet with the truth within it.
I do however believe in the resurrection if one means the spirit of radical love, writ large in Jesus, being discovered by his disciples to have escaped the tomb. I think that slowly and tentatively the disciples came to believe in themselves again and in doing so discovered that the spirit of Jesus was still with them. The feelings they had felt in his presence and the power of his radical love lived on. Indeed as they lived that Love called God they began to impact upon their world in way in which Jesus had only dreamed. I believe too that the resurrection of Jesus continues today as that spirit of Love called God transforms us and transforms our world, bringing forth justice, reconciliation, and hope.
There are a number of Christian responses to this question. The ‘how’ of the resurrection experiences do not overly concern me. While I remain sceptical of answers that defy the normal laws of nature and physics, I also recognize that human knowledge is still in its infancy. There are many things we do not know. I remain, in the best sense of these words, humbly agnostic.
We need to prize the virtue of humility in the encounter with the mystery and magnificence of God. Without switching off our brains we need to acknowledge that the paranormal is not necessarily explainable. We need to remain open to the unknown and unexpected, and being willing to suspend belief and disbelief. It is an attitude of engaging with a story, whether it really happened or not, in order to meet with the truth within it.
I do however believe in the resurrection if one means the spirit of radical love, writ large in Jesus, being discovered by his disciples to have escaped the tomb. I think that slowly and tentatively the disciples came to believe in themselves again and in doing so discovered that the spirit of Jesus was still with them. The feelings they had felt in his presence and the power of his radical love lived on. Indeed as they lived that Love called God they began to impact upon their world in way in which Jesus had only dreamed. I believe too that the resurrection of Jesus continues today as that spirit of Love called God transforms us and transforms our world, bringing forth justice, reconciliation, and hope.
5/04/2006
Jesus didn't die for our sins
Jesus did not die for our sins. The murder of Jesus was not the result of the combined wrongdoings of humanity, past, present and future. It was not a cosmological killing. Jesus’ murder was the result of oppressive Roman practices in the colony of Palestine.
Similarly the resurrection of Jesus does not absolve the combined wrongdoings of humanity. The theory that our wrongdoings are deserving of death, and that Jesus suffered that death in place of us, requires a belief in an ancient judgemental universe where the blood of an innocent has atoning value.
One can however understand the hatred and violence directed at Jesus to be reflective of the opposition radical love encounters. Love grounded in justice seems to elicit loathing. Think of the opposition to and the deaths of Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King. A truly good person can be a victim of others’ hate.
Opposition to radical love can manifest itself as envy, malice, greed, bitterness, self-loathing, and/or violence. It is destructive upon individuals and communities. It divides people into winners and losers. It is fearful of change and those advocating it. It can destroy the beautiful and the good.
Jesus death then in this sense can be understood as the death of radical love and the triumph of hate. Violence thought it had won. It thought it had destroyed the love power of Jesus.
The resurrection said otherwise. The grave did not overcome the love of God. Rather the weakness of that radical love conquered the mighty powers of destruction and death as it took hold in the lives and communities of Jesus’ followers.
That justice-infused-love seeped out of the ground of Palestine and into the lives of his intrepid followers. Similarly it seeped out of them and into the countless men, women, and children over the centuries that have endeavoured to live the confrontational compassion of Jesus.
The whole of Jesus’ life therefore was in a sense ‘saving’. The whole of his life provides us with the inspiration to live self-giving love and the insight that this is what it means to live in God.
Similarly the resurrection of Jesus does not absolve the combined wrongdoings of humanity. The theory that our wrongdoings are deserving of death, and that Jesus suffered that death in place of us, requires a belief in an ancient judgemental universe where the blood of an innocent has atoning value.
One can however understand the hatred and violence directed at Jesus to be reflective of the opposition radical love encounters. Love grounded in justice seems to elicit loathing. Think of the opposition to and the deaths of Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King. A truly good person can be a victim of others’ hate.
Opposition to radical love can manifest itself as envy, malice, greed, bitterness, self-loathing, and/or violence. It is destructive upon individuals and communities. It divides people into winners and losers. It is fearful of change and those advocating it. It can destroy the beautiful and the good.
Jesus death then in this sense can be understood as the death of radical love and the triumph of hate. Violence thought it had won. It thought it had destroyed the love power of Jesus.
The resurrection said otherwise. The grave did not overcome the love of God. Rather the weakness of that radical love conquered the mighty powers of destruction and death as it took hold in the lives and communities of Jesus’ followers.
That justice-infused-love seeped out of the ground of Palestine and into the lives of his intrepid followers. Similarly it seeped out of them and into the countless men, women, and children over the centuries that have endeavoured to live the confrontational compassion of Jesus.
The whole of Jesus’ life therefore was in a sense ‘saving’. The whole of his life provides us with the inspiration to live self-giving love and the insight that this is what it means to live in God.
4/28/2006
More heresy
Jesus did not die because his ‘Father’ decided to sacrifice him in order to save humanity. Such thinking turns God into an unfeeling monster and the antithesis of love. Loving fathers today do not send their sons to die. The biblical references to Jesus’ death as a sacrifice are part of that early church process of finding meaning from their existing cultural and historical metaphors. I think we need to be brave enough to say that many of those metaphors are no longer appropriate to our culture and time, and indeed are significant stumbling blocks in communicating the nature of the Christian God to our society.
One of the urgent tasks of the Church is to rewrite its liturgies. Anglican liturgy, for example, is riddled with notions of sin, sacrifice, and blood. Whether understood literally or metaphorically the language conveys a worldview that society by and large has long rejected. We no longer believe that people are born sinful. We no longer believe in a God who requires people to be sent to Hell because of their sin. We no longer believe that in order for people to get to Heaven they need the blood sacrifice of a righteous saviour. We no longer believe that when we sip the wine at communion we are drinking Jesus’ blood. We may want to keep some of the metaphorical understandings of this tradition but the likelihood of being misunderstood is huge.
Instead we need to bring the resources of our best poets and writers to the task of writing liturgies celebrating the love, joy, and grace of God made known in Jesus and our experience. We need to find ways of talking about our need to change and grow without labelling people as sinful or wicked. We need to find ways to learn from the past without sanctifying carte blanche the writings of ancient cultures. We need to find ways to proclaim the triumph of goodness without excusing the triumphalist practices of yesteryear. We need to find ways of talking about the cost of love without turning Jesus’ death into a primitive atoning blood sacrifice.
One of the urgent tasks of the Church is to rewrite its liturgies. Anglican liturgy, for example, is riddled with notions of sin, sacrifice, and blood. Whether understood literally or metaphorically the language conveys a worldview that society by and large has long rejected. We no longer believe that people are born sinful. We no longer believe in a God who requires people to be sent to Hell because of their sin. We no longer believe that in order for people to get to Heaven they need the blood sacrifice of a righteous saviour. We no longer believe that when we sip the wine at communion we are drinking Jesus’ blood. We may want to keep some of the metaphorical understandings of this tradition but the likelihood of being misunderstood is huge.
Instead we need to bring the resources of our best poets and writers to the task of writing liturgies celebrating the love, joy, and grace of God made known in Jesus and our experience. We need to find ways of talking about our need to change and grow without labelling people as sinful or wicked. We need to find ways to learn from the past without sanctifying carte blanche the writings of ancient cultures. We need to find ways to proclaim the triumph of goodness without excusing the triumphalist practices of yesteryear. We need to find ways of talking about the cost of love without turning Jesus’ death into a primitive atoning blood sacrifice.
4/27/2006
Barbeque the Bear!
‘Are you a heretic?’ I was asked from across the room.
I laughed. Oxford is a town that has burnt a few. Only the other day I walked across the X in the middle of Broad Street where Cramner breathed his last.
The questioner seemed to assume a continuum from orthodoxy to heresy. I prefer to think that there are a number of valid Christian theological positions on a variety of issues, each trying to be true to their time, culture, and inherent understandings. So, for example, the basic evangelical atonement theory [actually ‘theories’] while being a nonsense to someone like me does have sound historical and theological roots. Christianity must try its best to evade an international standardization that insists on everyone thinking the same.
‘Are you a heretic?’ The context of the question was my belief that the status of the afterlife did not change post 33 CE. In other words, I believe Joe Average who died in 33 BCE, before God and Jesus did the death and resurrection thing, was embraced after he died by the God called Love. Similarly, Josephine Average, who died in 50 CE, and who knew and believed in Jesus, was also embraced after death by the God called Love. God didn’t change. The nature of God didn’t change through the life death and resurrection of Jesus, rather it was revealed.
What do you think? Should I burn?
I laughed. Oxford is a town that has burnt a few. Only the other day I walked across the X in the middle of Broad Street where Cramner breathed his last.
The questioner seemed to assume a continuum from orthodoxy to heresy. I prefer to think that there are a number of valid Christian theological positions on a variety of issues, each trying to be true to their time, culture, and inherent understandings. So, for example, the basic evangelical atonement theory [actually ‘theories’] while being a nonsense to someone like me does have sound historical and theological roots. Christianity must try its best to evade an international standardization that insists on everyone thinking the same.
‘Are you a heretic?’ The context of the question was my belief that the status of the afterlife did not change post 33 CE. In other words, I believe Joe Average who died in 33 BCE, before God and Jesus did the death and resurrection thing, was embraced after he died by the God called Love. Similarly, Josephine Average, who died in 50 CE, and who knew and believed in Jesus, was also embraced after death by the God called Love. God didn’t change. The nature of God didn’t change through the life death and resurrection of Jesus, rather it was revealed.
What do you think? Should I burn?
4/23/2006
believing in hope, daring to act
On Easter Sunday a Roman Catholic priest, Iggy O’Donovan, and his neighbour an Anglican priest, Michael Graham, concelebrated the Eucharist together in an Augustinian Priory in County Lough, Eire. They broke bread and drank wine together in memory of Jesus. A number of Catholics and Anglicans were present. The Augustinian priests also joined in.
This celebration made the front page of the Irish Times, as did the negative responses of their respective archbishops. It was also the basis of the lead opinion piece the next day and numerous letters to the editor. They unanimously applauded the actions of those at the Priory.
“There were once two men, both servants of God, who lived at a time of strife in their country. Once was a chief priest of his denomination and a man of conscience.
He stuck close to God and did not mix with Samaritans or any who expressed their belief in God in a different way.
He held to his position even while around him members of his denomination and others went to war, sometimes through words, sometimes through violence. He stood apart, an icon of his integrity.
The other was a teacher and a high priest in his own denomination.
One day he happened, by accident, to be in the city during an outbreak of violence between followers of his own denomination and Samaritans. He was appalled that the Samaritans in particular, and religion in general, should be treated in this way.
He organised a special service and arranged for a local Samaritan priest and his followers being embraced in warm welcome by the former adversaries.
Which of these men did the will of God?”
Mr McGarry, who penned the parable, was not concerned about the different theological understandings of the Mass held by Catholics and Anglicans. Rather he was concerned that, in the context of Ireland, Catholics and Anglicans should come together and proclaim their faith by their actions.
Fr. Iggy who instigated the concelebration said that he had returned to Dublin the day before the riots last February and was shocked by the ‘sheer visceral sectarian hatred of those young people’. He decided to do something about it.
As for the differences in theology, Fr Iggy said he celebrated ‘the Eucharist every day with Roman Catholics whose theology I do not share.’
Following the concelebration archbishops Brady and Eames, both highly respected men, expressed concern that such initiatives could cause widespread confusion, raising false hopes and producing misunderstandings. Ecumenical sensitivity is important.
Yet there is widespread impatience with sensitivity, as evidenced by the letters to the paper. Amongst ordinary laity and clergy in many countries, not just Ireland, there is a feeling that Catholics and Anglicans have far more in common than not in common. We both believe in Jesus. We both are committed to justice and peace. We both worship God. We both pray. Why then is it not possible from time to time for us to celebrate the Eucharist together?
Some of the more boring pieces of church literature to land on a cleric’s desk are the occasional reports of Anglican Roman Catholic International Commission. This group of leaders and academics try to find common ground in the numerous issues that divide us. They have been meeting and producing reports for years. They seem to make little headway.
I don’t think there are many Anglicans or Catholics who want to join together into one denomination. We value our own traditions and don’t want to lose them. From my perspective things like papal infallibility and the exclusion of women from ordained ministry are insurmountable obstacles to a merging of the churches.
Yet from time to time ordinary Christians want to get together, if simply to celebrate the fact of our common allegiance to God in Jesus, and to break bread and share wine when we do so. At those times it is the sensitivities of our leaders that can be a barrier to our witness.
It was the witness, the message of Christians to society, which was all-important to those who gathered at the Augustinian Priory. Can Christians share with one another in a land renowned for Christians being suspicious of one another? A group of priests and laity answered with a resounding ‘Yes!’
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if next week all over Ireland Catholics and Anglicans did likewise? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the week after that in every country where Christians gather it spread like spring flowers, bursting forth here and there, in high places and low, surprising us with hope and joy?
This celebration made the front page of the Irish Times, as did the negative responses of their respective archbishops. It was also the basis of the lead opinion piece the next day and numerous letters to the editor. They unanimously applauded the actions of those at the Priory.
“There were once two men, both servants of God, who lived at a time of strife in their country. Once was a chief priest of his denomination and a man of conscience.
He stuck close to God and did not mix with Samaritans or any who expressed their belief in God in a different way.
He held to his position even while around him members of his denomination and others went to war, sometimes through words, sometimes through violence. He stood apart, an icon of his integrity.
The other was a teacher and a high priest in his own denomination.
One day he happened, by accident, to be in the city during an outbreak of violence between followers of his own denomination and Samaritans. He was appalled that the Samaritans in particular, and religion in general, should be treated in this way.
He organised a special service and arranged for a local Samaritan priest and his followers being embraced in warm welcome by the former adversaries.
Which of these men did the will of God?”
Mr McGarry, who penned the parable, was not concerned about the different theological understandings of the Mass held by Catholics and Anglicans. Rather he was concerned that, in the context of Ireland, Catholics and Anglicans should come together and proclaim their faith by their actions.
Fr. Iggy who instigated the concelebration said that he had returned to Dublin the day before the riots last February and was shocked by the ‘sheer visceral sectarian hatred of those young people’. He decided to do something about it.
As for the differences in theology, Fr Iggy said he celebrated ‘the Eucharist every day with Roman Catholics whose theology I do not share.’
Following the concelebration archbishops Brady and Eames, both highly respected men, expressed concern that such initiatives could cause widespread confusion, raising false hopes and producing misunderstandings. Ecumenical sensitivity is important.
Yet there is widespread impatience with sensitivity, as evidenced by the letters to the paper. Amongst ordinary laity and clergy in many countries, not just Ireland, there is a feeling that Catholics and Anglicans have far more in common than not in common. We both believe in Jesus. We both are committed to justice and peace. We both worship God. We both pray. Why then is it not possible from time to time for us to celebrate the Eucharist together?
Some of the more boring pieces of church literature to land on a cleric’s desk are the occasional reports of Anglican Roman Catholic International Commission. This group of leaders and academics try to find common ground in the numerous issues that divide us. They have been meeting and producing reports for years. They seem to make little headway.
I don’t think there are many Anglicans or Catholics who want to join together into one denomination. We value our own traditions and don’t want to lose them. From my perspective things like papal infallibility and the exclusion of women from ordained ministry are insurmountable obstacles to a merging of the churches.
Yet from time to time ordinary Christians want to get together, if simply to celebrate the fact of our common allegiance to God in Jesus, and to break bread and share wine when we do so. At those times it is the sensitivities of our leaders that can be a barrier to our witness.
It was the witness, the message of Christians to society, which was all-important to those who gathered at the Augustinian Priory. Can Christians share with one another in a land renowned for Christians being suspicious of one another? A group of priests and laity answered with a resounding ‘Yes!’
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if next week all over Ireland Catholics and Anglicans did likewise? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the week after that in every country where Christians gather it spread like spring flowers, bursting forth here and there, in high places and low, surprising us with hope and joy?
4/16/2006
Pot Holes
I really get sick of pot holes.
Like today I was out for a lovely drive in through the countryside… enjoying the scenery… when I happened not to see the latest cavity. Bang! The whole car juddered and shuddered and an expletive escaped my lips. For the next few miles I endeavoured to regain my serenity.
My experience of church liturgies is often similar.
You see I am one of those people who don’t believe God is male. Or female either for that matter. Yet peppered throughout liturgical language are ‘Father’, ‘Lord’, ‘He,’ ‘Him,’ etcetera. These words are used almost as frequently as punctuation marks. I experience them as spiritual pot holes.
Now I pride myself on being a tolerant person. I know the maleness and anthropomorphic nature of the Divine is very important for a number of people. I also know that others enjoy the poetic nature of some older liturgies so much they are prepared to tolerate words they no longer believe. So for 20 years as a priest I have said and lead liturgies where this male God is present. I have done this because, using my driving metaphor, I enjoy the spiritual countryside so much that a few pot holes are not going to deter me.
However there comes a time when the road is literally littered with pot holes. Instead of spiritually swerving around them, using the best of my mental agilities, they are so numerous that I start to no longer enjoy the drive. If God is unassailably male, and we are constantly reminded of it, then the spiritual life of many Christians, me included, suffers.
Many years ago I was travelling in Chad. Most buildings sported bullet holes. The main roads had suffered a similar fate. Indeed the pot holes were so huge and numerous that the locals had created dirt roads alongside the main highway. Nearly everyone used the dirt roads.
My fear is that if the Church does not attend to its language, which is the primary means for portraying its images of God, and the pot holes of a male divinity continue unchecked, more and more people will choose not to drive on the road. In other words, people increasingly will choose to nourish their spirituality separate from the Christian Church, or just pay occasional visits.
Nobody likes pot holes.
Like today I was out for a lovely drive in through the countryside… enjoying the scenery… when I happened not to see the latest cavity. Bang! The whole car juddered and shuddered and an expletive escaped my lips. For the next few miles I endeavoured to regain my serenity.
My experience of church liturgies is often similar.
You see I am one of those people who don’t believe God is male. Or female either for that matter. Yet peppered throughout liturgical language are ‘Father’, ‘Lord’, ‘He,’ ‘Him,’ etcetera. These words are used almost as frequently as punctuation marks. I experience them as spiritual pot holes.
Now I pride myself on being a tolerant person. I know the maleness and anthropomorphic nature of the Divine is very important for a number of people. I also know that others enjoy the poetic nature of some older liturgies so much they are prepared to tolerate words they no longer believe. So for 20 years as a priest I have said and lead liturgies where this male God is present. I have done this because, using my driving metaphor, I enjoy the spiritual countryside so much that a few pot holes are not going to deter me.
However there comes a time when the road is literally littered with pot holes. Instead of spiritually swerving around them, using the best of my mental agilities, they are so numerous that I start to no longer enjoy the drive. If God is unassailably male, and we are constantly reminded of it, then the spiritual life of many Christians, me included, suffers.
Many years ago I was travelling in Chad. Most buildings sported bullet holes. The main roads had suffered a similar fate. Indeed the pot holes were so huge and numerous that the locals had created dirt roads alongside the main highway. Nearly everyone used the dirt roads.
My fear is that if the Church does not attend to its language, which is the primary means for portraying its images of God, and the pot holes of a male divinity continue unchecked, more and more people will choose not to drive on the road. In other words, people increasingly will choose to nourish their spirituality separate from the Christian Church, or just pay occasional visits.
Nobody likes pot holes.
4/14/2006
Prayer of the Bear - Holy Sharing
Jesus said he would be known in the breaking of bread.
Whenever two or three gathered together
Wherever the simple act of breaking happened
Whenever there was sharing.
For breaking is taking what we have and sharing.
It is not rocket science, but almost as costly.
It is sharing our everyday sustenance
It is sharing in order that all have some and we have less.
In God’s dream there is such a thing as “too much” and “too little”.
There is such a thing as ‘fat’ countries and ‘skinny’ ones.
The world’s daily bread is not shared equally
And we all are the poorer for it.
When we break bread in memory of Jesus we dream a dream.
A simple dream that isn’t too hard to grasp:
Jesus can come alive, blessing here and everywhere,
If only we take, break, and give what we have.
O Risen Christ, who made yourself known in the breaking of the bread;
The bread we bread at this Communion table
Is a sign of the brokenness of all the world;
Through our sharing in the bread of life
Open our eyes, hearts, and hands to the needs of all people.
Whenever two or three gathered together
Wherever the simple act of breaking happened
Whenever there was sharing.
For breaking is taking what we have and sharing.
It is not rocket science, but almost as costly.
It is sharing our everyday sustenance
It is sharing in order that all have some and we have less.
In God’s dream there is such a thing as “too much” and “too little”.
There is such a thing as ‘fat’ countries and ‘skinny’ ones.
The world’s daily bread is not shared equally
And we all are the poorer for it.
When we break bread in memory of Jesus we dream a dream.
A simple dream that isn’t too hard to grasp:
Jesus can come alive, blessing here and everywhere,
If only we take, break, and give what we have.
O Risen Christ, who made yourself known in the breaking of the bread;
The bread we bread at this Communion table
Is a sign of the brokenness of all the world;
Through our sharing in the bread of life
Open our eyes, hearts, and hands to the needs of all people.
4/11/2006
On the Edge of Ultimate Mystery and Nothingness
I first learnt about prayer in a church. Week by week I sat in a half-empty church, kneeling quietly, and listening to the Minister exuding a pious ambience say words which had little meaning for me. What did have meaning, though I could not have articulated it at the time, was the feeling that I was in the presence of something larger than myself or the other people present. Whether it was the candles, the darkened wood, the stained glass, or high-ceilings, I don’t know… but something conveyed to me the mystery and wonder of the Holy.
I was then fortunate to be inculcated into a 1970s form of evangelicalism. By means of a simple formula I took Jesus to be my personal saviour and lord. One result of this was to be taught another way to pray. Instead of reciting responses in church I was now encouraged to imagine an invisible Jesus in my bedroom to whom I could chat at will. God was a human-shaped being who wanted to be my personal friend.
Chatting to Jesus served me well through adolescence. I remember walking through the bush on the way home from school sharing all the ups and downs of my day with my invisible friend, one who would never interrupt my monologue with his own needs. Of course I still went to church, though usually to services where songs were accompanied by guitars and repeated over and over. The personal god, Jesus, I was told wanted us to endlessly sing his praises.
Sometime in my teens Jesus the personal god became too small for me. I wanted something more, something that would interrupt me, even disturb me. I wanted to find a god who didn’t need sycophants to sing his praises. I was dissatisfied too with the glib and circular answers to hard questions like the persistence of pain, suffering and evil.
I then began a different type of journey, walking without knowing the destination, finding sustenance amongst unlikely people and thoughts, and all the time looking for ways to pray and being sustained by them. I meditated with other Christians, learnt Christian mantras, went on prayer walks and pilgrimages, was nourished by Taize and the Daily Office, and sat staring at candles for long periods of time. Poetry, music, prose, and silence were all part of my prayer. I also attended many churches and the holy places of other traditions, enjoying the beauty of some buildings and the care people took of them, and being repulsed by others. I enjoyed a variety of communities, worshipping styles and musical traditions, each trying to express that which was beyond words: a yearning and connectedness with the Divine.
Over these past thirty years I have sought a God whose vastness is honoured and who resists being reduced to fit our needs. I’ve sought a God who is both mystery and intimate, both lover and tormentor.
My experience has been that whenever I grab a model of God too hard it cracks. Father God cracked long ago. Mother God didn’t last too long either. God as Santa Claus was always seriously flawed. God as a being was doomed too. God as being lasted longer. God as comforter didn’t survive Elie Wiesel’s writings. God as ocean has enduring properties as does God as love, but both can be elusive. Even God as noun cracked.
This ongoing iconoclastic experience of searching, finding, relating, holding on, being held, letting go, and losing, has shaped my prayer. It’s been a spirited exchange on the edge of ultimate mystery and nothingness.
I was then fortunate to be inculcated into a 1970s form of evangelicalism. By means of a simple formula I took Jesus to be my personal saviour and lord. One result of this was to be taught another way to pray. Instead of reciting responses in church I was now encouraged to imagine an invisible Jesus in my bedroom to whom I could chat at will. God was a human-shaped being who wanted to be my personal friend.
Chatting to Jesus served me well through adolescence. I remember walking through the bush on the way home from school sharing all the ups and downs of my day with my invisible friend, one who would never interrupt my monologue with his own needs. Of course I still went to church, though usually to services where songs were accompanied by guitars and repeated over and over. The personal god, Jesus, I was told wanted us to endlessly sing his praises.
Sometime in my teens Jesus the personal god became too small for me. I wanted something more, something that would interrupt me, even disturb me. I wanted to find a god who didn’t need sycophants to sing his praises. I was dissatisfied too with the glib and circular answers to hard questions like the persistence of pain, suffering and evil.
I then began a different type of journey, walking without knowing the destination, finding sustenance amongst unlikely people and thoughts, and all the time looking for ways to pray and being sustained by them. I meditated with other Christians, learnt Christian mantras, went on prayer walks and pilgrimages, was nourished by Taize and the Daily Office, and sat staring at candles for long periods of time. Poetry, music, prose, and silence were all part of my prayer. I also attended many churches and the holy places of other traditions, enjoying the beauty of some buildings and the care people took of them, and being repulsed by others. I enjoyed a variety of communities, worshipping styles and musical traditions, each trying to express that which was beyond words: a yearning and connectedness with the Divine.
Over these past thirty years I have sought a God whose vastness is honoured and who resists being reduced to fit our needs. I’ve sought a God who is both mystery and intimate, both lover and tormentor.
My experience has been that whenever I grab a model of God too hard it cracks. Father God cracked long ago. Mother God didn’t last too long either. God as Santa Claus was always seriously flawed. God as a being was doomed too. God as being lasted longer. God as comforter didn’t survive Elie Wiesel’s writings. God as ocean has enduring properties as does God as love, but both can be elusive. Even God as noun cracked.
This ongoing iconoclastic experience of searching, finding, relating, holding on, being held, letting go, and losing, has shaped my prayer. It’s been a spirited exchange on the edge of ultimate mystery and nothingness.
4/10/2006
Prayer of the Bear - Disgrace to Fashion
Hey Jesus,
You were never easily labeled.
Branding you by the clothes you wore didn’t work.
You were an advertiser’s nightmare.
For with one lot of losers you’d wear their t-shirt,
then change with the next lot to their logo.
Each party you’d turn up to you’d be wearing something different,
as different as one party was to the next.
We just couldn’t nail you down…
Until we stripped every shirt off you,
and hung you up
as a disgrace to fashion.
You were never easily labeled.
Branding you by the clothes you wore didn’t work.
You were an advertiser’s nightmare.
For with one lot of losers you’d wear their t-shirt,
then change with the next lot to their logo.
Each party you’d turn up to you’d be wearing something different,
as different as one party was to the next.
We just couldn’t nail you down…
Until we stripped every shirt off you,
and hung you up
as a disgrace to fashion.
4/09/2006
Prayer of the Bear - godding
I’m languishing over a latte while watching the pouring in, the settling, and the pouring out of cafe creatures. Two by two they enter and exit the zoo.
I sit on my stool, trying to read. Around me the tables are cluttered with conversation, cups, and culinary smells. Cell phones buzz like blowflies.
“God is like breathing,” said some mystic. God as a verb. So I sat sipping, pondering, and godding.
God as a collective noun came in, looking rather stressed. They clutched their diaries and stridently made for the tables outside. Some animals need space. They talked business and didn’t laugh. They’re from a mission agency I believe, Protestant variety. God is deadly serious.
God as an adverb was at the table opposite me, energetically devouring a fluffy. Bubbly, giggly, and sparkling. Her mother, heaven be praised, was not big on restraint. The little girl was the rainbow every ark needs.
A regular comes over. We were both at a baptism recently. “Noah would have needed more than two dung beetles.” He’s been reading. “Yeah, think about it. 40 days and nights of rain plus 150 of swollen waters. Living on board with camels, horses, lions, jackals, goats, guinea pigs, wolves, boars, warthogs, ... You would know better than to shovel the stuff overboard, when the waters receded you would need topsoil. Still, that’s a lot of work for just two dung beetles. Better make it four.”
Don’t you love people who deal in practicalities? I still can’t get past Noah’s God drowning the vast majority of the planet.
Time for another latte.
I sit on my stool, trying to read. Around me the tables are cluttered with conversation, cups, and culinary smells. Cell phones buzz like blowflies.
“God is like breathing,” said some mystic. God as a verb. So I sat sipping, pondering, and godding.
God as a collective noun came in, looking rather stressed. They clutched their diaries and stridently made for the tables outside. Some animals need space. They talked business and didn’t laugh. They’re from a mission agency I believe, Protestant variety. God is deadly serious.
God as an adverb was at the table opposite me, energetically devouring a fluffy. Bubbly, giggly, and sparkling. Her mother, heaven be praised, was not big on restraint. The little girl was the rainbow every ark needs.
A regular comes over. We were both at a baptism recently. “Noah would have needed more than two dung beetles.” He’s been reading. “Yeah, think about it. 40 days and nights of rain plus 150 of swollen waters. Living on board with camels, horses, lions, jackals, goats, guinea pigs, wolves, boars, warthogs, ... You would know better than to shovel the stuff overboard, when the waters receded you would need topsoil. Still, that’s a lot of work for just two dung beetles. Better make it four.”
Don’t you love people who deal in practicalities? I still can’t get past Noah’s God drowning the vast majority of the planet.
Time for another latte.
4/02/2006
Prayer of the Bear - Get a Grip
There is only one reason to pray, and it is not to petition or to please. It is, as it was in the beginning, to get a grip on our existence. Or to flag it down for a moment as it flies past. If we also win a little harmony from the human bedlam, that is serendipity.[1]
“Oh God its morning!” he cried pulling the duvet up over his head. Lighten our darkness we beseech thee.
Dressing gown and slippers adorned, stirring the porridge, caring for her soul, as the little ones stir awake.
The earnest believer opens his Bible, reads the prescribed text, and talks at God. God is courteous and kind.
Walking around the rocks, rod in one hand, as the day kisses the night adieu. The sea holds her other hand, and her heart.
The same, earnest believer tires of talking at God, and stops to listen. God does too.
The child runs, jumps into the double bed, and cries “I love you Mummy.” The warmth of uninhibited love floods her soul.
The warmth of the cup warms more than his hands wrapped around it. It is a moment of nurture and, today, a moment of contemplation.
They meet for breakfast every workday morn at six. It is a big breakfast, for big men, who lay big slabs of concrete for cars to park upon. It’s not the food, rather the jovial camaraderie, which feeds their soul.
They meet before breakfast. Gathered in the front room, today a chapel, they use a liturgy full of old words written by others about others. It doesn’t make sense. Just like the Church. But they gather anyway and leave feeling held.
The dog sniffs at nearly everything. It is curiousity incarnate. It is very sociable, indiscriminately greeting each and every early riser on the city streets. The woman enjoys being lead by the dog into the day, and into her soul.
In darkness and in light, in trouble and in joy, in season and out, knowingly and unknowingly, for our selves and despite our selves, we do it. Morning prayer.
[1] I have taken license with Maurice Shadbolt’s “reason to write” in One Of Ben’s.
“Oh God its morning!” he cried pulling the duvet up over his head. Lighten our darkness we beseech thee.
Dressing gown and slippers adorned, stirring the porridge, caring for her soul, as the little ones stir awake.
The earnest believer opens his Bible, reads the prescribed text, and talks at God. God is courteous and kind.
Walking around the rocks, rod in one hand, as the day kisses the night adieu. The sea holds her other hand, and her heart.
The same, earnest believer tires of talking at God, and stops to listen. God does too.
The child runs, jumps into the double bed, and cries “I love you Mummy.” The warmth of uninhibited love floods her soul.
The warmth of the cup warms more than his hands wrapped around it. It is a moment of nurture and, today, a moment of contemplation.
They meet for breakfast every workday morn at six. It is a big breakfast, for big men, who lay big slabs of concrete for cars to park upon. It’s not the food, rather the jovial camaraderie, which feeds their soul.
They meet before breakfast. Gathered in the front room, today a chapel, they use a liturgy full of old words written by others about others. It doesn’t make sense. Just like the Church. But they gather anyway and leave feeling held.
The dog sniffs at nearly everything. It is curiousity incarnate. It is very sociable, indiscriminately greeting each and every early riser on the city streets. The woman enjoys being lead by the dog into the day, and into her soul.
In darkness and in light, in trouble and in joy, in season and out, knowingly and unknowingly, for our selves and despite our selves, we do it. Morning prayer.
[1] I have taken license with Maurice Shadbolt’s “reason to write” in One Of Ben’s.
3/30/2006
Prayer of the Bear - Boring
A pious old man prayed five times a day while his business partner never set foot in church. And now, on his eightieth birthday he prayed thus:
"Oh Lord our God! Since I was a youth not a day have I allowed to pass without coming to church in the morning and saying my prayers at the five specified times. Not a single move, not one decision, important or trifling did I make without first invoking your Name. And now, in my old age, I have doubled my exercises of piety and pray to you ceaselessly, night and day. Yet here I am, poor as a church mouse. But look at my business partner. He drinks and gambles and, even at his advanced age, consorts with women of questionable character yet he's rolling in wealth. I wonder if a single prayer has ever crossed his lips. Now, Lord, I do not ask that he be punished, for that would be unchristian. But please tell me: Why, why, why.... have you let him prosper and why do you treat me thus?"
"Because," said God in reply, "you are such a monumental bore!"
A. De Mello Prayer of the Frog p. 20
"Oh Lord our God! Since I was a youth not a day have I allowed to pass without coming to church in the morning and saying my prayers at the five specified times. Not a single move, not one decision, important or trifling did I make without first invoking your Name. And now, in my old age, I have doubled my exercises of piety and pray to you ceaselessly, night and day. Yet here I am, poor as a church mouse. But look at my business partner. He drinks and gambles and, even at his advanced age, consorts with women of questionable character yet he's rolling in wealth. I wonder if a single prayer has ever crossed his lips. Now, Lord, I do not ask that he be punished, for that would be unchristian. But please tell me: Why, why, why.... have you let him prosper and why do you treat me thus?"
"Because," said God in reply, "you are such a monumental bore!"
A. De Mello Prayer of the Frog p. 20
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