... probably about many things! But, although less titillating that perhaps you were hoping, my meaning is that I've been really bad about keeping up with my blog. I wanted originally to challenge myself to write once a week, to see how serious I am about trying to be a writer. But apparently I am not that serious; or else I'm too easily distracted; or I'm just plain too busy. However, sometimes a subject comes along that is so important to me that I feel compelled to try to write. And, today it is the idea of...
Unity in Diversity. It is a concept that means a very great deal to me as an Episcopalian, as a Christian, and, most importantly, as a person. The concept has become something I think of as one of those essential aspects of a life well lived, a life necessarily lived in community with others.
A friend asked me today to ask if I'd been offended a few days before when her husband and I disagreed about the merits of the Harry Potter series (I'm a big fan; he less so). Actually, far from being offended, I'd really enjoyed our animated exchange of ideas. I love to find out what people like and why. And as a scientist I'm trained to be skeptical, to play "devil's advocate," to always look for the alternative point of view. I ordinarily much prefer discussing things with people who have different viewpoints, rather than just with people who see things the same way I do. EXCEPT, of course, for those opinions I hold very dear, like we all do, and can't see HOW someone could disagree. But then I know (from hard experience), that disagreeing can be even more important. Some of those conversations -- the ones where we share what we believe or feel and why, and why it means so much to us, and what paths have brought us to the various viewpoints -- are the most valuable I have ever had. Not to convince another to my viewpoint, or to be argued out of it, but just to understand how we come to be so diverse and to learn to value the other's experience. To me, that is essential in becoming fully human--in "growing up." Somehow or other, we all have to learn that we don't have a lock on truth, that our perspective is not the only one, that what "works" for me may not "work" for someone else.
I went today to a meeting of the the Albany Via Media in our diocese. One of the questions we asked ourselves was, "What message would you like to send to the Bishop?" My answer didn't fit easily into 2 or 3 sentences, but it is fundamentally about this point. I, like so many other Episcopalians, came to this branch of the faith from another. My former church insisted on a litmus test; "You have to hold THESE opinions, or you CAN'T be a Christian." I chose Anglicanism because we are a community based upon a common worship and a mutual commitment to a community of believers, NOT one that insists on doctrinal conformity in all matters, especially relatively minor ones not "essential to salvation." Hooker believed that authority should be based on piety and reason, not conveyed by automatic investiture. Or, as my friend Louie Crew says, "The Episcopal Church is where you don't have to check your brain at the door." We can think for ourselves, question, and disagree -- what holds us together is the communion table. It is this meal that we share that cements our membership in one another, not some robotic conformity.
One of the advantages(?) of being a close friend of Louie Crew (for those who know who he is, or have had the experience), is ending up, almost by default, active in church polity (and often politics) on the national level. He is so passionate about this branch of the faith and so devoted to the Anglican Communion in all its diverse glory that you just have to get involved, and I did extensively for more than a decade. I especially loved General Convention; attending once as a volunteer for Integrity, once as part of the Consultation, and once as an Alternate Deputy for my Diocese. One year (1997? 2000?), I was assigned to monitor the activities of one of the committees who were looking into the subject of human sexuality and society. I went faithfully every day, and ended up habitually sitting just across the aisle from Martyn Minns (who was one of the prominent Episcopalians to leave the church in 2007 and join the Church of Nigeria). I remember at first the expected discomfort at being so close to someone there to argue against my inclusion in the church (I was also there to testify to my experience as the same-sex partner of a transsexual woman, and the discrimination--as well as threats--we had both experienced in society as well as within the Church). But, as the days went on, I not only calmed down about his proximity but I remember noticing the little things each day, like whether he looked tired or happy or sad, and the habits and ways of speaking that made him a real person to me rather than just an icon of the "conservative side." By the end of the week, I felt a genuine affection for him and, even though we presented starkly different viewpoints to the Committee, I truly wanted to be and remain part of the same Church with him. I found I couldn't know him, even at this relatively superficial level, and not feel connected. We both loved the same Church, the same Lord. It really hurt--actually I cried--when I read that he had left the Episcopal Church. I felt like he was a family member who had chosen to disown us. I wanted him, that person with the face I had learned to read so well, to be there around that communion table that is so central to me. We disagree about just about everything, but I still think we need each other. I guess he does not.
I feel like, in this Diocese of Albany, we are almost at the door marked "Exit" in the traditional Big House of Anglicanism. There are only two "approved seminaries" where our priest and deacons can be trained, there are doctrinal conformity opinions that must be held before a candidate can be accepted into an ordination process or a priest can be called to a parish, the teachings that come from the Bishop reflect opinions that are presented as "true" while other commonly held opinions within the diversity of mainstream Episcopalian theology are presented as "wrong." Most disturbingly to me, those of us who hold differing opinions are treated as though we don't exist. The Bishop pretends to speak for "overwhelming majority of the people and clergy of the Diocese" without listening to us or ever asking our opinion. Yet, meetings such as today's prove that there are many even in some of the "traditionally conservative" parishes who do not hold these narrow views of Anglicanism.
I don't know of any successful way of living together except to learn to agree to disagree. Right now in the Church the controversy seems to be largely about sexual orientation and gender. Some say "love the sinner but hate the sin," but I can not accept that what some call sin is what I believe is one of the God given qualities that makes me the unique individual I am; not a choice or action or lifestyle, but a unique individual created in the image of God (however you interpret that). But, this is only one issue. If we all eventually learn to agree on this (as we have over time on issues like slavery, for example), we will still disagree about other things. I do not believe any two people in the world could agree on everything that they hold dear, certainly not an entire diocese in this geographically diverse, economically diverse, culturally diverse, and every-other-which-way diverse North Country. But, I want to be able to live together anyway. I want to hear people who agree with me and I want to hear people who disagree with me, and everything in between. I want all voices to be welcome, and--at least within what is held to be acceptable Episcopalian thought on the National Church level--I want leeway for diverse perspectives to be represented, taught, and respected as legitimate in this Diocese. I want to be a Big House Church, I want to walk the Via Media with the WHOLE communion.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Wisdom Wherever You Find It...
So, my embarrassing little secret of the month is that I am a true "Gleek" (which is a fan of the show Glee, if anyone has been hiding under a rock for the past 2 years or so). Glee is super big with teens and young adults, but actually ranks high with the entire 13-49 year old crowd. OK, I'm 52 and a bit out of the demographic, but I like it anyway!
Admittedly, I'm a closet Diva and I like nothing better than to sit at the piano all afternoon singing show tunes, so it's probably not surprising that I'd enjoy singing along to the show's amazingly well produced tunes and watching the dance routines. (How do they do so many week after week? One article I read said that they work 20 hour days when filming, and I believe it.) But, it's actually not the music that impresses me so much. It's really excellent drama, and excellent comedy. I like how, with it's over-the-top comedic format, the characters do and say the things that we all think but would never actually say or do. For me, it brings up those tricky little not-so-nice parts of me that I'd rather not admit to, and forces me to examine them. It also makes me realize that I don't think enough about all that might be motivating what someone else says or does. The show doesn't let you fall into the trap of thinking that you have any character all figured out, and it maybe even makes you reexamine the possibility of ever figuring another person out completely.
I especially like that the show treats both kids and adults sensitively and (within it's admittedly over-the-top format) realistically; with heart. It's all about kids around 15-18 looking for guidance and mentoring from a couple of 25-30 year old "semi-adults" who are still struggling to grow up themselves. I like that sometimes the students are the wise ones and it's the teachers, or the parents, who need the lesson. Yes, sometimes there's a "lesson" or some moralizing that is pretty obvious -- sometimes real life lessons are like that as well, I think. But, I like that the producers and writers have enough respect for the audience to leave things real-life messy and ambiguous in as many respects. Sometimes no one is particularly likeable and everyone's motives are questionable, and sometimes even the most despicable have a heart, or do something really courageous. I think the show displays a lot of wisdom.
And that gets me to my point today. When I tell people in my general age group that I like Glee, I have gotten a surprising number of people who react with the idea that if it's a show that's popular with today's children and young adults, it's can't possibly be thought-provoking, wise, or worthwhile. And I wonder why we are so conditioned to look for wisdom only in certain venues and predictable guises. Yes, there is certainly something to be said for age and experience... But in terms of experience, the youth of today are so bombarded with it. We do recognize how they have to grow up so fast, how they face so many more stresses and tough choices and expectations than we did at their age. We look for stress and disillusionment and burn-out in them from it all. But we forget to look for the flip side; wisdom, compassion, resilience. That's there too, in spades I think, but we might miss it if we expect it to come dressed up in our own filters and biases. Each generation has a different relationship to music, to language, to sexuality, etc. than the last. The newest generation basically has no choice but to understand and be able to navigate the world view of their elders and parents, since that defines the world they were born into. Although young people have forever been about the business of questioning and often rejecting what their elders hold dear, they really don't have the option of ignoring it. But sometimes the older generations don't give the youth the respect of acknowledging and trying to understand that they have their own world view. If we did, we might find out that they have more on the ball than we thought, and much of worth to say to us.
Admittedly, I'm a closet Diva and I like nothing better than to sit at the piano all afternoon singing show tunes, so it's probably not surprising that I'd enjoy singing along to the show's amazingly well produced tunes and watching the dance routines. (How do they do so many week after week? One article I read said that they work 20 hour days when filming, and I believe it.) But, it's actually not the music that impresses me so much. It's really excellent drama, and excellent comedy. I like how, with it's over-the-top comedic format, the characters do and say the things that we all think but would never actually say or do. For me, it brings up those tricky little not-so-nice parts of me that I'd rather not admit to, and forces me to examine them. It also makes me realize that I don't think enough about all that might be motivating what someone else says or does. The show doesn't let you fall into the trap of thinking that you have any character all figured out, and it maybe even makes you reexamine the possibility of ever figuring another person out completely.
I especially like that the show treats both kids and adults sensitively and (within it's admittedly over-the-top format) realistically; with heart. It's all about kids around 15-18 looking for guidance and mentoring from a couple of 25-30 year old "semi-adults" who are still struggling to grow up themselves. I like that sometimes the students are the wise ones and it's the teachers, or the parents, who need the lesson. Yes, sometimes there's a "lesson" or some moralizing that is pretty obvious -- sometimes real life lessons are like that as well, I think. But, I like that the producers and writers have enough respect for the audience to leave things real-life messy and ambiguous in as many respects. Sometimes no one is particularly likeable and everyone's motives are questionable, and sometimes even the most despicable have a heart, or do something really courageous. I think the show displays a lot of wisdom.
And that gets me to my point today. When I tell people in my general age group that I like Glee, I have gotten a surprising number of people who react with the idea that if it's a show that's popular with today's children and young adults, it's can't possibly be thought-provoking, wise, or worthwhile. And I wonder why we are so conditioned to look for wisdom only in certain venues and predictable guises. Yes, there is certainly something to be said for age and experience... But in terms of experience, the youth of today are so bombarded with it. We do recognize how they have to grow up so fast, how they face so many more stresses and tough choices and expectations than we did at their age. We look for stress and disillusionment and burn-out in them from it all. But we forget to look for the flip side; wisdom, compassion, resilience. That's there too, in spades I think, but we might miss it if we expect it to come dressed up in our own filters and biases. Each generation has a different relationship to music, to language, to sexuality, etc. than the last. The newest generation basically has no choice but to understand and be able to navigate the world view of their elders and parents, since that defines the world they were born into. Although young people have forever been about the business of questioning and often rejecting what their elders hold dear, they really don't have the option of ignoring it. But sometimes the older generations don't give the youth the respect of acknowledging and trying to understand that they have their own world view. If we did, we might find out that they have more on the ball than we thought, and much of worth to say to us.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
9-11 Overload
I finally completely overloaded on 9-11 memorials and remembrances this morning. Even all the comics, except a very few, were dedicated to remembering -- straining the ability to say anything new and/or relevant, and calling into question the patriotism of those who didn't refer to 9-11 at the same time. I could only sympathize with Doonesbury, which at least tackled the issue straight on and asked to turn to some other programming, because the 9-11 overload was simply too much.
The articles and speeches all try harder than the last to honor the dead and the responders, to elicit grief for the affected, to assert that we will never forget. The non-religious blame religion for the root of all evil. The religious emphasize the peaceful nature of their religions and many look for the common message of peace and love of humanity in all major world religions. But, it all still seems to me to be a pointing the finger of responsibility, or defending against the finger so pointed. We seem stagnated, unable to transform the experience into something new and positive...
Today the power went off all over town for about 3 hours. It was almost as though even the systems of our daily life were also protesting that it is all "too much." In the brief time between finding out that power was out all over for no apparent reason and being reassured that it was only a local phenomenon, I wondered what it would mean if there had truly been a repeat performance and some terrorist group had managed to strike at our power infrastructure and cause a major, perhaps continent-scale, power outage. What would it mean and how would I respond?
I was right in the middle of things 10 years ago; working 2 blocks from the Capitol, commuting through the Pentagon. I spent the whole day walking around DC after being evacuated, trying to find out what was going on, seeing the smoke from the Pentagon--trying to get home, trying to contact loved ones. Yet, in a way for me it was more of a day when nothing essential changed rather than a day when "everything changed." I was not a different person after. I went through a traumatic experience, yes, and I knew people who went through much greater trauma. I grieved, major day-to-day routines changed forever as the city adjusted to the aftermath, some friends suffered life-changing loss or psychological terror. But, those things are not limited to terrorist attacks. I survived, but if I had not survived, I simply wouldn't have survived. That happens every day too. Sometimes to one person at a time, and sometimes to a lot of people at once. Overall, life went on as life always goes on.
But, for some people everything did seem to change that day. There was a new bogeyman out there -- a new "them" opposed to all of "us," a new collective existential terror. Some people even seem to think this is good, and that it's the "them" that we should remember and continue to fear and to fight. But, I thoroughly reject this view. There is no nameless evil or completely external enemy, only the collective effect of a universe of individual responses to life; individual choices between compassion and community or fear, competition, greed, and the unknown.
This morning I realized again that nothing that really matters or is truly a part of who I am and what I believe about the world would change if we were again under attack. I realize that I am in a perhaps even more vulnerable position now. I wouldn't last long if we lost major infrastructure for longer than a few weeks, I am too dependent and not young enough or strong enough to take care of myself. Nor am I interested in being a survivalist. I would much rather think of myself sharing my final meal and letting go than of lifting my finger against another to preserve my life at the expense of theirs. I couldn't plan for a world where that was necessary. But, even that extreme eventuality would not really change who I am, how the world turns, what it important.
It's not religion, nor the lack of it, nor "them," nor protecting our way of life that is the issue. Each day, each moment, we make the decision how to live and whether to love, and how far to extend that love. That decision isn't subject to externalities, even the most extreme. It comes from choice and from the heart.
In something like 6.8 billion of such individual choices lies our single and ongoing opportunity to transform the world -- or not.
The articles and speeches all try harder than the last to honor the dead and the responders, to elicit grief for the affected, to assert that we will never forget. The non-religious blame religion for the root of all evil. The religious emphasize the peaceful nature of their religions and many look for the common message of peace and love of humanity in all major world religions. But, it all still seems to me to be a pointing the finger of responsibility, or defending against the finger so pointed. We seem stagnated, unable to transform the experience into something new and positive...
Today the power went off all over town for about 3 hours. It was almost as though even the systems of our daily life were also protesting that it is all "too much." In the brief time between finding out that power was out all over for no apparent reason and being reassured that it was only a local phenomenon, I wondered what it would mean if there had truly been a repeat performance and some terrorist group had managed to strike at our power infrastructure and cause a major, perhaps continent-scale, power outage. What would it mean and how would I respond?
I was right in the middle of things 10 years ago; working 2 blocks from the Capitol, commuting through the Pentagon. I spent the whole day walking around DC after being evacuated, trying to find out what was going on, seeing the smoke from the Pentagon--trying to get home, trying to contact loved ones. Yet, in a way for me it was more of a day when nothing essential changed rather than a day when "everything changed." I was not a different person after. I went through a traumatic experience, yes, and I knew people who went through much greater trauma. I grieved, major day-to-day routines changed forever as the city adjusted to the aftermath, some friends suffered life-changing loss or psychological terror. But, those things are not limited to terrorist attacks. I survived, but if I had not survived, I simply wouldn't have survived. That happens every day too. Sometimes to one person at a time, and sometimes to a lot of people at once. Overall, life went on as life always goes on.
But, for some people everything did seem to change that day. There was a new bogeyman out there -- a new "them" opposed to all of "us," a new collective existential terror. Some people even seem to think this is good, and that it's the "them" that we should remember and continue to fear and to fight. But, I thoroughly reject this view. There is no nameless evil or completely external enemy, only the collective effect of a universe of individual responses to life; individual choices between compassion and community or fear, competition, greed, and the unknown.
This morning I realized again that nothing that really matters or is truly a part of who I am and what I believe about the world would change if we were again under attack. I realize that I am in a perhaps even more vulnerable position now. I wouldn't last long if we lost major infrastructure for longer than a few weeks, I am too dependent and not young enough or strong enough to take care of myself. Nor am I interested in being a survivalist. I would much rather think of myself sharing my final meal and letting go than of lifting my finger against another to preserve my life at the expense of theirs. I couldn't plan for a world where that was necessary. But, even that extreme eventuality would not really change who I am, how the world turns, what it important.
It's not religion, nor the lack of it, nor "them," nor protecting our way of life that is the issue. Each day, each moment, we make the decision how to live and whether to love, and how far to extend that love. That decision isn't subject to externalities, even the most extreme. It comes from choice and from the heart.
In something like 6.8 billion of such individual choices lies our single and ongoing opportunity to transform the world -- or not.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Telling Stories
I am back from spending another wonderful week at Chautauqua Institution (summer camp for life-long learners, essentially) with my in-laws and assorted relatives on Jan's side of the family. Each year this one week leaves me with enough material to think about and continue studying for the entire year. It's a wonderful time.
The week's central theme was Creativity and Innovation, and in the department of religion this translated into a week's worth of looking specifically at Jesus' use of parables and the possible meanings of these enigmatic little stories. The main speaker was Amy-Jill Levine of Vanderbilt University, who is a Jewish scholar of the New Testament, and is a marvelous story teller herself. I was at first worried about a week of lectures from the same individual, but she was well worth the time and I only wish we could have heard more from her (see a sample of her lecture style here).
What Dr. Levine helped us to do was look at parables the way a first century Jewish audience might have looked at them; essentially stripping away all the pat Sunday-school interpretations that never really made sense but that you were told was the "meaning" and don't ask any more questions! In fact, she told us that a parable can have as many interpretations as readers, and that doesn't matter anyway, because what's important isn't what the parable "means" but what the parable "does." This is something I've been told before not just about parables but about all scripture, and about doctrine and other "religious" stuff. I've had a terrible time understanding the whole concept of what scripture "does" vs. what it "means." This week, I think I almost got it -- because what parables "do" is make us all uncomfortable; they make us ask questions; they make us wonder what came before or what comes next; they give us the opportunity to make up our own endings; they invite us into the story, first as one character then as another; they invite us to tell our own stories...
Dr. Levine took us through several "de-churchifyings" (my term, I don't want to blame her for that one) of a parable and then building up alternative perspectives. I would like to try to recapture some of what she said about one of them here, and then give it my own twist. [My interpretation of her interpretation is my own and may not accurately capture what she either said or meant! In other words; if you like it I probably got it right, but if you hate it don't blame her, blame me. I probably got it wrong.] Let's see how this goes...
The parable is from Luke 15 -- the one usually dubbed the parable of the prodigal son, but which she calls the parable of the missing moms. It's about a father and his two sons. As the story goes (read it here -- don't take my word for it), the younger son demands from his father his half of the father's estate. The father divides the property and the younger son takes his half and goes off to squander it in wild living. When he is destitute, and there is a famine in the land, the younger son "comes to himself" and decides to go back to his father and ask to be hired on as one of his servants, who fare far better than he had fallen. But, the father is filled with compassion for him and welcomes him home with a kiss, a ring, a robe, and a party. The older son is resentful of the welcome the younger son gets, and complains that his father never threw him a party although he'd served faithfully for all the time the younger had been wasting his inheritance. And that's pretty much where it ends.
The "Sunday-school" interpretation emphasizes the utter ruin that the younger son comes to and how great the father's love is to run to him and welcome him home -- using the allegory of the son representing sinful people who repent and turn to God, and the father representing God who welcomes home sinners who return to him. If the elder son is mentioned at all, he is the one who thinks he can be saved through depending on merit and reward and "the law" while God is really all about love, and compassion and grace. Although it's a reading that has "worked" for a lot of people, it's always left me a little cold and we heard this week that it doesn't have to be taken that way.
Instead, Dr. Levine asked us to look at a story as just a story and a family as just a family, and see where it leads. She doesn't like either of these son's much. The first is scandalous! Asking for your inheritance before your parents are even dead is the height of disrespect and selfishness -- that, I think, is the same today as it was then. This is truly bad behavior. But, look further at what he does. When he uses all his money up in "wild living" and there is a famine, no one will give him anything. He remembers that the servants in his father's house are better off than he is and he wants to improve his lot. His decision to return to his father's is way too mercenary to make Dr. Levine (or me) comfortable. He's not sorry, he's not worried that his father might be hurt by his actions, he's not concerned about how badly he acted, he just wants to eat again and decides this is the mostly likely way to get back on his feet. THIS is a repentant sinner?
Dr. Levine says the second son isn't so likable either. Initially the story tells us that the father divides his property between them. Yet later we see the eldest son still dependent on his father, complaining that his father has never given him anything. She sees him as one who fails to claim his inheritance -- his livelihood, his property, his power -- even after it has already been divided to him. And then he complains that his father still controls what he has neglected to own. AND he is resentful of a father's love and generosity, rather than compassionate himself over the sorry situation in which his brother comes home.
What impresses Dr. Levine in the story is the father's love. He does not wait until the younger son repents before running out and forgiving him and restoring him to his favor. When he hears that the elder son is resentful, he runs out to him as well and tries to persuade him to come in and also be glad. He is portrayed as reaching out to both and trying to effect reconciliation. He is doing all he can to bring the whole family into a right relationship, but everyone has choices -- the younger son could truly repent, but he could simply take advantage of the situation again. The elder son could extend compassion and look for reconciliation, or he could become fixated in his sense of fairness. We are forced to think about what is good, what is right, what is just, and what is fair as perhaps all different things, and ask which to choose -- what are the possible consequences of each one? How did they get in the situation anyway, was there some way that this could all have been avoided? (This is where the missing moms come in -- Dr. Levine guesses that they were sons of different mothers, and perhaps the situation was set up from the start for this kind of confrontation by the conflict of a favorite wife or the striving of one wife for advantages for her son over the other son? Do we, as parents, nurture a strong family or set-up our kids for future conflicts?)
Dr. Levine proposes that perhaps the meaning of the parable is in asking ourselves who are the family with whom God would have us reconcile and what power or which choices will draw us closer to that goal or perhaps push us further apart? What are we doing with the resources that are ours? Do we claim our power and our control over circumstances, or do we look for others to blame? Are we able to truly repent and seek reconciliation? Do we wait for others to reach that point or do we go further and create safe spaces where perhaps they will get there, but perhaps they won't? How extravagant is our love?
I really loved this overall interpretation and most of what Dr. Levine said about the characters in the parable, but there was one part that I disagreed with. In keeping with her major premise on parables, that we need to reinterpret and reinterpret as long as there are different readers and different "takes" that provide useful insights, here's where I try my own "take" on it -- and why I differ in some particulars with hers.
If I understood Dr. Levine correctly, she indicated that when the father divided the property between the sons the elder never actually "claimed his own" -- learned to believe and act as though his share of the property was actually his own. He was still deferring to the father long after he could have taken charge of his life and livelihood. That's an interesting thought, and I can see how there would be a lesson there. So many of us do, metaphorically and sometimes literally, spend our lives wishing and dreaming for things that are already our own and have been all along. But, still, I just don't think this idea fits this particular parable.
To me the more believable interpretation is that the father "divided his property between them," gave the younger his share as the younger was demanding, and told the older that "the rest will be yours when I die" (and by implication, not before I die -- unless I say so). Of course, we read first through our own lenses, and this seems more likely to me because it is my family history. My grandfather did much the same with my father and his brother, although for slightly different reasons and with very different results. But, when Dad's younger brother became a man and was married, it was clear that he was not going to stay on the farm like my father. My grandfather decided that it made more sense to split the property at that point, sell enough to give Dad's brother his share, and gave gun his inheritance early to help him get a start in another chosen career -- all with the understanding that my father would then, upon my grandfather's death, inherit the farm. But (with definite emphasis on the but), had he started to act like the owner while my grandfather still "had another 20 good years in him," Dad would have found, as country folk say, that he had "another think coming."
So, when I read the parable, the setup doesn't seem strange at all. That's just what father's sometimes choose to do with their property. However, beyond just not seeming strange to me, I think there are further clues in the story that this is the more likely interpretation. When the younger son decided to return home, he assumes that the father is still very much in charge. He doesn't even anticipate that the elder son will have anything to say about how he is received. They are his father's servants who have food to spare, not his brother's. It is his father that he will entreat to give him a job, if he cannot expect to be received as a son. I think when the elder son says to his father that "you have never given me a young goat so I can party" and his father says that "everything I have is yours," the father is thinking through the old "someday all of this will be yours" refrain. But I'm willing to bet that if the elder son had ever actually taken that goat and given himself a party, he would have incurred the father's wrath, and he might very well have been denied even if he had "asked very nicely." Sometimes people who hold the reins have a hard time letting them go, or even cutting a little slack. (Especially when they have done it before and seen that part of the inheritance squandered?) I don't see any reason not to take the elder at his word that he has been serving the farther all these years in the expectation of an inheritance he has yet to receive (and may be in a little fear that he might lose the inheritance entirely, if he doesn't toe the line better than his younger brother -- once burned, twice shy, and all that.)
Anyway, following through with my interpretation, the really strange part of the parable is in how all three parties act toward each other as members of the same family. Although the father does act with a great deal of love in the end toward both sons, to me there doesn't seem to have been a lot of love lost between the three of them up until that point. The father doesn't seem to have been motivated by love in the dividing the property; not so much thinking of what's best for the sons (as I believe actually was the case in my family) as just doing what the younger demands to get him off his back. We are never told that the younger son worries about having hurt his father, or even thinks that he can come home because his father loved him and will love him still. He thinks of what will be best for himself, but not at all about whether his father will be anxious to see him again, might be worried about him, etc. And most disturbing to me, as I identify the most with him, the elder son seems more anxious to ruin his father's joy in the younger's return than to preserve it. He seems to serve his father out of necessity rather than familial love. I can understand his resentment of his brother and his sense of being somehow treated unfairly in all this, but what shocks is that he shows no evidence of love for his father, nor does he seem sure at all of his father's love. It's almost as though he's begging to be reassured that his father loves him too. Had it been me, I would have fallen all over myself to try to hide my resentment, at least for a time, and make my father's joy as complete as possible for as long as possible. Life is hard and joy isn't all that easy to come by; you simply don't do anything to ruin it for those you love and who have loved you.
Neither son seems to love the father very much. They are concerned about themselves and their own interests solely, and that makes me wonder about the father. If he is so loving, and if he's characteristically been so loving, why didn't they too learn to love? (Maybe here's where we wonder where they mother's are and what THEY'VE been teaching the sons???) Yes, despite the best and most loving upbringing, some children do not grow up to be loving and responsible individuals -- but I believe more often than not they do. Love generally becomes reciprocal over time. I think maybe this particular father hasn't always been so loving. Maybe he's one of those who don't actually realize they love, or at least don't show it, until they already have lost or are about to lose that which they love. Only when the younger son is gone, does the father realize how much he misses him and loves him? Only when the elder is resentful, does the father realize how much he has taken him for granted rather than shown him love? If I am right and he has been an "absentee father" up to this point, is pouring out his love at this late date in each boy's life going to do any good? Might it be too late?
Whichever way we interpret the parable, what we are left with at the end is three people who should, in a Kingdom of Heaven world, be in a loving family relationship and are not. There are no guarantees that the relationship can be salvaged, but still choices that each one can make that can be directed either towards attempting to reconcile or choices that could break the family apart permanently. So, I think I agree with Dr. Levine that the point, or direction, of the story is not what has happened already but what happens next. Each person has choices and each person has some power to do the right thing or the wrong one -- no guarantees, as a full resolution would take all three to create but any one could derail, but plenty of potential and something to say to us no matter where we see ourselves in the story.
The week's central theme was Creativity and Innovation, and in the department of religion this translated into a week's worth of looking specifically at Jesus' use of parables and the possible meanings of these enigmatic little stories. The main speaker was Amy-Jill Levine of Vanderbilt University, who is a Jewish scholar of the New Testament, and is a marvelous story teller herself. I was at first worried about a week of lectures from the same individual, but she was well worth the time and I only wish we could have heard more from her (see a sample of her lecture style here).
What Dr. Levine helped us to do was look at parables the way a first century Jewish audience might have looked at them; essentially stripping away all the pat Sunday-school interpretations that never really made sense but that you were told was the "meaning" and don't ask any more questions! In fact, she told us that a parable can have as many interpretations as readers, and that doesn't matter anyway, because what's important isn't what the parable "means" but what the parable "does." This is something I've been told before not just about parables but about all scripture, and about doctrine and other "religious" stuff. I've had a terrible time understanding the whole concept of what scripture "does" vs. what it "means." This week, I think I almost got it -- because what parables "do" is make us all uncomfortable; they make us ask questions; they make us wonder what came before or what comes next; they give us the opportunity to make up our own endings; they invite us into the story, first as one character then as another; they invite us to tell our own stories...
Dr. Levine took us through several "de-churchifyings" (my term, I don't want to blame her for that one) of a parable and then building up alternative perspectives. I would like to try to recapture some of what she said about one of them here, and then give it my own twist. [My interpretation of her interpretation is my own and may not accurately capture what she either said or meant! In other words; if you like it I probably got it right, but if you hate it don't blame her, blame me. I probably got it wrong.] Let's see how this goes...
The parable is from Luke 15 -- the one usually dubbed the parable of the prodigal son, but which she calls the parable of the missing moms. It's about a father and his two sons. As the story goes (read it here -- don't take my word for it), the younger son demands from his father his half of the father's estate. The father divides the property and the younger son takes his half and goes off to squander it in wild living. When he is destitute, and there is a famine in the land, the younger son "comes to himself" and decides to go back to his father and ask to be hired on as one of his servants, who fare far better than he had fallen. But, the father is filled with compassion for him and welcomes him home with a kiss, a ring, a robe, and a party. The older son is resentful of the welcome the younger son gets, and complains that his father never threw him a party although he'd served faithfully for all the time the younger had been wasting his inheritance. And that's pretty much where it ends.
The "Sunday-school" interpretation emphasizes the utter ruin that the younger son comes to and how great the father's love is to run to him and welcome him home -- using the allegory of the son representing sinful people who repent and turn to God, and the father representing God who welcomes home sinners who return to him. If the elder son is mentioned at all, he is the one who thinks he can be saved through depending on merit and reward and "the law" while God is really all about love, and compassion and grace. Although it's a reading that has "worked" for a lot of people, it's always left me a little cold and we heard this week that it doesn't have to be taken that way.
Instead, Dr. Levine asked us to look at a story as just a story and a family as just a family, and see where it leads. She doesn't like either of these son's much. The first is scandalous! Asking for your inheritance before your parents are even dead is the height of disrespect and selfishness -- that, I think, is the same today as it was then. This is truly bad behavior. But, look further at what he does. When he uses all his money up in "wild living" and there is a famine, no one will give him anything. He remembers that the servants in his father's house are better off than he is and he wants to improve his lot. His decision to return to his father's is way too mercenary to make Dr. Levine (or me) comfortable. He's not sorry, he's not worried that his father might be hurt by his actions, he's not concerned about how badly he acted, he just wants to eat again and decides this is the mostly likely way to get back on his feet. THIS is a repentant sinner?
Dr. Levine says the second son isn't so likable either. Initially the story tells us that the father divides his property between them. Yet later we see the eldest son still dependent on his father, complaining that his father has never given him anything. She sees him as one who fails to claim his inheritance -- his livelihood, his property, his power -- even after it has already been divided to him. And then he complains that his father still controls what he has neglected to own. AND he is resentful of a father's love and generosity, rather than compassionate himself over the sorry situation in which his brother comes home.
What impresses Dr. Levine in the story is the father's love. He does not wait until the younger son repents before running out and forgiving him and restoring him to his favor. When he hears that the elder son is resentful, he runs out to him as well and tries to persuade him to come in and also be glad. He is portrayed as reaching out to both and trying to effect reconciliation. He is doing all he can to bring the whole family into a right relationship, but everyone has choices -- the younger son could truly repent, but he could simply take advantage of the situation again. The elder son could extend compassion and look for reconciliation, or he could become fixated in his sense of fairness. We are forced to think about what is good, what is right, what is just, and what is fair as perhaps all different things, and ask which to choose -- what are the possible consequences of each one? How did they get in the situation anyway, was there some way that this could all have been avoided? (This is where the missing moms come in -- Dr. Levine guesses that they were sons of different mothers, and perhaps the situation was set up from the start for this kind of confrontation by the conflict of a favorite wife or the striving of one wife for advantages for her son over the other son? Do we, as parents, nurture a strong family or set-up our kids for future conflicts?)
Dr. Levine proposes that perhaps the meaning of the parable is in asking ourselves who are the family with whom God would have us reconcile and what power or which choices will draw us closer to that goal or perhaps push us further apart? What are we doing with the resources that are ours? Do we claim our power and our control over circumstances, or do we look for others to blame? Are we able to truly repent and seek reconciliation? Do we wait for others to reach that point or do we go further and create safe spaces where perhaps they will get there, but perhaps they won't? How extravagant is our love?
I really loved this overall interpretation and most of what Dr. Levine said about the characters in the parable, but there was one part that I disagreed with. In keeping with her major premise on parables, that we need to reinterpret and reinterpret as long as there are different readers and different "takes" that provide useful insights, here's where I try my own "take" on it -- and why I differ in some particulars with hers.
If I understood Dr. Levine correctly, she indicated that when the father divided the property between the sons the elder never actually "claimed his own" -- learned to believe and act as though his share of the property was actually his own. He was still deferring to the father long after he could have taken charge of his life and livelihood. That's an interesting thought, and I can see how there would be a lesson there. So many of us do, metaphorically and sometimes literally, spend our lives wishing and dreaming for things that are already our own and have been all along. But, still, I just don't think this idea fits this particular parable.
To me the more believable interpretation is that the father "divided his property between them," gave the younger his share as the younger was demanding, and told the older that "the rest will be yours when I die" (and by implication, not before I die -- unless I say so). Of course, we read first through our own lenses, and this seems more likely to me because it is my family history. My grandfather did much the same with my father and his brother, although for slightly different reasons and with very different results. But, when Dad's younger brother became a man and was married, it was clear that he was not going to stay on the farm like my father. My grandfather decided that it made more sense to split the property at that point, sell enough to give Dad's brother his share, and gave gun his inheritance early to help him get a start in another chosen career -- all with the understanding that my father would then, upon my grandfather's death, inherit the farm. But (with definite emphasis on the but), had he started to act like the owner while my grandfather still "had another 20 good years in him," Dad would have found, as country folk say, that he had "another think coming."
So, when I read the parable, the setup doesn't seem strange at all. That's just what father's sometimes choose to do with their property. However, beyond just not seeming strange to me, I think there are further clues in the story that this is the more likely interpretation. When the younger son decided to return home, he assumes that the father is still very much in charge. He doesn't even anticipate that the elder son will have anything to say about how he is received. They are his father's servants who have food to spare, not his brother's. It is his father that he will entreat to give him a job, if he cannot expect to be received as a son. I think when the elder son says to his father that "you have never given me a young goat so I can party" and his father says that "everything I have is yours," the father is thinking through the old "someday all of this will be yours" refrain. But I'm willing to bet that if the elder son had ever actually taken that goat and given himself a party, he would have incurred the father's wrath, and he might very well have been denied even if he had "asked very nicely." Sometimes people who hold the reins have a hard time letting them go, or even cutting a little slack. (Especially when they have done it before and seen that part of the inheritance squandered?) I don't see any reason not to take the elder at his word that he has been serving the farther all these years in the expectation of an inheritance he has yet to receive (and may be in a little fear that he might lose the inheritance entirely, if he doesn't toe the line better than his younger brother -- once burned, twice shy, and all that.)
Anyway, following through with my interpretation, the really strange part of the parable is in how all three parties act toward each other as members of the same family. Although the father does act with a great deal of love in the end toward both sons, to me there doesn't seem to have been a lot of love lost between the three of them up until that point. The father doesn't seem to have been motivated by love in the dividing the property; not so much thinking of what's best for the sons (as I believe actually was the case in my family) as just doing what the younger demands to get him off his back. We are never told that the younger son worries about having hurt his father, or even thinks that he can come home because his father loved him and will love him still. He thinks of what will be best for himself, but not at all about whether his father will be anxious to see him again, might be worried about him, etc. And most disturbing to me, as I identify the most with him, the elder son seems more anxious to ruin his father's joy in the younger's return than to preserve it. He seems to serve his father out of necessity rather than familial love. I can understand his resentment of his brother and his sense of being somehow treated unfairly in all this, but what shocks is that he shows no evidence of love for his father, nor does he seem sure at all of his father's love. It's almost as though he's begging to be reassured that his father loves him too. Had it been me, I would have fallen all over myself to try to hide my resentment, at least for a time, and make my father's joy as complete as possible for as long as possible. Life is hard and joy isn't all that easy to come by; you simply don't do anything to ruin it for those you love and who have loved you.
Neither son seems to love the father very much. They are concerned about themselves and their own interests solely, and that makes me wonder about the father. If he is so loving, and if he's characteristically been so loving, why didn't they too learn to love? (Maybe here's where we wonder where they mother's are and what THEY'VE been teaching the sons???) Yes, despite the best and most loving upbringing, some children do not grow up to be loving and responsible individuals -- but I believe more often than not they do. Love generally becomes reciprocal over time. I think maybe this particular father hasn't always been so loving. Maybe he's one of those who don't actually realize they love, or at least don't show it, until they already have lost or are about to lose that which they love. Only when the younger son is gone, does the father realize how much he misses him and loves him? Only when the elder is resentful, does the father realize how much he has taken him for granted rather than shown him love? If I am right and he has been an "absentee father" up to this point, is pouring out his love at this late date in each boy's life going to do any good? Might it be too late?
Whichever way we interpret the parable, what we are left with at the end is three people who should, in a Kingdom of Heaven world, be in a loving family relationship and are not. There are no guarantees that the relationship can be salvaged, but still choices that each one can make that can be directed either towards attempting to reconcile or choices that could break the family apart permanently. So, I think I agree with Dr. Levine that the point, or direction, of the story is not what has happened already but what happens next. Each person has choices and each person has some power to do the right thing or the wrong one -- no guarantees, as a full resolution would take all three to create but any one could derail, but plenty of potential and something to say to us no matter where we see ourselves in the story.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Believing Miracles
Next week I am going to Chautauqua Institution with my in-laws and sundry family members -- 9 people to a jointly rented house for a time of fun, food and learning. We did this last year too, and I still marvel over some of the incredible lectures we heard. The speakers provided me new ideas and food for thought to last the whole year, and I am expecting/hoping for a repeat performance.
I want to tell one favorite story from last year: One of the most eloquent and moving of the many excellent speakers had just finished his lecture, having had the audience of hundreds eating out of his hand for the entire time. An elderly gentleman stood to complement the speaker and ask a question. The speaker seemed a little startled at first, and then became extremely deferential. He explained to the audience that this was one of his most dearly loved and respected mentors and he showed, through gestures and in the tone of his voice, his delight in the complement and the great reverence for the man. It was clear that the honor he'd received he wanted to give back tenfold. In fact, it seemed to me that the collective aura of the whole audience, which the speaker had so deftly owned and manipulated during his lecture, was now effectively turned by his hands to bow at the feet of the august mentor. There was a hush that went over the crowd like a collective holding of breath. The crown of the speaker's accomplishment had been laid at the mentor's feet, and we hundreds were participants in the nevertheless quite intimate ceremony. It was one of those rare sacred moments that I will remember for a lifetime.
This story is entirely true. However, I think when you read about my "incredible" speakers you heard, as I meant you to, that I heard "really memorable, out-of-the-ordinary, amazing" people whose words I have thought of again and again during the year and who I learned much from. I doubt that you heard "incredible" as "not believable," even though that is the literal meaning of the word. And I doubt that anyone really believed I was part of an entire audience that literally ate food given out by the speakers hands, or took me to mean that my two eyes saw (as opposed to my inner eye) an aura that became a physical figure that then bowed at someone's feet, or that there was a real crown taken from the speaker's head and laid at the elderly man's feet. I used metaphorical language that is common enough to all of us that I would be surprised if anyone thought much about it at all. Most readers would have an easy time separating the inner meaning I was trying to convey from the physical description of the setting.
But, think how the above passage might read to someone in a few hundred years from now, or even translated literally from English into another language where the culture might not use the same common expressions and imagery. My story would seem in(not)credible indeed! If I insisted, as I also did above, that it was a true story, you would assume that I must be talking about miracles.
This morning in Sunday service we heard about some "miracles" that Jesus performed during his ministry in Galilee, and our minister asked us if we were ready to jump out of a boat on the St. Lawrence River (nearby) and walk across the water. Did we have enough faith, if we thought God asked us to? Doing so sounds pretty incredible to me -- the impossible kind of incredible. No, I am not ready. But, I forget that stories of miracle workers and supernatural occurrences were commonplace in first century Jewish life. The audience for this gospel story would have been used to hearing of special, memorable, amazing people doing in(not)credible things and, I'm sure, believed them to be true -- just as I assert that my story is true -- without a thought that, in the literal sense, the "facts" just don't line up with the world as we experience it.
I cannot be the type of Alice in Wonderland Christian who forces herself to believe "six impossible things before breakfast" in order to assert my credentials as a "believer." But I think that the authors of these miracle stories encountered someone really memorable, out-of-the-ordinary, amazing, and incredible who, just possibly, introduced them to something life-changing and precious beyond the ability of ordinary language to express. Not because I believe the impossible, but because I recognize the extraordinary, I believe that it is instructive and will be worth my while to take a closer look at these stories and "see what the Spirit is saying to the Church."
I want to tell one favorite story from last year: One of the most eloquent and moving of the many excellent speakers had just finished his lecture, having had the audience of hundreds eating out of his hand for the entire time. An elderly gentleman stood to complement the speaker and ask a question. The speaker seemed a little startled at first, and then became extremely deferential. He explained to the audience that this was one of his most dearly loved and respected mentors and he showed, through gestures and in the tone of his voice, his delight in the complement and the great reverence for the man. It was clear that the honor he'd received he wanted to give back tenfold. In fact, it seemed to me that the collective aura of the whole audience, which the speaker had so deftly owned and manipulated during his lecture, was now effectively turned by his hands to bow at the feet of the august mentor. There was a hush that went over the crowd like a collective holding of breath. The crown of the speaker's accomplishment had been laid at the mentor's feet, and we hundreds were participants in the nevertheless quite intimate ceremony. It was one of those rare sacred moments that I will remember for a lifetime.
This story is entirely true. However, I think when you read about my "incredible" speakers you heard, as I meant you to, that I heard "really memorable, out-of-the-ordinary, amazing" people whose words I have thought of again and again during the year and who I learned much from. I doubt that you heard "incredible" as "not believable," even though that is the literal meaning of the word. And I doubt that anyone really believed I was part of an entire audience that literally ate food given out by the speakers hands, or took me to mean that my two eyes saw (as opposed to my inner eye) an aura that became a physical figure that then bowed at someone's feet, or that there was a real crown taken from the speaker's head and laid at the elderly man's feet. I used metaphorical language that is common enough to all of us that I would be surprised if anyone thought much about it at all. Most readers would have an easy time separating the inner meaning I was trying to convey from the physical description of the setting.
But, think how the above passage might read to someone in a few hundred years from now, or even translated literally from English into another language where the culture might not use the same common expressions and imagery. My story would seem in(not)credible indeed! If I insisted, as I also did above, that it was a true story, you would assume that I must be talking about miracles.
This morning in Sunday service we heard about some "miracles" that Jesus performed during his ministry in Galilee, and our minister asked us if we were ready to jump out of a boat on the St. Lawrence River (nearby) and walk across the water. Did we have enough faith, if we thought God asked us to? Doing so sounds pretty incredible to me -- the impossible kind of incredible. No, I am not ready. But, I forget that stories of miracle workers and supernatural occurrences were commonplace in first century Jewish life. The audience for this gospel story would have been used to hearing of special, memorable, amazing people doing in(not)credible things and, I'm sure, believed them to be true -- just as I assert that my story is true -- without a thought that, in the literal sense, the "facts" just don't line up with the world as we experience it.
I cannot be the type of Alice in Wonderland Christian who forces herself to believe "six impossible things before breakfast" in order to assert my credentials as a "believer." But I think that the authors of these miracle stories encountered someone really memorable, out-of-the-ordinary, amazing, and incredible who, just possibly, introduced them to something life-changing and precious beyond the ability of ordinary language to express. Not because I believe the impossible, but because I recognize the extraordinary, I believe that it is instructive and will be worth my while to take a closer look at these stories and "see what the Spirit is saying to the Church."
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Transforming Love
Although it is obvious from the bulk of my writing that I approach things from a distinctly Christian perspective, I try to write about things of the spirit that are more broadly relevant across a variety of spiritual traditions. I think there is so much we can learn from each other, and I believe "that truth" is not the sole property of any one religion or tradition. One thing that definitely does not translate well across beliefs, or even across denominations within the Christian tradition, is Church politics. Few of us are interested in the inner workings of polity and authority even of our own particular tradition, much less someone else's. However, today I want to venture into this frequently mundane territory. There is a current argument in my Episcopal Diocese of Albany that I believe resonates on a much larger human scale. So, bear with me for a little bit of background and I promise to get to a point...
The Diocese of Albany is one of the more conservative/evangelical dioceses in the Episcopal church. Of the six New York dioceses, five bishops were in support of the same-sex marriage law and four will now allow Episcopal clergy to perform same-sex unions. The Diocese of Albany is the lone hold-out, whose bishop just sent a pastoral letter to be read in every parish reiterating his continuing ban not only on performing these weddings, but on clergy participating in any way in such weddings or recognizing such relationships. In it, he claims a "long-standing commitment to acknowledge homosexual persons as loved by God, and as recipients of pastoral care within the Church" and makes the entirely unsubstantiated (nobody ever asked us!) claim that the "overwhelming majority of the people and clergy in the Diocese of Albany do not and cannot support the new marriage legislation." The Bishop is quoted by Dennis Wisnom in the Albany Via Media webpages as characterizing those who disagree with him as "well intentioned people, but they are misguided." I am told by those who know him better than I that the Bishop is "a very loving person," but that it is also characteristic that he believes he has the whole truth in this matter (and in others) and that he sees himself as right and others as wrong or misguided when they disagree.
Thus, we get to the point of my concern and my larger question. I wonder if it is possible to really love and at the same time to be sure that one is "correct" and others "misguided"? I submit that it is not!
It gets down to the meaning of love. Even though we do lip service to the great commandment that includes "love the other as you love yourself," we have turned "charity" [the Latin version of the Greek work agape -- according to Encyclopaedia Britannica defined in the Christian tradition as "man’s love for man ... based not upon the desirability of its object but upon the transformation of its subject through the power of divine agāpe"] into something that we think of more as "alms giving," and we think of "compassion" as "pity" rather than in it's literal sense of "to suffer with, or to feel with." That is, we deprive these words of much of their power by focusing on the object of the love rather than the original sense of transformative love that has at its core the subject's vulnerability and openness to change.
And our greatest love does come where we are open to the greatest personal change. Perhaps no one has more universal claim to our greatest love than our own child: One who can initially give nothing in return but who transforms our life and our identity completely -- I am now a mother, a father, my purpose in life has changed, my priorities rearranged. At our best as new parents we can be so transformed that the standard refrain is "I never knew I could feel so much love."
True love does not require that the other receive, or even know of that love. What is essential is not a change or response in the loved one, but a transformation in the lover, and this transformation can be the impetus to love as much as the result of it. Teachers, musicians and artists, public individuals: we can truly love those who cause us to think, understand or feel in new ways and open new worlds to us, even when they have no idea that they have done so. The gratitude for inspiring us to dig deeper, to become more, opens our hearts to love even when there is no true relationship.
But, how much greater the love when there is true relationship. If I love you, then I must be open to being changed by participating in your life, feeling with you, seeing as you see; and when I sense that you love me I know my experience has changed you too, and that you have willingly entered into my life and volunteered to understand what it is to see as I see and feel as I feel. We can neither of us come out of a love relationship unchanged, and therefore, cannot truly enter into a love relationship without being willing to be changed by it.
So, when I hear people asking why we can't just allow them to "love the sinner but hate the sin," or "accept the pastoral care of the church" without anticipating that the church will be transformed by the experience of its new members -- No, I don't see true love. You can't truly love and care for people you invite into the community without being open to being transformed by seeing as they see and feeling what it is to be them. To say "you are welcome in but we are not open to change" is not to welcome at all. And, yes, loving the previous outsider may turn the inside world upside down. First Gentiles were allowed into the church and centuries of certainty about what God meant in "the law" were transformed by their perspectives. Slaves were allowed in and, once people began to understand and see through their experience, theologies of man's relationship to other men underwent drastic revisions. When men finally sought to understand the world through women's eyes, some finally understood why the protestations of traditional patriarchy that they weren't paternalistic fell on generally deaf female ears. A new theology of a God that is neither male nor necessarily mediated through an all male priesthood began to become mainstream. And, yes, if we welcome in lesbians and gays, and transgender folks, and anybody else who is "different" from us in ways that maybe scare us, and if we really love them, we will continue to be changed by our love for them in ways that may now seem downright "wrong" but will not with our newly transformed eyes.
Certainty, fixed, unalterable, I'm right, you're wrong -- these are all words that are at odds with love. Where there is no openness to transformation, there is no love.
The Diocese of Albany is one of the more conservative/evangelical dioceses in the Episcopal church. Of the six New York dioceses, five bishops were in support of the same-sex marriage law and four will now allow Episcopal clergy to perform same-sex unions. The Diocese of Albany is the lone hold-out, whose bishop just sent a pastoral letter to be read in every parish reiterating his continuing ban not only on performing these weddings, but on clergy participating in any way in such weddings or recognizing such relationships. In it, he claims a "long-standing commitment to acknowledge homosexual persons as loved by God, and as recipients of pastoral care within the Church" and makes the entirely unsubstantiated (nobody ever asked us!) claim that the "overwhelming majority of the people and clergy in the Diocese of Albany do not and cannot support the new marriage legislation." The Bishop is quoted by Dennis Wisnom in the Albany Via Media webpages as characterizing those who disagree with him as "well intentioned people, but they are misguided." I am told by those who know him better than I that the Bishop is "a very loving person," but that it is also characteristic that he believes he has the whole truth in this matter (and in others) and that he sees himself as right and others as wrong or misguided when they disagree.
Thus, we get to the point of my concern and my larger question. I wonder if it is possible to really love and at the same time to be sure that one is "correct" and others "misguided"? I submit that it is not!
It gets down to the meaning of love. Even though we do lip service to the great commandment that includes "love the other as you love yourself," we have turned "charity" [the Latin version of the Greek work agape -- according to Encyclopaedia Britannica defined in the Christian tradition as "man’s love for man ... based not upon the desirability of its object but upon the transformation of its subject through the power of divine agāpe"] into something that we think of more as "alms giving," and we think of "compassion" as "pity" rather than in it's literal sense of "to suffer with, or to feel with." That is, we deprive these words of much of their power by focusing on the object of the love rather than the original sense of transformative love that has at its core the subject's vulnerability and openness to change.
And our greatest love does come where we are open to the greatest personal change. Perhaps no one has more universal claim to our greatest love than our own child: One who can initially give nothing in return but who transforms our life and our identity completely -- I am now a mother, a father, my purpose in life has changed, my priorities rearranged. At our best as new parents we can be so transformed that the standard refrain is "I never knew I could feel so much love."
True love does not require that the other receive, or even know of that love. What is essential is not a change or response in the loved one, but a transformation in the lover, and this transformation can be the impetus to love as much as the result of it. Teachers, musicians and artists, public individuals: we can truly love those who cause us to think, understand or feel in new ways and open new worlds to us, even when they have no idea that they have done so. The gratitude for inspiring us to dig deeper, to become more, opens our hearts to love even when there is no true relationship.
But, how much greater the love when there is true relationship. If I love you, then I must be open to being changed by participating in your life, feeling with you, seeing as you see; and when I sense that you love me I know my experience has changed you too, and that you have willingly entered into my life and volunteered to understand what it is to see as I see and feel as I feel. We can neither of us come out of a love relationship unchanged, and therefore, cannot truly enter into a love relationship without being willing to be changed by it.
So, when I hear people asking why we can't just allow them to "love the sinner but hate the sin," or "accept the pastoral care of the church" without anticipating that the church will be transformed by the experience of its new members -- No, I don't see true love. You can't truly love and care for people you invite into the community without being open to being transformed by seeing as they see and feeling what it is to be them. To say "you are welcome in but we are not open to change" is not to welcome at all. And, yes, loving the previous outsider may turn the inside world upside down. First Gentiles were allowed into the church and centuries of certainty about what God meant in "the law" were transformed by their perspectives. Slaves were allowed in and, once people began to understand and see through their experience, theologies of man's relationship to other men underwent drastic revisions. When men finally sought to understand the world through women's eyes, some finally understood why the protestations of traditional patriarchy that they weren't paternalistic fell on generally deaf female ears. A new theology of a God that is neither male nor necessarily mediated through an all male priesthood began to become mainstream. And, yes, if we welcome in lesbians and gays, and transgender folks, and anybody else who is "different" from us in ways that maybe scare us, and if we really love them, we will continue to be changed by our love for them in ways that may now seem downright "wrong" but will not with our newly transformed eyes.
Certainty, fixed, unalterable, I'm right, you're wrong -- these are all words that are at odds with love. Where there is no openness to transformation, there is no love.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Love Unto Death
In celebration of New York's final entry into the new millennium with legal provision for same-sex marriages, a friend of mine sent me a copy of the sermon recently preached by the Very Rev. Peter Elliott, Dean of Christ Church Cathedral, Vancouver, celebrating the marriage of his friends Steve and David. In it, Dean Elliott said; "the greatest intimacy we can know is spiritual intimacy: and that’s the deep companionship that sustains a life long commitment. If you make a vow to accompany someone through to the end of life you are making a soul commitment. And love is the energy that sustains that commitment."
The idea of a soul commitment that involves a vow to last to the end of life is one that especially resonates with me today, although I am thinking about it in broader contexts than just marriage.
The possible extent and cost of a soul commitment was captured eloquently in a song (In Sickness And In Health) that a friend of mine included on a recent new album (highly recommended!). The song -- about the effects of an early, devastating, and fatal illness on the caretaker spouse, from the perspective of the ill spouse -- echoes with the refrain "you (we) didn't know what you signed on for when you said that you'd be mine." It asks the question; "When we said 'in sickness and in health,' although you've surely kept that promise, have you almost lost yourself?" and, "As my body betrays me, are you patiently waiting to be set free?"
For, however much we try to shelter ourselves from the reality of it, death is a part of life and we are called to participate in it -- even sometimes to linger overlong in its precincts. Although at its utmost extremity death is something we face alone, all of us are invited to share in either being ushered to that threshold by our own loved ones or in ushering others we love to that common destination.
Jan and I often joke that we must make a pact to die instantaneously in an accident that takes us both, because to either one of us the idea of losing the other -- either with the quick devastation of surprise or the slow despair of long illness -- seems too painful to contemplate (not to mention having to deal with the mess of the other's estate!). Yet we know that the odds are otherwise, and we willfully continue in this perilous and uncertain existence because that is where the heart leads.
But, the human heart leads to other commitments even more certain of leading to "love unto death" and we, as in humans everywhere, continue to step willingly onto these paths.
A few years ago, a friend whom I hadn't seen for awhile told me that the reason I hadn't seen him recently was that he had been at home dealing with chemotherapy from a cancer that had been diagnosed at about the time I had seen him last. My reaction, which I think is the reaction most of us would have, was not relief that I had missed out on being there with him but sorrow that we had not been good enough friends yet for him to call on me for support in his sickness. I immediately threw myself into the process of cementing the friendship that I had hoped from from before would grow deeper, even though, or perhaps especially because, a voice at the back of my head said that he was going to NEED my friendship later. There was no particular reason to feel that foreboding -- his cancer was supposedly in remission and the treatment had an 80% success rate; there was no reason to suspect a recurrence. And, we did go on to become best friends and to have some wonderful times before his cancer recurred. The second time around, the prognosis wasn't so good -- it had spread to his liver and remission rates were far less positive. Nevertheless, we went through 6 months of chemo and hope, all the while cementing our friendship and nourishing my growing friendship with his life-partner, parents, other friends, etc. In the end, as "best friend," I was the one who was asked to let him know that the options were all gone, that he was going to die. We were all there around him until the end, and I felt like I had jumped in at the beginning with the knowledge that this was all going to happen just as it had. He needed me and it was enough.
I faced a similar time with my mother, with her death from breast cancer, and more from the sidelines but equally painfully with my dad. I know -- if I live long enough -- that I face other times of care-taking, disease, and facing death with my dearly loved in-laws, my own generation of siblings and friends, and even with the possibility of losing some of the next generation. Each is painfully unthinkable just as is it ultimately inevitable. And, it's not just people who bring us to face-to-face with the inevitability of disease and death.
As I age, the number of pets I have loved and lost keeps growing, as has my experience of the variety of ways to participate in their suffering and to ultimately lose them. The first cat I had to put down was my beloved Sadie-cat of my post-college years. I met her loss with much trauma and angst, which unfortunately also communicated the same to her as I took her on the final trip to the vet. While no less painful, I have learned to have more compassion on the dear little ones who have loved me unto death, and now deal with that decision with their welfare utmost in my mind. But, oh the pain and loneliness when they are gone!
Each time I lose a loved one, I feel that so much of me is gone with them that I can never again be whole. In the midst of care-taking and decision-making, do I long to be set free? No. The question is, rather; "When to set free? When to finally let go?" And, although torn apart and tired, if I really look at what is left I find a bigger me than I began with.
I carry them all, all the ones whom I have loved and let go, the force of their love and the precious scars of their loss, deep inside me -- and the pressure of that love on my heart keeps it expanding outward to limits that I did not know were possible.
In the Epistle reading for today from the Lectionary (Romans 8: 12-25), the apostle Paul talks about being "set free from the bondage of decay" to await the "freedom of glory ... the redemption of our bodies." I don't believe that we need to understand this as some expectation of life after death or any miraculous resurrection. I think that there is a "redemption of the body" in meeting death and decay head-on, releasing it of its existential dread, and coming to terms with the impermanence of our own self and that of our loved ones; learning to live this ephemeral existence fully in-the-moment because of it.
Looking at things from the middle of a family member or friend's prolonged illness or ultimate death, or even in the middle of my own prolonged illnesses and frailties (as longer life has allowed me to experience), would I have "signed on" if I had known where it would take me? Perhaps not. But age and endurance have the advantage of providing distance and perspective. Today, I can say that I treasure each of these experiences and would sign on again willingly for the precious gift of sharing life AND death with everyone that I have loved and who has loved me. Far from losing myself, I have become myself by immersion in their impermanent lives and through the grace of their transcendent love.
The idea of a soul commitment that involves a vow to last to the end of life is one that especially resonates with me today, although I am thinking about it in broader contexts than just marriage.
The possible extent and cost of a soul commitment was captured eloquently in a song (In Sickness And In Health) that a friend of mine included on a recent new album (highly recommended!). The song -- about the effects of an early, devastating, and fatal illness on the caretaker spouse, from the perspective of the ill spouse -- echoes with the refrain "you (we) didn't know what you signed on for when you said that you'd be mine." It asks the question; "When we said 'in sickness and in health,' although you've surely kept that promise, have you almost lost yourself?" and, "As my body betrays me, are you patiently waiting to be set free?"
For, however much we try to shelter ourselves from the reality of it, death is a part of life and we are called to participate in it -- even sometimes to linger overlong in its precincts. Although at its utmost extremity death is something we face alone, all of us are invited to share in either being ushered to that threshold by our own loved ones or in ushering others we love to that common destination.
Jan and I often joke that we must make a pact to die instantaneously in an accident that takes us both, because to either one of us the idea of losing the other -- either with the quick devastation of surprise or the slow despair of long illness -- seems too painful to contemplate (not to mention having to deal with the mess of the other's estate!). Yet we know that the odds are otherwise, and we willfully continue in this perilous and uncertain existence because that is where the heart leads.
But, the human heart leads to other commitments even more certain of leading to "love unto death" and we, as in humans everywhere, continue to step willingly onto these paths.
A few years ago, a friend whom I hadn't seen for awhile told me that the reason I hadn't seen him recently was that he had been at home dealing with chemotherapy from a cancer that had been diagnosed at about the time I had seen him last. My reaction, which I think is the reaction most of us would have, was not relief that I had missed out on being there with him but sorrow that we had not been good enough friends yet for him to call on me for support in his sickness. I immediately threw myself into the process of cementing the friendship that I had hoped from from before would grow deeper, even though, or perhaps especially because, a voice at the back of my head said that he was going to NEED my friendship later. There was no particular reason to feel that foreboding -- his cancer was supposedly in remission and the treatment had an 80% success rate; there was no reason to suspect a recurrence. And, we did go on to become best friends and to have some wonderful times before his cancer recurred. The second time around, the prognosis wasn't so good -- it had spread to his liver and remission rates were far less positive. Nevertheless, we went through 6 months of chemo and hope, all the while cementing our friendship and nourishing my growing friendship with his life-partner, parents, other friends, etc. In the end, as "best friend," I was the one who was asked to let him know that the options were all gone, that he was going to die. We were all there around him until the end, and I felt like I had jumped in at the beginning with the knowledge that this was all going to happen just as it had. He needed me and it was enough.
I faced a similar time with my mother, with her death from breast cancer, and more from the sidelines but equally painfully with my dad. I know -- if I live long enough -- that I face other times of care-taking, disease, and facing death with my dearly loved in-laws, my own generation of siblings and friends, and even with the possibility of losing some of the next generation. Each is painfully unthinkable just as is it ultimately inevitable. And, it's not just people who bring us to face-to-face with the inevitability of disease and death.
As I age, the number of pets I have loved and lost keeps growing, as has my experience of the variety of ways to participate in their suffering and to ultimately lose them. The first cat I had to put down was my beloved Sadie-cat of my post-college years. I met her loss with much trauma and angst, which unfortunately also communicated the same to her as I took her on the final trip to the vet. While no less painful, I have learned to have more compassion on the dear little ones who have loved me unto death, and now deal with that decision with their welfare utmost in my mind. But, oh the pain and loneliness when they are gone!
Each time I lose a loved one, I feel that so much of me is gone with them that I can never again be whole. In the midst of care-taking and decision-making, do I long to be set free? No. The question is, rather; "When to set free? When to finally let go?" And, although torn apart and tired, if I really look at what is left I find a bigger me than I began with.
I carry them all, all the ones whom I have loved and let go, the force of their love and the precious scars of their loss, deep inside me -- and the pressure of that love on my heart keeps it expanding outward to limits that I did not know were possible.
In the Epistle reading for today from the Lectionary (Romans 8: 12-25), the apostle Paul talks about being "set free from the bondage of decay" to await the "freedom of glory ... the redemption of our bodies." I don't believe that we need to understand this as some expectation of life after death or any miraculous resurrection. I think that there is a "redemption of the body" in meeting death and decay head-on, releasing it of its existential dread, and coming to terms with the impermanence of our own self and that of our loved ones; learning to live this ephemeral existence fully in-the-moment because of it.
Looking at things from the middle of a family member or friend's prolonged illness or ultimate death, or even in the middle of my own prolonged illnesses and frailties (as longer life has allowed me to experience), would I have "signed on" if I had known where it would take me? Perhaps not. But age and endurance have the advantage of providing distance and perspective. Today, I can say that I treasure each of these experiences and would sign on again willingly for the precious gift of sharing life AND death with everyone that I have loved and who has loved me. Far from losing myself, I have become myself by immersion in their impermanent lives and through the grace of their transcendent love.
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