Guns, Myths, Redemption & Conversion

 

Statue of Mars, Hotel National des Invalides, Paris

Those who say America does not have a gun problem, but a sin problem are actually onto something. We do have a sin problem. We have a sinful imagination problem. A sinful myth problem. What those who say we have a sin problem, not a gun problem miss is that guns and our infatuation with guns designed for killing people and the potential violence they represent are a manifestation of the Sin at the heart our imagination/mythology. We are in the thrall of the notion of redemptive violence, i.e., violence is normal,  good, and necessary to “save the day.” Violence is redemptive and salvific. It presumes that some people who resort to violence are simply “good.” Most of our fictional heroes, from Westerns to superheroes, resort to it and we glory in it. We recount it in our history. It pervades our entertainment. It excuses vigilantism. I admit that I, too, am fascinated by aspects of the mythology of the warrior. I have a sin problem.

I am referring to “myth” here not as something that some people believe which is untrue, though that is certainly the case for much that is part of the myth of redemptive violence. What I mean by myth is a narrative or set of narratives, some more or less historical, some fictional, that are are told and retold to make sense of our lives and the world in which we live. More than just stories, myths are symbolic. They give our lives meaning and shape our imaginations and our sense of right and wrong. Through our myth(s) we understand who we are and how the world works. This is partly what C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien meant when they referred to Christianity as the “true myth.”

The myth of redemptive violence is not the true myth. It is but a continuation of the old pagan myth of the violent warrior hero who slays the enemy. It is a bloody redemption. But not the blood of the cross. The myth of redemptive violence is at odds with the true myth of redemptive sacrifice and redemptive love we see in Jesus. But it remains compelling. It continues to shape our imaginations – even of Christians. We might go to church. We give thanks that Jesus died so we don't have to go to Hell. But in our heart of hearts we often still worship the quite different god whose name is Ares, Mars, Tyr, etc. Do we really want a savior who looks like Jesus or would we prefer one like Beowulf or John Wayne or Dirty Harry or Batman? Do we imagine ourselves as martyrs in the self-sacrificial, peaceable way of Jesus or as warriors in the way of self-justifying violent pagan mythology? The pagan myth of redemptive violence shapes our imagination and how we engage the world. And it persists.

This is partly due to a bad or at least an incomplete theology of the cross and redemption—Jesus lived and died only to deliver us from Hell, from God's vengeance. That theology is too narrow to account for the fullness of the witness of scripture and tradition. It also leaves the myth of redemptive violence unchallenged. It misses the point that in the death and resurrection of Jesus Death itself is defeated and with it the fear of Death. If Death itself is defeated in the death of Christ, then protecting ourselves from Death, whether our ultimate physical death or all the little deaths along the way, is unnecessary. Even more, it is an unfaithful witness to what Christ has accomplished. It reveals a lack of trust in the resurrection. Because Death is defeated, we are free from fear and free to imitate Christ, free to turn from evil and do good; seek peace and pursue it (Psalm 34:14) with non-defensive, non-retaliative patience, gentleness, generosity, hospitality, forgiveness, etc. That is where Christian conversion takes us. It is a reordering of our myths, our imagination, our values, our behavior. Otherwise, our conversion is incomplete.

We have a sin problem. But another problem with the myth of redemptive violence is that it does not take sin seriously enough. In fact, it mostly denies that the one exercising redemptive violence on our behalf is all that much of a sinner in any radical sense. In our fantasies, that includes ourselves potentially being the violent savior hero. Either way the hero, however flawed, is the good guy and the enemy is clearly the bad guy. Christianity, though, asserts that even if we get our theology right and are as close to Jesus as we can be and rejoice in whatever healing and forgiveness we have experienced, we will still be infected with sin. This is true even if we are as sure as we can be that our cause is just. Our hearts are still prone to selfishness, greed, deceit (not least, self-deceit), and violence. Our hearts. My heart. Your heart. Not just the “bad” guys. Not just those who lack maturity, self-control, or emotional stability. If we believe in sin at all, we believe it is pervasive and universal. There are no simply “good” guys with a gun. Even the best of us is prone to being a bad guy at crunch time. We all need be aware of our own susceptibility to sin and violence. If we really believe in our own sinfulness, we might be more uncertain of our own ability to play the good guy. We all need redemption. We all need conversion. 

And so, the myth of redemptive violence makes it hard to see the need for repentance and conversion. It allows us to presume that our violence is good and our cause is always just, simply because they are ours. It makes it easy to assume that our own security or freedom are all that matters. It excuses—even celebrates—vengeance. It allows us to pretend that we do not belong to one another—including our enemies. It creates a social environment in which violence is acceptable, to be expected even. It allows us to presume our own innocence. It minimizes or ignores the awesome gravity of the taking of any human life—the very image of God. It minimizes or ignores the savagery, suffering, and trauma inherent in all violence and experienced on all sides. It excuses or pardons whatever “excesses” of violence are committed by our hero(s). Or denies them. It suggests that some people's suffering and trauma don't matter as much. Or even that they don't really count as people on the same level as us.

And that is where it really gets hard for us. Because the myth of redemptive violence is often interwoven into the way we like to imagine our nation's history. And we are resistant to acknowledge sin and the need of repentance there. But there is nothing redemptive about the violent taking of the land and decimation of native peoples. Or the violence of slavery and racism. Or the violence against minorities and new immigrants. And given the pervasiveness of sin it would be hard to argue, from Christian perspective, that every war any country – including America – has fought has qualified as a just war. Or that, even in a just war, our soldiers never commit war crimes and need not be held accountable. Fundamental to Christianity is self-reflection, confession, and repentance. Such things are anathema to the pagan myth of redemptive violence.

The mainstream of the Christian tradition has allowed that, given our broken and sinful humanity, under certain prescribed and circumscribed circumstances, a degree of violence as a last resort is necessary and therefore just. But in that tradition, violence is reserved for those trained and authorized to exercise it under the law and with discipline and dispassion (there are reasons the rest of us are called civilians). We are grateful for their service. Even so, that use of violence is a concession to tragic human reality shaped by Sin and not something – for Christians, anyway – to bless, revel in, or glorify.

Still, we are enchanted by the mythology/theology of redemptive violence and vengeance. That myth won't just go away. Myths die hard because they give meaning. Attacking them head on might not be the most effective strategy. We need to advocate for reform of our gun laws and ensure that weapons are in fact “well regulated.” But the problem that needs addressing is much deeper. It goes to the heart of what makes so many think that the idea that sinful unregulated civilians should possess weapons designed to kill humans is a good one. We have a sin problem. Our hearts and imaginations need healing. The myth of redemptive violence needs to be addressed. We need to address our implicit adoration of  pagan gods and their way of violence. And we need to help each other as we wean ourselves from it. It is about conversion.

See also 

Gun Violence. Again . . .

The Way of Spartacus, the Way of bar Kokhba, or the Way of Jesus

Gun Violence. Again . . .

 

Melancholy Sculpture by Albert György in Lake Geneva, Switzerland

On a January morning in 1989, I was with my students in the school library at Franklin High School in Stockton, CA. The librarian came to me looking distressed, her face pale. What school do you daughters attend? she asked in a hushed voice. I told her. She looked relieved. I asked her why? Because there had been a shooting at one of the other elementary schools in town. Eventually we learned that a shooter had killed five schoolchildren and wounded 31 other children and one teacher. The students were mostly of Southeast Asian descent. The killer killed himself as well. My initial relief that it was not my daughters’ school did not alter my outrage and grief in response to this senseless and horrific act. It seemed almost unprecedented at the time. Unimaginable. Sadly, scandalously, it no longer does. I was reminded of that awful day again yesterday with the news of yet another school shooting, this time in Uvalde, Texas. Again. After being reminded of it again, and again, and again in the years since. And again.

I am heartbroken and outraged at yet another mass murder in this country, this time at an elementary school in Uvalde, Texas. So far, we know 19 children and two adults were killed. And this just two weeks after the mass killing of people at a grocery store in Buffalo. And it is not just mass shootings. Gun violence in our major cities and elsewhere is epidemic. All of this is tragic. It points to a disease infecting our society. And our own hearts.

We pray for those who were killed and those who mourn. We know that Jesus, who entered into the heart of our violent world on the cross, is present in the heart of this horror. We also know that Jesus calls us to something different.

At the very beginning of the Gospel story, in Luke 1:79 and 2:14, we hear that Jesus, and the way of Jesus, are about peace. At his death on the cross, he prayed forgiveness for his killers (Luke 23:34). Between these bookends, Jesus, in his words and actions, demonstrates a consistent pattern of peace (while being anything but passive). He declared that his peace is different from this world’s (John 14:27). From the beginning to the end and in-between Jesus demonstrated a consistent pattern of peace and rejection of violence.

For Jesus and his followers, it is not just about the weapons; it is about the heart and the imagination. It is about reorienting our hearts and imaginations away from a fascination with violence and from violent solutions to violence. The way of Jesus is a pattern at odds with the pattern of this world with its violence and vengeance and self/group-preservation along with selfishness, fear, deceit, and greed which are not unrelated. This is the pattern of the world the Apostle Paul warns us not to conform to in Romans 12. He goes on to outline the same pattern as Jesus. Those who would be his disciples must embrace a peace different from this world’s – in their hearts and imaginations, in their words and actions.

The Church has decided that this does not mean absolute pacifism. But it does mean cultivating a bias for nonviolence. It means being more suspicious of the use of violence than is the worldly mindset. It means a determination to be peacemakers. It means it is not consistent with the pattern of Jesus to endorse the easy proliferation of firearms, especially those designed specifically for war. Society has a stake in assuring that weapons, especially weapons of war, are “well regulated”.

As someone who has hunted with a gun, even since becoming a bishop, I am not interested in banning all guns But, I am a member of Bishops Against Gun Violence. With my fellow bishops, I endorse common sense gun safety measures which polls consistently show enjoy the support of gun owners and non-gun owners alike, such as

·       Handgun purchaser licensing

·       Background checks on all gun purchasers

·       Restrictions on gun ownership by domestic abusers

·       Classification of gun trafficking as a federal crime

·       Encouragement for the development of “smart gun” technology

·       Federal funding for research into gun violence prevention strategies

·       Safe storage of firearms

We need to find a different way. Christians are in fact called to a different way, the way of Jesus with its pattern of peace and peacemaking. Let’s be about that way. Let’s advocate for those things that address our disease and make for a healthier, less violent society. We can reduce the number of mass shootings and gun violence generally. If we really want to, we will, with God’s help.

Not a Hobby – a Sermon on Luke 14:25-33

St. Barnabas Episcopal Church, Glen Ellyn, Diocese of Chicago

Pentecost 14, Proper 18, 9/9/01

Deut. 30:15-20, Psalm 1, Philemon 1-20, Luke 14:25-33

(Twenty years ago two days before 9/11)

It was a tough week for religion in the news. On Monday, another Palestinian suicide bomber blew himself up in an attempt to maim or kill others. Then, there were Protestants verbally harassing and stoning little Catholic girls on their way to school in Northern Ireland. The Taliban Islamic government of Afghanistan was also in the news bringing some relief workers to trial, accusing them of seeking to spread Christianity. And then yesterday, we heard about rioting in Nigeria between Moslems and Christians in which at least 50 people have been killed so far. It makes you wonder if you want to have anything to do with religion or god stuff if it’s that problematic. Maybe those who say that religion has done more harm than good in history are right after all.

I’m wondering because in this morning’s gospel Jesus calls us to a radical kind of loyalty. What kind of loyalty is he calling us to and to what? To God? What kind of god? No doubt each situation is more complicated than this, but in one way or another in the past week we have seen people kill or attempt some sort of violence in the name of some god. Or, at least, loyalty to an idea about god was involved. Is it right to do such things, to kill or be killed in the name of god? The question sounds preposterous to us. One reason, it sounds preposterous to us is because in western society we have become immunized to the power of faith. Culturally, and all too often, personally, we tend to think of religion as a sort of hobby, one step above stamp collecting or bird watching. Some people are into stamp collecting. Some people are into bird watching. Some people are into Christianity. Others are into Buddhism or something else. But it is all more or less a matter of private preference, a hobby; certainly nothing you would kill someone over, nothing you would risk dying for. Don’t those people in Palestine and Northern Ireland and Nigeria and Afghanistan and everywhere else get that? Don’t they understand this is not a matter of life and death?

Or is it? Is it wrong to kill or die in the name of God? The more I thought about it this week, the more it occurred to me that it is actually a rather interesting question. I’m not sure the answer is altogether obvious. If God is the ultimate reality, the ultimate and final good, what else would be worth killing or dying for? If I won’t kill or die in the name of God, why would I kill or die for the sake of something less? If not God, what about country? What about ideology, justice, or freedom? Or, as Jesus questions so offensively this morning, for the sake of family? For whom or what are we willing to kill? For whom or what are we willing to die? What is worth the ultimate sacrifice of my own life or the responsibility of taking someone else’s? To what to whom or to what do I pledge such allegiance? If we can answer that set of questions we will get pretty close to what “god” really is for us.  Whatever it is to which I am willing to give over that kind of allegiance or loyalty, that kind of sacrifice, is my god whether or not I call it religion. Is it O.K. to kill in the name of God?  Ultimately, it depends on what god we are talking about, what god we are seeking to follow and please. To what or whom do I pledge such allegiance?

Since their inception, nations and governments have demanded the ultimate sacrifice from their citizens. When your nation says go to this place and kill these people, you are expected to obey – to kill and to risk being killed. Others have done the same in the name of abstract ideas such as justice and freedom. More often than not, a varnish of god-talk is usually added to all of these to lend legitimacy. I don’t know if the suicide bomber did what he did for God or justice or revenge or some combination of these. I don’t know enough about Islam to know how he might have thought he was pleasing to the God he worshiped.  I do know that not all faithful Moslems would agree with him.

I do know a little bit about Jesus. Following Jesus rules that kind of thing out. You don’t have to be an absolute pacifist to read Jesus and find that his way is not the way of violence. It is hard to justify killing in the name of the one who said, “Turn the other cheek.” It is hard to justify killing in the name of the one who said, “Love your enemy and pray for those who persecute you.” His is not the way of retribution. His is not the way of meanness. Whatever else the Protestants who were hurling invective and stones at the little Catholic girls thought they were doing, they were not following the way of Jesus. Though, tragically, it has been done; killing in the name of Jesus and the God we know through Jesus is an oxymoron.

To die in the name of Jesus and the God we know through him is a different matter. In fact, that is the point. When he says, “Count the cost. Decide now whether or not you are going to be able to finish the building,” that’s what he has in mind. Following Jesus into the heart of God is no hobby. In this morning’s reading from the Gospel of Luke, Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem and he knows what is in store for him there. He is on a mission, but it is a mission that he knows ends only one way. It ends in his death. He is on his way to Jerusalem, the center of power – political and religious power – and he intends to throw a wrench in the works. He intends to throw a wrench in the usual way of things, the way of intimidation and oppression, the way of coercion, the way of control, the way of violence. More than throw a wrench into the works, Jesus intends to be the wrench in the works to upset the usual machinery of violence and bondage.

To those who are following him, he lays out his agenda pretty clearly. “If you think you are following me in some sort of victorious parade in which we are going to march into Jerusalem, take things over, kick the Romans out, and set the temple worship straight, you’ve got the wrong guy. If you want to follow me into Jerusalem, take up the cross and follow me. Take up the cross and prepare to die.” To follow Jesus is to follow him in that mission, the mission to upset the usual way of things – the way of things we see in the nightly news and in the morning paper. Sometimes that might mean actual martyrdom.” There have been places and times when people have literally died for the sake of that mission. There are people in the world now for whom that is a day-to-day possibility. But for most of us, most of the time, it is the daily martyrdom of dying to self and learning to live in love for the other. That, too, is taking up our cross and following Jesus. As Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote, “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” Nowhere does he bid us to kill.

There is only one cross. Sometimes people talk about “their cross to bear” as if each of us had his or her own individual cross. “I have this problematic child and she is my cross to bear.” Or, “I have this illness and that is my cross to bear.” Or, “I am in this relationship where I am being abused and that is my cross to bear.”  That is a misappropriation of what Jesus is calling us to. Taking up your cross and following Jesus is not resigning yourself to being abused and trapped in a situation beyond your control. It is a call to servanthood not servitude. Taking up the cross of Christ is choosing freely to follow him in his mission of resistance, his mission of proclaiming mercy and grace, peace and justice. There is only one cross, and it is the cross of Christ.  Ultimately, he bears that cross with us.  He is on the cross with us and before us.

Jesus, in this morning’s gospel, challenges us to put all other loyalties in the context of his mission, all other loyalties in the context of the cross.  When Christians marry, they marry with that mission in mind. Marriage is one place and one way we can serve the mission. We can learn to love.  We can learn to give totally of ourselves. We can create space where the stranger is welcome and generosity is given. If we choose to be single, we choose to be single for the same reason, because sometimes being single is the best way to serve the mission. If we choose to have children that, too, is not something that just happens. That’s something we do because having children is a way of witnessing to the mission, to the kingdom, and to raise up new disciples, new witnesses. All loyalties – families, friends, nation – are redefined in the context of that ultimate loyalty to the way of Jesus, the way of the cross. Jesus does not say focus on the family; he says focus on the cross. And there are no precious moments on the way of the cross. Bonhoeffer wrote, “The cross of Christ destroyed the equation that religion equals happiness.” That might be overstating the case just a bit. As we sang in the opening hymn (483), the cross is also our life and our health. It is the way of grace, the way of joy. But certainly the call to take up our cross destroys the equation that religion, at least religion that is true to Jesus Christ, equals sentimentality and nostalgia. It also destroyed the equation that religion is compatible with the way of violence.

The way of the cross is the way of Jesus and it is the way to which he calls us. It is the way of dying to self and living toward the other. It is the way of servanthood. It is the way of reaching out to the stranger, of proclaiming God’s favor, God’s mercy. Those of us who have experienced that mercy are called to embody it to those who do not yet know it. We are called to be the peace of Christ, not just to pass it, but to be it. We are called to be people of forgiveness, people who know how to love our enemy, people who know what it means to welcome the stranger. Protestants welcome Catholics. Catholics welcome Protestants. Christians welcome Jews. Christians love and welcome Moslems. We are called to a life of resolute kindness and peace. It is the way of the cross. It is the way of Christ. It is a call to resist all that says no to the goodness of God’s creation and to the worth of each person. It is a call to be, in ways small and great, wrenches in the usual way of things, to break up the machinery of the way things usually go. It is a call to creatively and effectively disrupt the cycle of violence. It is a call to live lives of gentleness, kindness, peace, and justice in a world of violence and hate. It is a kind of martyrdom. It is not a hobby.

The Generous Hermeneutic of Augustine of Hippo

(Relief from the pulpit of the Cathedral of St. Paul, Fond du Lac, Wisconsin)

In an essay on Augustine’s Biblical Interpretation, The Rev. Dr. Thomas Williams shows that the great saint and theologian was willing to allow that there might be more than one true understanding and that the biblical author’s intended meaning might not be the only true one:

Suppose, then, that Augustine says Genesis 1:1 means x, and I say it means y; suppose further that upon consulting Christ as Inner Teacher we find that both x and y are true. The only question is, which did Moses mean, x or y? Augustine asks, why not both?

So when one person says “He meant what I say,” and another says “No, he meant what I say,” I think it would be more pious to say “Why not both, if both are true?” And if someone should see in his words a third truth, or a fourth, or indeed any other truth, why not believe that Moses saw all these truths? (Confessions 12.31.42)

Somewhat surprisingly, it is not pride but just good Augustinian theology (and epistemology) to suspect that we might find truths in Moses’ writings that had never crossed his mind:

Finally, Lord, you who are God and not flesh and blood, even if one who was merely a man did not see all there was to be seen, did not your good Spirit, who will lead me into the land of uprightness, know everything that you would reveal through these words to later readers, even if the one who uttered them was perhaps thinking of only one of the many true meanings? If so, let us suppose he was thinking of whichever meaning is most exalted. O Lord, show us that meaning; or if you please, show us some other true meaning. In this way, whether you show us just what you showed your servant, or something else that emerges from the same words, we will in any event be fed by you, not mocked by error (Conf. 12.32.43).6

[Augustine is able to be generous in allowing more than one true interpretation because of what he understands the purpose of scripture to be. Professor Williams continues with reference to Augustine’s De Doctrina Christiana (On Christian Teaching)]:

The pursuit of knowledge for its own sake is bankrupt, as far as Augustine is concerned. Such a pursuit springs from curiosity, which for him is no admirable trait but a vice; he identifies it with that “lust of the eyes” of which John wrote, “For all that is in the world—the lust of the eyes, the lust of the flesh, and the pride of life—is not of the Father but is of the world” (1 John 2:16). So it is not surprising that when Augustine discusses the legitimacy of rival interpretations of Scripture, he reveals a deep concern with the morality of exegetical disputes. Undue attachment to one’s own exegesis manifests a sort of pride, the love of one’s own opinion simply because it is one’s own opinion. In Confessions 10 Augustine describes this as a form of the “pride of life,” the third of the unholy trinity of sins from 1 John 2:16. It is more grievous still when the exegete is driven by the desire for a reputation as a brilliant scholar; “this is a miserable life and revolting ostentation” (Conf. 10.36.59). Moreover, since truth is common property, one’s own opinion is not really one’s own at all if it is true; it is the common property of all right‐thinking people, and no one has any individual stake in it: “No one should regard anything as his own, except perhaps a lie, since all truth is from him who says, ‘I am the truth’” (doctr. chr. Prologue, 8). Also, only temerity and insolence could justify such confidence in something we cannot actually know. We can know what Truth itself says, but we cannot know with any degree of certainty what Moses or Paul was thinking when he wrote the biblical text we are expounding. Most important of all, charity demands that we abstain from all such “pernicious disputes.”

For charity is the ultimate aim of all worthy exegesis. “Whoever thinks he has understood the divine Scriptures or any part of them in such a way that his understanding does not build up the twin love of God and neighbor has not yet understood them at all” (doctr. chr. 1.36.40). Charity is, moreover, the unifying and animating theme of Augustine’s treatise on biblical interpretation, De doctrina Christiana (On Christian Teaching). Its message is this: Be always mindful of the end, and be on your guard against the pernicious tendency of means to encroach upon the ends. The end of all things, Augustine insists, is God. He alone is to be loved for his own sake—“enjoyed,” in Augustine’s terminology. Whatever else is to be loved should be “used,” that is, loved for the sake of God. Even human beings, including ourselves, should be “used” in this sense, which does not mean “exploited.” But Augustine cannot quite bring himself to talk consistently of “using” ourselves and our fellow human beings, and he defines charity as “the motion of the soul toward enjoying God for his own sake and oneself and one’s neighbor for God’s sake” (doctr. chr. 3.10.16). Its opposite, cupidity, is “the motion of the soul toward enjoying oneself, one’s neighbor, or any bodily thing for the sake of something other than God” (Ibid.). Scripture, Augustine says, “commands nothing but charity and condemns nothing but cupidity [inordinate desire]” (doctr. chr. 3.10.15).

Interest in Biblical interpretation for its own sake is one such form of cupidity; exegesis is to be used for the sake of charity, not enjoyed for its own sake. In Augustine’s metaphor, it is not the distant land where we will be happy, but merely a vehicle by which we may be conveyed there.

The fulfillment and end of the Law and of all divine Scripture is the love of a being that is to be enjoyed [i.e., God], and of a being that can share that enjoyment with us [i.e., our neighbor]. . . . That we might know this and be able to achieve it, the whole temporal dispensation was made by divine providence for our salvation. We should use it not with an abiding but with a transitory love and delight like that in a road or conveyances or any other means. . . . We should love those things by which we are carried for the sake of that towards which we are carried (doctr. chr. 1.35.39; see also 1.4.4).

So overriding is this end that even misreadings of Scripture are scarcely objectionable if they build up charity. Someone guilty of such a misreading is to be corrected only on pragmatic grounds, not in the interest of scholarly correctness (an ideal to which Augustine shows not the slightest allegiance):

He is deceived in the same way as someone who leaves a road by mistake but nonetheless goes on through a field to the same place to which the road leads. Still, he should be corrected and shown how much more useful it is not to leave the road, lest his habit of wandering off should force him to take the long way around, or the wrong way altogether (doctr. chr. 1.36.41).

See also:

Some Thoughts on Interpreting Scripture

Faith and Love are Always to be Mistresses of the Law

Taste and see that the LORD is good. But is he safe?

I am more than a bit baffled by what seems a sentimental, domesticated, and naïve understanding of God, Jesus, and the Church as the body of Christ, and, therefore, of the Eucharist. God is perfect love and truth, perfect goodness and beauty. That perfect love, truth, goodness, and beauty is more awesome and wilder than Niagara Falls, the Grand Canyon, or a powerful summer thunderstorm. If you think about it, it is daunting to imagine being in the presence of such given our own unlove and untruth. And yet, we believe God desires to draw us into the divine Presence and make us able to bear it. Making us able to bear that Presence—and even participate in it—is no small or comfortable thing. God is not just a warm bath of affirmation. God is a consuming fire prepared to burn away the dead wood of our sin (all that is unlove and untrue) making way for new growth or to melt us down and draw off the dross, refining us into the glorious beings of freedom, love, truth, and peace we are meant to be. That is why “It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God” (Hebrews 10:31). As C. S. Lewis famously wrote of Aslan/Christ, he is good but that does not mean he is safe.

I think here of Annie Dillard’s famous dissuasive to supposing God is tame, in Teaching a Stone to Talk:

On the whole, I do not find Christians, outside of the catacombs, sufficiently sensible of conditions. Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sun- day morning. It is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping God may wake some- day and take offense, or the waking God may draw us out to where we can never return.

If, as we often claim, we “believe what we pray” (lex orandi, lex credendi: the rule of prayer is the rule of belief), we would do well to attend to the logic of the liturgy which suggests a certain caution in coming into God's presence, particularly to receive the Body and Blood of our Lord. As Moses drew near to the strange sight of the burning bush, he was commanded to remove his sandals for he was on holy ground. Just so, symbolically, as we move through the eucharistic liturgy, we stop periodically to remind ourselves that we are approaching holy ground and that doing so is an awesome thing. The one into whose presence we are coming is awe-inspiring and, while not wholly unknown, remains a mystery beyond our comprehension. We are aware of our failure to live lives of love and truth and trust, and thus of the distance between us and God.

Though it is not often read these days, an exhortation before the rites of Holy Eucharist in the Book of Common Prayer reads, in part:

if we are to share rightly in the celebration of those holy Mysteries, and be nourished by that spiritual Food, we must remember the dignity of that holy Sacrament. I therefore call upon you to consider how Saint Paul exhorts all persons to prepare themselves care- fully before eating of that Bread and drinking of that Cup.

For, as the benefit is great, if with penitent hearts and living faith we receive the holy Sacrament, so is the danger great, if we receive it improperly, not recognizing the Lord’s Body. Judge yourselves, therefore, lest you be judged by the Lord. (BCP, p. 316)

The liturgy is like an elaborate spiral dance in which we symbolically circle around and around the altar, drawing closer to the eucharistic mystery. At intervals in the dance, we stop to acknowledge our ignorance and sinfulness, and ask for God’s mercy as we proceed deeper into the holy mystery. In the Collect for Purity, we ask God to cleanse the thoughts of our hearts that we may perfectly love him and worthily magnify his holy Name … and we dance a little closer. We sing the Gloria, the Kyrie, or the Trisagion, each of which asks again for mercy – closer still. Then, after hearing God’s word read and proclaimed, we confess our sins against God and our neighbor, receive the promise of forgiveness, and exchange the peace, before dancing yet closer to the altar of the Prince of Peace. And on it goes—acknowledging God’s presence as holy (the Sanctus) and asking for forgiveness (the Lord’s Prayer). In every case, we acknowledge that we do not really know what we are up to, that the One with whom we are dealing is holy, and that we are ignorant, sinful and broken people in need of forgiveness and healing. And yet, by God’s amazing grace, we are invited and encouraged to draw near with confidence “to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need” (Heb. 4:16)—a confidence that avoids presumption because it is born in baptism and trusts that the one who demands our transformation, loves us beyond our imagining.

More here: Baptized Into Eucharist

Whose Table is it? Who is the Host and Who the Guest?

Altar, St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Plymouth, Wisconsin

Whose table is it? The answer to that question is less simple and less straightforward than some memes and soundbites suggest. Whose table it is depends on who is the host and who is the guest.

The ultimate host of the Eucharistic Feast is God, the mutual giving and receiving that is the Holy Trinity, manifested in Jesus and his self-sacrificial way of the cross. To eat at the table of this Host is to participate in the life of one who wills to reconfigure us in his own cruciform image.

But there is a penultimate eucharistic host, namely, the Church, the body of Christ itself, re-membered in mutual communion. If the Church is the penultimate host of the Eucharist, who then is the penultimate guest? Paradoxically, it is again God. In the Eucharist, the body of Christ, the Church, is both guest and host, and the divine Host is also the Guest.

We invite (as our guest) the Holy Spirit to “descend upon the gifts that they may be the Body of Christ and his Blood of the new Covenant.” Because the Guest is nothing less than the Holy Mystery at the heart of all, we pray that we might be sanctified by the same Holy Spirit “that we may faithfully receive” this Guest in the “gifts of God for the people of God.” We pray to be sanctified so we can faithfully receive this Host because, as Chrysostom writes, it is more awe-inducing than Elijah calling down fire from heaven in his contest with the priests of Baal for the Church to dare to call down the Holy Spirit upon the altar of the Eucharist.

It is significant that in the gospels Jesus is most often the guest at the table of others rather than the host. And as Zacchaeus and Simon the Pharisee discovered, hosting Jesus brings us face to face with the radical, life-altering expectations of Jesus. Likewise, as ones who have been incorporated into the community of hosts through baptism, we have some inkling of who our guest is and the expectations that Guest places upon the community that seeks to accommodate him.

As host and servant of Christ, the Church is the “steward of God’s mysteries” (1 Corinthians 4:1). And therefore, the Church has a stake in how the Eucharist is celebrated and administered. The altar is also the Church’s table because God has so authorized the Church.

Is it not marvelous, this mutual hosting? That God is both Host & Guest while empowering the Church to also be guest & host of the same feast is one way God invites the us to participate in the life of the Trinity which is itself mutual giving and receiving, hosting and guesting. It does raise the question, though. What does it mean to be good guests and good hosts?

Next: Taste and see that the LORD is good. But is he safe?

Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.

“Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” Can you imagine what it would be like to have a messenger of God show up in your room and speak these words to you? (Luke 1:26-38)

I love this painting of the Annunciation by 20th century African-American painter, Henry Ossawa Tanner. I especially like the way the angel Gabriel is represented. Rather than a man with wings, here we have a beam of light. It has about it something of the eerie mystery that I expect comes with such an encounter with the Holy. It reminds me of the way C. S. Lewis represents angelic beings in Out of the Silent Planet (writing after Tanner painted, but as far as I know unaware of this painting). Except that in Lewis’ telling, the “eldila” appear slightly off kilter – but this is because it is our world that is askew being bent by sin.

I also appreciate that Mary looks more like a young Mediterranean peasant girl than in most renditions. There is a gritty realism to it. She looks like maybe Gabriel woke her up to greet her in God’s name. Her bed is unmade. And she really looks like she is perplexed and pondering what sort of greeting this might be.

And what a greeting it is, “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” What an affirmation of God’s care and delight. Insignificant though she might have been considered in her society, God notices and cares. However unimportant she might have thought herself to be, God delights in her. God favors her. It is the word we all long to hear.

But there is more to God’s favor than affirmation. When the God Mary knew through the stories of her people favors someone, it involves a call. God favored Abraham. God favored Moses. God favored David. God favored the people of Israel. The affirmation in every case was accompanied by a call to participate in God's mission. And so it is with Mary. No wonder she pondered what sort of greeting this might be.

And the part she was being called to play in God’s mission of redemption was daunting indeed. Which is why the other part of the initial greeting is just as important as the affirmation and call of God’s favor: “The Lord is with you.” Much is being given to Mary and much is being asked of her. But the one who has favored her is also with her to give her strength to see it through. And nothing will be impossible with God. The angel continues, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God.”

Still, the angel – along with angels, archangels and all the company of heaven – awaits her reply. Will she dare to receive this word in her heart? Will she dare to conceive this Word in her womb? With Mary’s response, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word” human willingness is freely united with the will of God. Perhaps Tanner is right to have Gabriel beaming perpendicular. Perhaps in this one moment, in this room, with the response of this young woman, hope and history rhyme, heaven and earth are in sync, and the world is unbent. And the Baby she will bear will be the Unbent One, perfectly embodying the peace and joy of God’s favor.

The story doesn’t end there of course. Mary’s role in the story will get complicated. There will be confusion and heartache. But the Lord will be with her along with God’s favor.

And so it is with us. Given her role in the story of our salvation, Mary is particularly favored and we honor her for that. But Mary is also considered the prototypical disciple – the elder sister of all believers. If she is, then we should be able to hear the word she heard as being spoken to us as well. What if we knew ourselves to be addressed every morning with, “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you” and “Do not be afraid for you have found favor with God.”? If what Christians believe about Mary’s son is true, then that is precisely what God is saying to you and to me each day. Whatever else the voices around us or within us are saying or not saying, God has declared his favor toward us in being made flesh. In spite of the bentness, in spite of sin and brokenness, God is with us and has addressed all that is bent in the world and in us.

As with Mary, God’s favor toward us is also a call to mission – to love God and to love and care for one another, to be bearers of forgiveness and healing. And, as with Mary, all the angels in heaven rejoice when we respond, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”