Study without Piety is worthless - Jacob Spener Pia Desideria
There Cheers for our queer old dean! - William Archibald Spooner
The experimental composer and singer-songwriter Tom Waits will always have a special place in my heart (this very blog is, in fact, named after one of his many insightful song lyrics). As a younger artist back in the mid 70's Waits' music was somewhat of a cross between piano ballads and folk-tinted jazz, often floridly filling his live shows with flowing dialogue about seedy characters and craggy late-night diners. After a few albums and a decent amount of success on the nightclub scene Waits began drinking heavily which became blatantly apparent in his music and his oft befuddled stage presence. It was during one of these shows that Waits staggered out this muddled one-liner:
I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.
Clever or confused, either way its worth a sad laugh at what Waits later called in his more sober years a picture of a decrepit circus clown. However, Waits can't take full credit for such a phrase, indeed the English construction was around before Waits was even the figment of imagination...
William Archibald Spooner was a Dean at Oxford in the early part of the 20th century. He was a short man with a big head and a moderate case of Albinism but with a mind more brilliant than almost anyone else in the British Isles at that time. Sadly, more often than not, Spooner's mind worked much faster than his mouth, often producing slip-ups which were nothing short of hilarious (if not utterly embarrassing). These "spoonerisms", as they are now called, often involved the shifting of letters to form senseless phrases such as "It is kisstomary to cuss the bride" (It is customary to kiss the bride) or, my favorite, "Such Bulgarians should be vanished" (such vulgarians should be banished).
A brilliant man nonetheless, but a man whose mind often in his brilliance strayed fervently. Letters of Spooner would request individuals to his office to settle some issue, only to have a postscript at the end of the letter saying that the matter had already been resolved. In fact, Spooner even once preached an entire sermon about one of the letters of St. Paul, only to have substituted "Aristotle" for Paul. It was only after preaching the entire sermon and descending from the pulpit before he finally paused, returned to the pulpit and said to his terribly confused congregation "Did i say Aristotle? I meant St. Paul" before finally returning to his seat. Even more embarrassing was at a royal dinner where his toast for the queen ended in the same manner; saluting the "queer old dean" instead of her highness, the dear old queen.
Ouch.
Recently the question arose from one of my peers what were supposed to be doing here at Princeton. Many nights end in fruitful and edifying discussion of theology, philosophy, and the many aspects of serving the Kingdom of Christ in a manner which is worthy and pleasing to our Lord and Savior. Yet, he confided in me, how is this discussion, as verdant as it is, truly serving our Lord in spiritual acts of worship? How are we truly practicing the life of Jesus upon this earth locking in babbling discussion when the world is in such dire need of the gospel? Are we truly filling our purpose in each and every moment?
Preparation is important, but no so important that our entire life should be for that purpose. Preparation is a means, never an end. It is always anticipating a future, a goal, a trial, an event, a hope, a fear, a coming promise. Yet even in the hard work of preparing ourselves for our spiritual acts of worship, the harder work is often the overcoming of the temptation to buckle down rather than jump to action. We can study and meditate, ponder and conceptualize, theorize and discuss and dialogue until our faces turn blue and we hit our beds with a false sense of accomplishment as if we truly have been such "good and faithful servants."
God is good, so good that such pious activity and service pale in comparison to the grace of God which extends its healing and salvific hand as a balm to the burning guilt and torment of our sins. Yet, to truly understand this gift of grace, to truly understand this hope of redemption and resurrection, to truly feel the love selflessly displayed on the cross we must become like Him. It is when we finally allow the grace of God to truly sanctify and heal our broken selves and put away our foolish individuality and pride that we can finally witness the world through the eyes of the one who gave it all for us.
How differently we would view the world if we stopped mixing up our priorities, if we could somehow see the world not for it's bottom-lines, top-dollars, and its onslaught of flash and pizazz and could simply see even the tiniest of moments for its complete and utter significance. How differently this world would look if it was viewed not through the jumbled Spoonerism that is our pride and the trinkets we grasp so stringently to and we began to let the Holy Spirit take control and put our preparation and our study to use.
If only such a world were easier to see...
Love each other, pray often, reflect your Savior
Monday, February 7, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
A Penny For Your Thoughts
"The Penny is a dying breed!" Oh the humanity! If only the pair of weathered, tristful Lincolns I swiped off the chilled walkway under Blair Hall knew how endangered their very existence truly was. Sadly, I can't really argue the bureaucratic motion to axe the beloved fiscal mainstay. The current one-cent piece actually costs almost two cents to produce and any penny minted prior to 1982 is worth more in its weight in copper than it's given monetary value (talk about throwing money away). In fact, the penny is little more than a jar-bound, minutely meaningful token which rarely sees the light of the average business transaction. More often than not they become delegated to the sidewalk or Barnes and Noble parking lot where even the most entrepreneurial of 6 year-olds selectively ignores them, finding the act of bending over is worth much more than even a handful of the little guys.
As I was writing this I suddenly remembered that I myself had a collection of copper cents slurred around my desk area. After about 5 minutes of extended effort and detailed digging I scrounged up around a $1.17. Not bad to be honest. A penny may not (literally) be worth its weight, but a buck seventeen...that's a different story. That's a cup of gas station coffee, a pack of Sour Patch Kids, maybe even a pack of gum. I've always wondered what kind of glances I'd get paying for something in all pennies, I'm sure some of you may know what such glares and eye-rollings may look like.
What are we to do with these now-irrelevant pieces of "ancient history"? Ohio Representative Zach Space proposed a couple years back that the US Mint begin production of copper-coloured, steel pennies in order to cut production costs, which would save the US Government over 500 million dollars in 10 years. Francois Velde suggests that the US change the monetary value of the coin from one cent to five cents. Many have even suggested the removal of the cent altogether; suggesting we round our prices to the nearest nickel. Regardless, even the most pragmatic and utilitarian of solutions still leaves a hoard of brooding questions: how will one be able truly offer a "penny for one's thoughts"? Is "a penny saved" truly a "penny earned" if it becomes little more than an archaic artifact? Further, will our nickel face the same face as our good friend the penny? Is Thomas Jefferson next on the list of axed currency? What a tragedy! As if it wasn't cruel enough to cut the two-dollar bill out of circulation!
It's easy today to cut out what doesn't fit the bottom line, and understandably so. Every day new stories come out of factories shutting down, public resources being dried up, and hundreds of opinions of just how, or when, the economic shortfalls may be fixed. Though the term may soon be obsolete we are in a time where the "penny-pincher" thrives. Just yesterday night a new report flashed across the screen; Camden, New Jersey lets go of one half of its police force, Detroit is shutting down almost one third of their public school system, and many other places are facing similar fates. It makes one wonder if a penny does make a difference when such massive deficits exist.
Once, there was a woman, a widow, who like many of us, was feeling the stifling effects of the current situation. She lived in a decaying, one-room apartment. Her furniture was meager at best, hunched over like the woman herself. She was in her upper sixties, maybe older, with the weight of nearly fifty years of hard work bearing heavily on the corners of her somewhat hallowed face. Covering herself in simple garb, she slowly scuffled down the sidewalk past what used to be a thriving neighborhood, now sterile and silent as the factories surrounding this specific block of any large metropolitan area you can name. She ventured into a large cathedral, Anglican or Episcopal or Presbyterian or something along those lines, as the daily Sunday crown adorned in heavy jackets scuffled to their lives, leaving her alone down the long aisle towards a pile of empty offering plates. Looking over her shoulder with a tint of embarrassment she quietly placed a handful of odd change out of pocket, a few quarters, some dimes, a nickel or two, and a handful of pennies, and with a solemn sight slowly trodded her way out.
It was outside that she saw Jesus awaiting her on a nearby bench. With an understanding nod he ushered her forward to the empty seat to his right. With much effort she slunk onto the bench as he spoke with kindness "My dear, thank you so much for the gift, I love it." She shrugged sadly as she loosened her straggled grip on her scarf. "My Lord, it was honestly nothing. I'm ashamed its all I had. I haven't given in months, I'm so sorry, its just times are touch, too tough. What I got left is barely enough to pay for food, much less...well...." Her voice drifted into melancholy and then into silence.
"Truly my dear, you have put more into that place than all the others who filed out of these doors today." He smiled "indeed the heartfeltness of your gift truly was a gift. " (Mark 12)
No penny is insignificant, no moment too mundane, and no person unable to serve. Our offerings of worship go beyond mere bottom lines or percentages; true worship is true conformity and true conformity does not focus on whether one's task and purpose in the moment is of momentous significance. The Christian life is one where the grace of God flows not only into the most public of squares, but even more so into the cracks and crags where no one else dares, or cares, to venture. It is the type of worship which dares to reach out to the marginalized, attempts to let faith move us where we dare not to go ourselves, and shuns even the most vicious and vivid of our temptations. It sheds off the shield of individuality and puts on the personhood which God always intended us to be and, in doing so, offers worship to the one who created all things. One of the truest expressions of faith is to reach beyond our own cosmic expectations and venture into the near-meaningless for it is there that the work of God truly finds significance.
The Kingdom of God is a kingdom unlike any other; where the first shall be last, the weak shall be strong, and even the common penny carries innumerable weight.
As I was writing this I suddenly remembered that I myself had a collection of copper cents slurred around my desk area. After about 5 minutes of extended effort and detailed digging I scrounged up around a $1.17. Not bad to be honest. A penny may not (literally) be worth its weight, but a buck seventeen...that's a different story. That's a cup of gas station coffee, a pack of Sour Patch Kids, maybe even a pack of gum. I've always wondered what kind of glances I'd get paying for something in all pennies, I'm sure some of you may know what such glares and eye-rollings may look like.
What are we to do with these now-irrelevant pieces of "ancient history"? Ohio Representative Zach Space proposed a couple years back that the US Mint begin production of copper-coloured, steel pennies in order to cut production costs, which would save the US Government over 500 million dollars in 10 years. Francois Velde suggests that the US change the monetary value of the coin from one cent to five cents. Many have even suggested the removal of the cent altogether; suggesting we round our prices to the nearest nickel. Regardless, even the most pragmatic and utilitarian of solutions still leaves a hoard of brooding questions: how will one be able truly offer a "penny for one's thoughts"? Is "a penny saved" truly a "penny earned" if it becomes little more than an archaic artifact? Further, will our nickel face the same face as our good friend the penny? Is Thomas Jefferson next on the list of axed currency? What a tragedy! As if it wasn't cruel enough to cut the two-dollar bill out of circulation!
It's easy today to cut out what doesn't fit the bottom line, and understandably so. Every day new stories come out of factories shutting down, public resources being dried up, and hundreds of opinions of just how, or when, the economic shortfalls may be fixed. Though the term may soon be obsolete we are in a time where the "penny-pincher" thrives. Just yesterday night a new report flashed across the screen; Camden, New Jersey lets go of one half of its police force, Detroit is shutting down almost one third of their public school system, and many other places are facing similar fates. It makes one wonder if a penny does make a difference when such massive deficits exist.
Once, there was a woman, a widow, who like many of us, was feeling the stifling effects of the current situation. She lived in a decaying, one-room apartment. Her furniture was meager at best, hunched over like the woman herself. She was in her upper sixties, maybe older, with the weight of nearly fifty years of hard work bearing heavily on the corners of her somewhat hallowed face. Covering herself in simple garb, she slowly scuffled down the sidewalk past what used to be a thriving neighborhood, now sterile and silent as the factories surrounding this specific block of any large metropolitan area you can name. She ventured into a large cathedral, Anglican or Episcopal or Presbyterian or something along those lines, as the daily Sunday crown adorned in heavy jackets scuffled to their lives, leaving her alone down the long aisle towards a pile of empty offering plates. Looking over her shoulder with a tint of embarrassment she quietly placed a handful of odd change out of pocket, a few quarters, some dimes, a nickel or two, and a handful of pennies, and with a solemn sight slowly trodded her way out.
It was outside that she saw Jesus awaiting her on a nearby bench. With an understanding nod he ushered her forward to the empty seat to his right. With much effort she slunk onto the bench as he spoke with kindness "My dear, thank you so much for the gift, I love it." She shrugged sadly as she loosened her straggled grip on her scarf. "My Lord, it was honestly nothing. I'm ashamed its all I had. I haven't given in months, I'm so sorry, its just times are touch, too tough. What I got left is barely enough to pay for food, much less...well...." Her voice drifted into melancholy and then into silence.
"Truly my dear, you have put more into that place than all the others who filed out of these doors today." He smiled "indeed the heartfeltness of your gift truly was a gift. " (Mark 12)
No penny is insignificant, no moment too mundane, and no person unable to serve. Our offerings of worship go beyond mere bottom lines or percentages; true worship is true conformity and true conformity does not focus on whether one's task and purpose in the moment is of momentous significance. The Christian life is one where the grace of God flows not only into the most public of squares, but even more so into the cracks and crags where no one else dares, or cares, to venture. It is the type of worship which dares to reach out to the marginalized, attempts to let faith move us where we dare not to go ourselves, and shuns even the most vicious and vivid of our temptations. It sheds off the shield of individuality and puts on the personhood which God always intended us to be and, in doing so, offers worship to the one who created all things. One of the truest expressions of faith is to reach beyond our own cosmic expectations and venture into the near-meaningless for it is there that the work of God truly finds significance.
The Kingdom of God is a kingdom unlike any other; where the first shall be last, the weak shall be strong, and even the common penny carries innumerable weight.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
What Grows On The Moon?
A local pastor recently attempted an essentially simple metaphor during one of his sermons. In the midst of passionately declaring to his congregation that "God is light and in Him there is no darkness at all" he tied on the fact that nothing can grow or flourish in the darkness. He brandished his metaphor with florid verbs and flourished his adjectives for dramatic affect. He announced that we only see one half of our moon; the half which is consistently illuminated by the light of the sun. The other half, the half facing away from the earth, is always in perpetual darkness (the dark side of the moon for those Pink Floyd fans out there). It was then, with an air of self-appreciated brilliance, that he exclaimed that on this "dark side" of the moon, there was no life. There were no vineyards, there were no gardens or palm trees, there were no rolling hills or trickling streams. All that existed was darkness; nothing could grow on the dark side of the moon.
Then again, nothing can grow on the light side either. Oops.
That's the thing about the moon and outer space; things just don't grow there. Sure, you Battlestar Galactica and Star Trek junkies might dispute this, but last time I checked Mars was still desolate, Venus a foaming fireball of gas, and Pluto a cosmic ice chunk. Outer space is a very inhospitable place, regardless of light.
It's this inhospitality towards life in general which has always left me with a subtle fear of outer space. Whenever movies like Apollo 13 grace the television screen once every couple years I can't help but marvel at how only a thin layer of titanium allow and heat paneling separates the astronaut from certain peril. Even more so, I admire those brave individuals, who with roborant daring venture outside the ship into the chaotic unknown, tied to the ship by a mere cable. One snap, one cascading piece of space trash, one misguided movement and you're walking Spanish, pushing daisies, slowly suffocating towards a cold and lonely demise.
Space is a cold place; a frigid nothingness whose as tender as a cactus, as cuddly as a crocodile, and as nurturing and cordial as a pack of coyotes is for a wounded deer. It is a place of such desolate solitude and utter lifelessness that even the energy and warmth of the sun can't change its fruitless essence Nothing grows on the moon, and for good reason at that.
Light means very little in a world where nothing could grow to begin with. How lucky we are to live on this green, lush planet, a fertile cradle teeming forth with life both big and small. How jaw-dropping the intricate beauties, the incomprehensible wonders, the majesty and sheer art gracing each crevice and nook, every crag and peak, the very depths of the ocean and the vast grandeur of the burgeoning forest. The warmth of the sun, the complexity of our atmosphere, the invaluable properties of the water which composes our oceans, lakes, and rivers; how hospitable a rock we live on!
How hospitable a God we have. Oft we forget, oft we drift on glued intently on our individual lives without the slightest whim of the ground we tread upon, the sky we bask under, or the sheer mass of living things abundantly gracing our surroundings. In Genesis, God created and it was good, in the Psalms we hear extolling praise for the wonders, and in Christ we see just how far-extending and passionate the Creator's love truly is for His creation.
It makes me wonder, in this benevolent light are we truly providing the atmosphere for that light truly create growth, to nurture those around us towards the revelation of Christ through the grace of God? Are we lush soil awaiting planting or are we solitary rocks, drifting through the frigid emptiness of space? Am I truly willing and able to be a catalyst for change in His kingdom or am I merely an empty space?
The moon is about as inhospitable place as you can find, but I'm pretty sure quite a few of us give it a run for its money. God's light is surely bright beyond comprehension, but we stubborn creatures can sure find new and imposing ways to cancel out the good news and suffocate it into a mere datum of niceness to others and a loose moralism. How many of us have hindered the light of God in the life of others with our stifling and smothering? How many of our actions have all but crippled the work of God in even the most minute and insignificant acts?
Some scientists have said that someday we might live on the moon. That's a scary thought, though intriguing. Could such a inanimate satellite really support life? If so, maybe there's even hope for us. Maybe the light of Christ may even be able to crack through the asphyxiating shells of our individuality and touch the very depths of our person hood. Perhaps even our deepest wounds and hurts are reachable. The only way we will ever know is to take that leap of faith, to venture outside the safety of galactic ships and seek the light, to trust that the nurturing of the Holy Spirit can overcome even the most stubborn of hearts.
In the meanwhile, I think I'll keep my feet on this good, green earth and let those folks down at NASA take care of the outer space stuff.
Then again, nothing can grow on the light side either. Oops.
That's the thing about the moon and outer space; things just don't grow there. Sure, you Battlestar Galactica and Star Trek junkies might dispute this, but last time I checked Mars was still desolate, Venus a foaming fireball of gas, and Pluto a cosmic ice chunk. Outer space is a very inhospitable place, regardless of light.
It's this inhospitality towards life in general which has always left me with a subtle fear of outer space. Whenever movies like Apollo 13 grace the television screen once every couple years I can't help but marvel at how only a thin layer of titanium allow and heat paneling separates the astronaut from certain peril. Even more so, I admire those brave individuals, who with roborant daring venture outside the ship into the chaotic unknown, tied to the ship by a mere cable. One snap, one cascading piece of space trash, one misguided movement and you're walking Spanish, pushing daisies, slowly suffocating towards a cold and lonely demise.
Space is a cold place; a frigid nothingness whose as tender as a cactus, as cuddly as a crocodile, and as nurturing and cordial as a pack of coyotes is for a wounded deer. It is a place of such desolate solitude and utter lifelessness that even the energy and warmth of the sun can't change its fruitless essence Nothing grows on the moon, and for good reason at that.
Light means very little in a world where nothing could grow to begin with. How lucky we are to live on this green, lush planet, a fertile cradle teeming forth with life both big and small. How jaw-dropping the intricate beauties, the incomprehensible wonders, the majesty and sheer art gracing each crevice and nook, every crag and peak, the very depths of the ocean and the vast grandeur of the burgeoning forest. The warmth of the sun, the complexity of our atmosphere, the invaluable properties of the water which composes our oceans, lakes, and rivers; how hospitable a rock we live on!
How hospitable a God we have. Oft we forget, oft we drift on glued intently on our individual lives without the slightest whim of the ground we tread upon, the sky we bask under, or the sheer mass of living things abundantly gracing our surroundings. In Genesis, God created and it was good, in the Psalms we hear extolling praise for the wonders, and in Christ we see just how far-extending and passionate the Creator's love truly is for His creation.
It makes me wonder, in this benevolent light are we truly providing the atmosphere for that light truly create growth, to nurture those around us towards the revelation of Christ through the grace of God? Are we lush soil awaiting planting or are we solitary rocks, drifting through the frigid emptiness of space? Am I truly willing and able to be a catalyst for change in His kingdom or am I merely an empty space?
The moon is about as inhospitable place as you can find, but I'm pretty sure quite a few of us give it a run for its money. God's light is surely bright beyond comprehension, but we stubborn creatures can sure find new and imposing ways to cancel out the good news and suffocate it into a mere datum of niceness to others and a loose moralism. How many of us have hindered the light of God in the life of others with our stifling and smothering? How many of our actions have all but crippled the work of God in even the most minute and insignificant acts?
Some scientists have said that someday we might live on the moon. That's a scary thought, though intriguing. Could such a inanimate satellite really support life? If so, maybe there's even hope for us. Maybe the light of Christ may even be able to crack through the asphyxiating shells of our individuality and touch the very depths of our person hood. Perhaps even our deepest wounds and hurts are reachable. The only way we will ever know is to take that leap of faith, to venture outside the safety of galactic ships and seek the light, to trust that the nurturing of the Holy Spirit can overcome even the most stubborn of hearts.
In the meanwhile, I think I'll keep my feet on this good, green earth and let those folks down at NASA take care of the outer space stuff.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Concerts for Penguins
I don't consider myself to have a beautiful singing voice, I don't think too many people do. Today at Nassau Presbyterian the Keystone State Boychoir preformed and all too well brought me back to the realization of my decrepit vocal range and virtual lack of rhythm. Their harmonization of the beautiful Tallis' Canon swiftly transported me to fond memories of dinners around Dale Cooper's table surrounded by brilliant minds, boisterous spirits, and sparkling Christian fellowship. They were good; they were darn good.
After a well-earned, spirit-filled applause the pastor happened to mention, among other phrases of laud, that the Keystone State Boychoir had the unique distinction of being the only choir to ever preform on the continent of Antarctica. Antarctica? Really?!? My inner, fiscal utilitarian derived from my Dutch ancestry immediately kicked in. I immediately began mentally calculating the sheer quantity of cash it would cost to transport 30, hungry teenagers across the ocean to the most remote place on our planet under the harsh chill in order to preform a concert for a handful of researchers and a congregation of penguins. What did their director think when he was informed to pack his bags for a concert in the frigid emptiness that is the Arctic? It reminded me of when I was 8 and my great-grandma bought my brother and I a collection of crossword puzzles for Christmas; nice but completely useless and superfluous for a pair of brothers who would rather do about a million other things before a hearty crossword puzzle.
What a waste of music. What a waste of money. What a waste of the time, effort, and talent of these boys. What a waste. Period.
Then again, we live in a culture of excess. The norm standard for living is a brand new house, two cars in the driveway, 2.5 kids, weekends at the lake and enough extra to fund yearly winter vacations, a vast tangle of electronics, and purchase of knick-knacks which are anything but necessary. This isn't anything new; the invisible hand of capitalism has been at play ever since the American religion of individual freedom and self was put into motion. Yet, today we see the current results which yield a culture which can seem hallow, purposeless, and self-destructing. We get and get and get to the point that we end up having more than we could ever want at the expense of the composure of our homes. We waste our paychecks and labor on silly trinkets in order to keep up with a standard very few can keep up with and find ourselves struggling to get by and left behind on the super-highway that is 21st century consumerism. From the over-the-top birthday parties of 8 year old girls to the social insistence of "the new" we find ourselves constantly disinterested with the old, the aging, the "last year's" model, and the outdated and perpetually find ourselves throwing out the treasures of yesterday for the brilliant glow of tomorrow. A doctrine of consumerism is only able to exist if it is accompanied by a doctrine of waste. If anything, we are not the products of modern capitalism but the result of society's continual cycle of waste.
This includes choirs singing for penguins.
In a culture where so much is unnecessary how strange is Grace? Grace is the polar opposite of waste. Grace does not waste anything; there are no empty, meaningless moments for God's Grace for every moment and event touched by Grace is of the most dire importance. Christ calls out to us and says "My grace is sufficient for you" (II Cor. 12:9) and doing so calls us to put aside our societal weaknesses and vulnerabilities which arise from our surroundings and calls us to find meaning in the old, the unattractive, and the unpopular. The Greek word for sufficiency is the verb arkeo, which actually starts the phrase in the Greek New Testament. According to the word order, a more proper translation might just be "Sufficient for you is my grace." The word arkeo originally meant "to ward off, to keep off, or defend" in the context of fighting off enemies or even death as found in Homer. As time went on, the word's meaning changed in that warding off the enemy is, essential, to have sufficient resources and power to do so.
If Grace is "sufficient" this doesn't mean that there's just enough Grace to go around and get us through the moment. Rather, "sufficiency" goes beyond that. "Sufficiency" means that Grace has power; actual power. Grace is not meanly a vague, theological concept but the sustenance of a loving Father (Phil. 4:19) such that we have hope in our future, not because of the coming of the new, but because we treasure the Grace of our God who has ever been and ever will be (John 1:14). Such Grace reaches out not just to big moments but to little moments as well. Being "sufficient" means that the work of God reaches out to every sphere of our world. In turn, Grace is never wasted, for Grace always has a purpose, a plan, and the anticipation of the coming kingdom. Grace might be given to wasters but it truly is never wasted.
Unlike concerts for penguins.
After a well-earned, spirit-filled applause the pastor happened to mention, among other phrases of laud, that the Keystone State Boychoir had the unique distinction of being the only choir to ever preform on the continent of Antarctica. Antarctica? Really?!? My inner, fiscal utilitarian derived from my Dutch ancestry immediately kicked in. I immediately began mentally calculating the sheer quantity of cash it would cost to transport 30, hungry teenagers across the ocean to the most remote place on our planet under the harsh chill in order to preform a concert for a handful of researchers and a congregation of penguins. What did their director think when he was informed to pack his bags for a concert in the frigid emptiness that is the Arctic? It reminded me of when I was 8 and my great-grandma bought my brother and I a collection of crossword puzzles for Christmas; nice but completely useless and superfluous for a pair of brothers who would rather do about a million other things before a hearty crossword puzzle.
What a waste of music. What a waste of money. What a waste of the time, effort, and talent of these boys. What a waste. Period.
Then again, we live in a culture of excess. The norm standard for living is a brand new house, two cars in the driveway, 2.5 kids, weekends at the lake and enough extra to fund yearly winter vacations, a vast tangle of electronics, and purchase of knick-knacks which are anything but necessary. This isn't anything new; the invisible hand of capitalism has been at play ever since the American religion of individual freedom and self was put into motion. Yet, today we see the current results which yield a culture which can seem hallow, purposeless, and self-destructing. We get and get and get to the point that we end up having more than we could ever want at the expense of the composure of our homes. We waste our paychecks and labor on silly trinkets in order to keep up with a standard very few can keep up with and find ourselves struggling to get by and left behind on the super-highway that is 21st century consumerism. From the over-the-top birthday parties of 8 year old girls to the social insistence of "the new" we find ourselves constantly disinterested with the old, the aging, the "last year's" model, and the outdated and perpetually find ourselves throwing out the treasures of yesterday for the brilliant glow of tomorrow. A doctrine of consumerism is only able to exist if it is accompanied by a doctrine of waste. If anything, we are not the products of modern capitalism but the result of society's continual cycle of waste.
This includes choirs singing for penguins.
In a culture where so much is unnecessary how strange is Grace? Grace is the polar opposite of waste. Grace does not waste anything; there are no empty, meaningless moments for God's Grace for every moment and event touched by Grace is of the most dire importance. Christ calls out to us and says "My grace is sufficient for you" (II Cor. 12:9) and doing so calls us to put aside our societal weaknesses and vulnerabilities which arise from our surroundings and calls us to find meaning in the old, the unattractive, and the unpopular. The Greek word for sufficiency is the verb arkeo, which actually starts the phrase in the Greek New Testament. According to the word order, a more proper translation might just be "Sufficient for you is my grace." The word arkeo originally meant "to ward off, to keep off, or defend" in the context of fighting off enemies or even death as found in Homer. As time went on, the word's meaning changed in that warding off the enemy is, essential, to have sufficient resources and power to do so.
If Grace is "sufficient" this doesn't mean that there's just enough Grace to go around and get us through the moment. Rather, "sufficiency" goes beyond that. "Sufficiency" means that Grace has power; actual power. Grace is not meanly a vague, theological concept but the sustenance of a loving Father (Phil. 4:19) such that we have hope in our future, not because of the coming of the new, but because we treasure the Grace of our God who has ever been and ever will be (John 1:14). Such Grace reaches out not just to big moments but to little moments as well. Being "sufficient" means that the work of God reaches out to every sphere of our world. In turn, Grace is never wasted, for Grace always has a purpose, a plan, and the anticipation of the coming kingdom. Grace might be given to wasters but it truly is never wasted.
Unlike concerts for penguins.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Food and Family
I heard a story about a friend of a friend who, during a charity barb-i-que, spent the good part of an entire morning and afternoon monitoring, marinading, and flipping a vast amalgamation of burgers, steaks, and wings for an astonishing crowd (talk about a feeding of the 5,000). What was funny was that, when all was said and done and all the hot dogs and cuts were served, that he never even got as chance to eat himself. The tragedy! To be so preoccupied cooking a delicious meal for hundreds that you'd forget to feed yourself.
That's what it's like to study God's Word at time: you get so preoccupied you forget to eat it. Not LITERALLY of course, but it seems that sometimes our study and dedication blinds us to the gaping need for Christ that still persists; with or without our acknowledgment. How ironic that we prepare such a banquet to the finest detail only to forget to nourish ourselves in what God has provided.
This morning, I went, for the first time, to a Syriac Orthodox service. The Syriac Orthodox tradition is Eastern in origin, deriving from the first Antiochian Christian communities established by St. Peter, and maintain one of the oldest liturgies surviving today. This was not your usual Reformed service consisting of a couple praise songs, a three point sermon, and a dose of Midwest simplicity all compressed together in an hour and ten minutes in order to get everyone home in time to watch the Lions stumble through another Sunday. It was beautiful, regal, and poignant. The smell of incense lofted throughout the sanctuary and the voices of priest, deacons, and monk alike sang the liturgy in Syriac, calling us to sing along at certain moments in praise to God. The phrase Kurie Eleison is used frequently, Greek for "Lord have mercy" as the entire congregation engages in meaningful prayer. The bread and the wine are blessed by beautiful melodies and are the central focus of the entire service: Christ's compassionate sacrifice always in the forefront. The message was short, ten minutes at most, which called for us to, by the grace of God, to stand and praise without fear or self-regard.
It was then the monk came and spoke, telling of the horrific slaughter and persecution of Syriac Christians only days prior in Baghdad (http://www.persecutionblog.com/2010/11/iraq-muslims-attack-church.html) leaving 59 Christian brothers slain; murdered for their faith during the worship of Christ. These people were not simply innocent statistics or a handful of words printed on page 7 of a New York City newspaper; they were family. They were fellow Syriac Christians; people whose tradition bears many memories to persecution through every century. This act of violence was nothing new for these people, but it was still heavy and burdensome. How often we ignore such events in our comfortable, American-Christian atmosphere? How often we, as comfortable middle-class citizens fail to realize that those who share our deepest life blood are dying for the very same God we believe in, for the very same Savior we hold our hopes in, and by the very same Spirit which works in us? How often have I become disjointed, displace, and dishumanized not only to my fellow man in general, but my fellow Christian brothers and sisters?
Christianity is a family. We are not a building or a composite of members. We are not conjoined through common activity and liturgical preference. We are not individuals drifting in through their own existence through ritual which holds no meaning. We, as Christians, should be bound not through our culture, our ethnicity, our preferences, our individuality, or the factors of our entertainment. We are bound through who we are and who we are becoming in Christ Jesus our Lord, who died for us.
He died for us! God died for me! As the communion was passed and the bread and wine touched our lips through the hands of the priest in the midst of our crossing I realized I had let myself starve lately; that in the midst of such abundance of spiritual food I had disassociated myself with my fellow Christians and my need for Christ and instead indulged on the fickle matter that is my individual. As I rose and was blessed with the Eucharist, I pondered my Syriac brothers and sisters; those here and those far away, those living and those having moved on, and realized that I was starving for my Lord, starving for salvation, starving for the hope of the coming kingdom.
So I tasted. I ate. I was filled.
How good is our God? Even in the shedding of our family's blood, He always provides new life, new hope, and new compassion. He prepares a broad place for us, He tends to our wounds and heal us, makes us whole, and yet leaves us the scars in order to suffer with those who suffer; to be truly human. In our true humanity, it has been far too long that we've, that I've, sat comfortably by as I see my brothers and sisters die at gunpoint for the very Lord and Savior whom I worship safely and repetitively without worry. God is never safe. He is good, but never safe. To be full implies a danger, implies a stepping-out, implies going against the grain.
And it implies we take a moment to truly fill our spirits.
Qadishat Aloho
Qadishat hayelthono
Qadishat lo moyutho
destlebte hlofayn
ethrahama layn
Amen - The Qadishat Aloho in Syriac
Holy God
Holy Almighty
Holy Immortal
Who was crucified for us
have mercy upon us
Amen
That's what it's like to study God's Word at time: you get so preoccupied you forget to eat it. Not LITERALLY of course, but it seems that sometimes our study and dedication blinds us to the gaping need for Christ that still persists; with or without our acknowledgment. How ironic that we prepare such a banquet to the finest detail only to forget to nourish ourselves in what God has provided.
This morning, I went, for the first time, to a Syriac Orthodox service. The Syriac Orthodox tradition is Eastern in origin, deriving from the first Antiochian Christian communities established by St. Peter, and maintain one of the oldest liturgies surviving today. This was not your usual Reformed service consisting of a couple praise songs, a three point sermon, and a dose of Midwest simplicity all compressed together in an hour and ten minutes in order to get everyone home in time to watch the Lions stumble through another Sunday. It was beautiful, regal, and poignant. The smell of incense lofted throughout the sanctuary and the voices of priest, deacons, and monk alike sang the liturgy in Syriac, calling us to sing along at certain moments in praise to God. The phrase Kurie Eleison is used frequently, Greek for "Lord have mercy" as the entire congregation engages in meaningful prayer. The bread and the wine are blessed by beautiful melodies and are the central focus of the entire service: Christ's compassionate sacrifice always in the forefront. The message was short, ten minutes at most, which called for us to, by the grace of God, to stand and praise without fear or self-regard.
It was then the monk came and spoke, telling of the horrific slaughter and persecution of Syriac Christians only days prior in Baghdad (http://www.persecutionblog.com/2010/11/iraq-muslims-attack-church.html) leaving 59 Christian brothers slain; murdered for their faith during the worship of Christ. These people were not simply innocent statistics or a handful of words printed on page 7 of a New York City newspaper; they were family. They were fellow Syriac Christians; people whose tradition bears many memories to persecution through every century. This act of violence was nothing new for these people, but it was still heavy and burdensome. How often we ignore such events in our comfortable, American-Christian atmosphere? How often we, as comfortable middle-class citizens fail to realize that those who share our deepest life blood are dying for the very same God we believe in, for the very same Savior we hold our hopes in, and by the very same Spirit which works in us? How often have I become disjointed, displace, and dishumanized not only to my fellow man in general, but my fellow Christian brothers and sisters?
Christianity is a family. We are not a building or a composite of members. We are not conjoined through common activity and liturgical preference. We are not individuals drifting in through their own existence through ritual which holds no meaning. We, as Christians, should be bound not through our culture, our ethnicity, our preferences, our individuality, or the factors of our entertainment. We are bound through who we are and who we are becoming in Christ Jesus our Lord, who died for us.
He died for us! God died for me! As the communion was passed and the bread and wine touched our lips through the hands of the priest in the midst of our crossing I realized I had let myself starve lately; that in the midst of such abundance of spiritual food I had disassociated myself with my fellow Christians and my need for Christ and instead indulged on the fickle matter that is my individual. As I rose and was blessed with the Eucharist, I pondered my Syriac brothers and sisters; those here and those far away, those living and those having moved on, and realized that I was starving for my Lord, starving for salvation, starving for the hope of the coming kingdom.
So I tasted. I ate. I was filled.
How good is our God? Even in the shedding of our family's blood, He always provides new life, new hope, and new compassion. He prepares a broad place for us, He tends to our wounds and heal us, makes us whole, and yet leaves us the scars in order to suffer with those who suffer; to be truly human. In our true humanity, it has been far too long that we've, that I've, sat comfortably by as I see my brothers and sisters die at gunpoint for the very Lord and Savior whom I worship safely and repetitively without worry. God is never safe. He is good, but never safe. To be full implies a danger, implies a stepping-out, implies going against the grain.
And it implies we take a moment to truly fill our spirits.
Qadishat Aloho
Qadishat hayelthono
Qadishat lo moyutho
destlebte hlofayn
ethrahama layn
Amen - The Qadishat Aloho in Syriac
Holy God
Holy Almighty
Holy Immortal
Who was crucified for us
have mercy upon us
Amen
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)