I've wondered some, lately, about the relationship between the language of addiction and the language of sin. I'll say from the get-go here that I am not professionally trained in addiction studies or counseling, so please take this as a theological reflection.
Perhaps the place I find my mind most going to is how often both the behavioral patterns of addicts, and the behavioral patterns of "sinners" (more on the quotation marks in a bit), are criticized along the same lines. It always comes back to a simple matter of personal choice - you choose. If you are an addict, it is because you chose that path. If you are engaged in behavior perceived (rightly or otherwise) as sinful, it is because you chose that path. It is a critique of others that is primarily intended to cause shame on the part of the addict/sinner.
Why shame? Why do we want to shame those who are caught up in these behavioral patterns that we rightly find some troubling? I can speak less for the addiction studies side of things, but I do have some theological ideas as to why that I think may very well apply:
-We shame others because we are ignorant of their struggles. Simply put, it's a lack of empathy. Since we don't understand what another person is going through, and since their behavior disturbs us precisely because we don't understand it, we rush to condemn it and attach a stigma to it.
-We shame others because it deflects attention from our own sinful behavior. You could call this throwing stones in a glass house. It is impossible, as a follower of Christ with any interest in orthodoxy, to discount this - "all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God." (Romans 3:23). I would contend that religion provides a safe haven for those who do not wish to admit to their own sinfulness and fallen nature in that it enables people to hide from themselves by focusing their attention on the sins, real or imagined, of others. We have all likely encountered this phenomenon, of "Sister Bertha Better-Than-You" (to make a Ray Stevens reference) terrorizing others with her moral authority...when in reality, the accuser is just as guilty of wrongdoing as the accused. Their superiority isn't a moral one; they're merely better at covering their own tracks.
-We shame others because it makes us feel better about our own failings. Not everyone is ignorant of their sinfulness or at a stage where they desire to hide it. We might simply prefer to justify it as not right, but at least not as bad as what others are doing. Never mind the fact that Isaiah reminds us that even our good works are "like filthy rags" in the sight of God (Isa 64:6). If that's our good works, you can imagine God's estimation of our not-so-good ones. There's not much room for moral authority here.
The first reality is the easiest to fix; ignorance is, at least, a temporary condition cured by knowledge. You don't understand what another is going through? Letting them tell their story for themselves is a quick way to discover that, just maybe, we have more in common than meets the eye. We might discover that addiction is every bit as much about being trapped in systems of dependency that rapidly spiral out of our control, and that it is as much disease as it is personal choice. We might discover that the person we labeled sinner is not really different from us at all. We might all have quite a bit in common.
And what is that commonality? It's not that we all drink uncontrollably, or gamble excessively, or swear like sailors, or wrestle with uncontrollable lusts...it's that we are searching for wholeness. So often, the word used in the New Testament for "to save" is sozo, which carries with it a broader meaning of "to heal" or "to restore to wholeness." Mark likes this word a lot, actually, and the notion of healing in Mark is usually a holistic relationship of body and spirit. To put it plainly, what we all hold in common is that we stand in need of the kind of saving that makes us whole again - all of us, all of who we are.
We also hold in common an inability to make that happen on our own. No one is righteous - no, not one. All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. This is the core of what we're all about...well, at least what those of us who are Lutheran are all about. We are saved, made whole, only because of the intervention of a "higher power" on our behalf - Christ, who saves us by grace. Not our being better than other people on a moral scale, or "less of a drunk" than the other guy in the room, but simply because of who Christ is and what Christ does.
The living out of the salvation we receive - well, it's tricky, but reconciliation and sharing the liberating Good News of Christ stand at the heart of it...along with the honest admission of our own imperfection and own our likelihood to stumble. To fall back into old ways of being. To struggle each and every day as we learn to live in God's grace a day at a time. We are invited not to shame others or be ashamed, but to live in community and support each other as we struggle, together, toward the full realization of the wholeness we receive by grace.
What would it look like if churches took this to heart and saw themselves as "Sinners Anonymous" rather than holy spaces for holier-than-thou people? How would our role in society change? How would we be perceived differently? Most importantly, how might grace abound even more deeply and richly, how might justice and mercy reveal themselves more fully, if we walked a bit more humbly with our God?
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
A Balm in Gilead
This has been a rough couple of weeks, even without current events and world goings-on factored in.
It seems like death and loss have been a very present reality, both at Grace and in my life beyond my pastoral call. Within three weeks, I will have helped lead two memorial services, attended a funeral as a mourner, and now am mourning the loss of two members of the congregation in Iowa where I spent my internship year who died as the result of a car accident. In the midst of all of this, I went back through the past year or so of obituaries from the small Iowa town where I lived that year, discovering in the process that several other members from the congregation have passed away.
It just feels like too much. Too much mourning, too much grief, too much death. Loss and grief - they feel like weights, a lead vest for the soul. On Wednesday night (even before the tragedy yesterday), I was praying vespers at Grace, and just felt overwhelmed by the weight of it all.
Jeremiah's question at the end of chapter 8 has rung in my ears - "Is there no balm in Gilead?" Where is the comfort, the peace, the healing love of Christ in the midst of what seems like nothing but pain and turmoil? It has felt more elusive than I'd care to admit. Perhaps there's some reluctance to say this as a pastor, but it merits being said - sometimes, future-oriented promises of hope and resurrection don't quite treat the immediate, acute pain of loss. Death's sting feels a lot sharper to those of us left to deal with death's ugly aftermath in this life.
Much of our language around death, as a society, is so incredibly poor at really naming the reality for what it is. Death is painful; there's not a way around that. Instead of embracing the pain, though, so often we try to flee from it with our words. People don't die; they pass away, or we lost them, or they're no longer with us. We mask over the "d word" and politely substitute in something else that soften the blow. Our explanations around why people die are even worse - phrases like "he's in a better place," or "God needed another angel," or "she's at peace now" have elements of truth in them in some cases, and can even be very lovely expressions of God's mercy (well, except that second phrase)...but how often do they simply feel like a quick, flip explanation to a serious question?
None of that is to dismiss the very true, very fundamental truth of eternal life in Christ. That's essential because it gives us hope *beyond* where we are at right now, directing our eyes up to the fulfillment of all of God's promises of new life. The truth of resurrection can't be turned away or diminished, but solely focusing on the post-death aspects of eternal life only offers us a promise that Christ will be with us someday in the future. What about today?
Maybe some of the gracious balm we're offered comes not through the dismissal of death as a real thing, or in putting all our focus on the glorious day when we all see the fullness of God's Reign come to pass, but rather in discovering Christ present even in the mess and the pain and the loneliness and the grief. Christ's cross is precisely a place of messy, painful, lonely, grievous death - and through that cross, we find Christ present precisely in all of our spaces of loss, pain, and death.
That's the comfort I've been able to find. I think Job says it best - in the midst of incredible loss and pain, he still dares (in Job 19) to say that "I know that my redeemer lives," and that the day is coming when we will see our redeemer in the flesh, with our own eyes, and experience the fullness of God's salvation. In the meanwhile, I look to the cross, and what I see is a sign of Christ's abiding presence, even in the hurt and the loss and the sadness - God's saving grace poured out on us like a healing balm, inviting us not to pretend like nothing's happened, but to celebrate that Christ is with us through it all.
It seems like death and loss have been a very present reality, both at Grace and in my life beyond my pastoral call. Within three weeks, I will have helped lead two memorial services, attended a funeral as a mourner, and now am mourning the loss of two members of the congregation in Iowa where I spent my internship year who died as the result of a car accident. In the midst of all of this, I went back through the past year or so of obituaries from the small Iowa town where I lived that year, discovering in the process that several other members from the congregation have passed away.
It just feels like too much. Too much mourning, too much grief, too much death. Loss and grief - they feel like weights, a lead vest for the soul. On Wednesday night (even before the tragedy yesterday), I was praying vespers at Grace, and just felt overwhelmed by the weight of it all.
Jeremiah's question at the end of chapter 8 has rung in my ears - "Is there no balm in Gilead?" Where is the comfort, the peace, the healing love of Christ in the midst of what seems like nothing but pain and turmoil? It has felt more elusive than I'd care to admit. Perhaps there's some reluctance to say this as a pastor, but it merits being said - sometimes, future-oriented promises of hope and resurrection don't quite treat the immediate, acute pain of loss. Death's sting feels a lot sharper to those of us left to deal with death's ugly aftermath in this life.
Much of our language around death, as a society, is so incredibly poor at really naming the reality for what it is. Death is painful; there's not a way around that. Instead of embracing the pain, though, so often we try to flee from it with our words. People don't die; they pass away, or we lost them, or they're no longer with us. We mask over the "d word" and politely substitute in something else that soften the blow. Our explanations around why people die are even worse - phrases like "he's in a better place," or "God needed another angel," or "she's at peace now" have elements of truth in them in some cases, and can even be very lovely expressions of God's mercy (well, except that second phrase)...but how often do they simply feel like a quick, flip explanation to a serious question?
None of that is to dismiss the very true, very fundamental truth of eternal life in Christ. That's essential because it gives us hope *beyond* where we are at right now, directing our eyes up to the fulfillment of all of God's promises of new life. The truth of resurrection can't be turned away or diminished, but solely focusing on the post-death aspects of eternal life only offers us a promise that Christ will be with us someday in the future. What about today?
Maybe some of the gracious balm we're offered comes not through the dismissal of death as a real thing, or in putting all our focus on the glorious day when we all see the fullness of God's Reign come to pass, but rather in discovering Christ present even in the mess and the pain and the loneliness and the grief. Christ's cross is precisely a place of messy, painful, lonely, grievous death - and through that cross, we find Christ present precisely in all of our spaces of loss, pain, and death.
That's the comfort I've been able to find. I think Job says it best - in the midst of incredible loss and pain, he still dares (in Job 19) to say that "I know that my redeemer lives," and that the day is coming when we will see our redeemer in the flesh, with our own eyes, and experience the fullness of God's salvation. In the meanwhile, I look to the cross, and what I see is a sign of Christ's abiding presence, even in the hurt and the loss and the sadness - God's saving grace poured out on us like a healing balm, inviting us not to pretend like nothing's happened, but to celebrate that Christ is with us through it all.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
One Little Word Subdues Him
For the Lutherans in the house, you probably know where the title of this entry comes from. For those who don't claim "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God" as their liturgical fight song, it's a line from said hymn, which was written by Martin Luther sometime between 1527 and 1529...we think.
The third verse of the hymn, the whole of which tells of how Christ (God's champion) defeats sin and evil on our behalf, is where the title line comes from. The whole text of the verse:
"Though hordes of devils fill the land, all threatening to devour us,
We tremble not, unmoved we stand; they cannot overpower us.
This world's prince may rage, in fierce war engage.
He is doomed to fail; God's judgment must prevail -
One little word subdues him!"
I've always been partial to this part of the hymn, and it's been brought back to my mind today as I've watched some events unfolding at my seminary alma mater - one of the places nearest to my heart, and where I'm still known to show up for chapel once or twice a month, or meet friends for lunch or coffee. To call the thing by its name, a pretty provocatively racist incident occurred involving the striking out of "black" from "black power" on the community message center and replacing it with "white." I don't know much in the way of details beyond that.
First, I should say up front that I don't understand the phrase "black power" to be one that advocates anything other than what Wikipedia so nicely describes: a phrase "emphasizing racial pride and the creation of black political and cultural institutions to nurture and promote black collective interests and advance black values." It's not a call for anything other than what white people have enjoyed in the Americas since the colonial era, if we're really being honest - it's fundamentally about having a place of equality at the institutional and cultural table. Perhaps I'm wrong, and I don't mean to explain the concept from the outside looking in...but this will become important, I promise. Stick with me a few minutes.
The question arises, then, of why "white power" is an expression of racism. It's hard to hear "white power" as a call for equality in institutions and culture in a paradigm in which the imbalance isn't skewed against white people. Instead, its ideology mostly seems to flow from white supremacist and white nationalist groups who have no interest in equality, but rather in..well, supremacy. If you are wondering why it is that people of color at the seminary are hurt and offended by this episode, just picture in your head the kind of scene in which "white power!" might serve as a rallying cry. It probably involves skinheads and people in long, white robes with hoods and burning crosses.
But, what has that got to do with us, the "good, God-fearing" people of Christ's Church? After all, we proclaim (rather proudly) with Paul in Galatians 3 that "there is neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor free, nor male or female, for we are all one in Christ Jesus." The entire plot of the book of Acts can be reduced down to "Christ is savior to everyone who believes, no exceptions." Jews, Greeks, slaves, freemen, women, men, and everyone else - "do not call unclean what God has made clean," Peter hears God say in a dream in Acts 10...and it's clear by the end of the chapter that what God has made clean is people.
We seem to have our theology right, at least on a biblical level...but what about life beyond the words of scripture? Here is where things get uncomfortable; there's an elephant in the room, and it is racism. There's not a prettier way to put it - racism is real, and racism makes itself known in ways seen and unseen in the Church just as in society at large. This should not come as a surprise to anyone who's read Acts; the journey to embracing all people as worthy of God's grace is not a pretty one, and it is FULL of conflict and awkwardness. The Jewish believers won't serve the Greek believers' community; the leaders of the Jerusalem church are reluctant to grant full communion to non-Jewish believers who don't adhere to all aspects of the Torah. We struggle with what to do with those who are not like us.
In the context of the ELCA, and mainline Protestantism in general, "those who are not like us" typically means people who are not white or of northern/western European ancestry. The ELCA is well over 90% white, and the vast majority of its members are not only white, but from five ethnic communities within the white milieu - German, Norwegian, Swedish, Danish, and Finnish. To give credit where it's due, we celebrate (at least in our public proclamation) the grace-filled embrace of all peoples that we hear about in Acts and Galatians. But...proclamation and practice aren't always the same thing, are they? Racism finds a way to work, even among those who would reject its most overt manifestations.
Perhaps racism belongs on the roll of that horde of devils filling the land, threatening to devour. There aren't a shortage of examples of how "racism" and "demonic-seeming behavior" can go hand in hand - Google image search "lynching," if you doubt that. Real harm is done to sisters and brothers in Christ by racism, not just in society, but in the Church...and not just by overt displays of it (like today at LSTC), but by the subtle undercurrent of it that whispers the lie "you don't belong," as a friend of mine said earlier in his reflecting upon events.
Where does grace show up in this? In the very midst of the struggle. Luther wrote in one of his works ("Against Hanswurst," for those keeping score at home) that the "little word" that subdues the devil here is "Devil, you lie!" In the naming of racism for what it is when it appears; in the difficult conversations; in the suffering of people who've committed no offense other than to be different from the majority; in the gathering together in solidarity to support those whose very worth is called into question; in acts of repentance; in resisting the urge to call unclean what God has called clean - it is here that we get a taste of what God's grace is all about. Paul says we are called to the ministry of reconciliation in 2 Corinthians 5; in chapter 6, he fleshes out what that means:
"as servants of God we commend ourselves in every way: by great endurance, in afflictions, hardships, calamities, 5 beatings, imprisonments, riots, labors, sleepless nights, hunger; 6 by purity, knowledge, patience, kindness, the Holy Spirit, genuine love; 7 by truthful speech, and the power of God; with the weapons of righteousness for the right hand and for the left; 8 through honor and dishonor, through slander and praise. We are treated as impostors, and yet are true; 9 as unknown, and yet well known; as dying, and behold, we live; as punished, and yet not killed; 10 as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, yet possessing everything."
"White Power" - supremacist talk at worst, and ignorant speech that wounds others at best - is not the ministry of reconciliation. Insisting that no, really, it's not fundamentally different from saying "black power" isn't the ministry of reconciliation. Calling the thing what it is - a means of showing "genuine love; by truthful speech" - and naming racism where it rears its head...that looks a lot more like what we're called to in Christ.
There will be difficult conversations in the days ahead - certainly at LSTC, probably in other places. Perhaps, at this time in this place, we have no greater opportunity to witness to the reconciling love and grace of Christ than by speaking that one little word to racism and that which propagates it - Devil, you lie!
The third verse of the hymn, the whole of which tells of how Christ (God's champion) defeats sin and evil on our behalf, is where the title line comes from. The whole text of the verse:
"Though hordes of devils fill the land, all threatening to devour us,
We tremble not, unmoved we stand; they cannot overpower us.
This world's prince may rage, in fierce war engage.
He is doomed to fail; God's judgment must prevail -
One little word subdues him!"
I've always been partial to this part of the hymn, and it's been brought back to my mind today as I've watched some events unfolding at my seminary alma mater - one of the places nearest to my heart, and where I'm still known to show up for chapel once or twice a month, or meet friends for lunch or coffee. To call the thing by its name, a pretty provocatively racist incident occurred involving the striking out of "black" from "black power" on the community message center and replacing it with "white." I don't know much in the way of details beyond that.
First, I should say up front that I don't understand the phrase "black power" to be one that advocates anything other than what Wikipedia so nicely describes: a phrase "emphasizing racial pride and the creation of black political and cultural institutions to nurture and promote black collective interests and advance black values." It's not a call for anything other than what white people have enjoyed in the Americas since the colonial era, if we're really being honest - it's fundamentally about having a place of equality at the institutional and cultural table. Perhaps I'm wrong, and I don't mean to explain the concept from the outside looking in...but this will become important, I promise. Stick with me a few minutes.
The question arises, then, of why "white power" is an expression of racism. It's hard to hear "white power" as a call for equality in institutions and culture in a paradigm in which the imbalance isn't skewed against white people. Instead, its ideology mostly seems to flow from white supremacist and white nationalist groups who have no interest in equality, but rather in..well, supremacy. If you are wondering why it is that people of color at the seminary are hurt and offended by this episode, just picture in your head the kind of scene in which "white power!" might serve as a rallying cry. It probably involves skinheads and people in long, white robes with hoods and burning crosses.
But, what has that got to do with us, the "good, God-fearing" people of Christ's Church? After all, we proclaim (rather proudly) with Paul in Galatians 3 that "there is neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor free, nor male or female, for we are all one in Christ Jesus." The entire plot of the book of Acts can be reduced down to "Christ is savior to everyone who believes, no exceptions." Jews, Greeks, slaves, freemen, women, men, and everyone else - "do not call unclean what God has made clean," Peter hears God say in a dream in Acts 10...and it's clear by the end of the chapter that what God has made clean is people.
We seem to have our theology right, at least on a biblical level...but what about life beyond the words of scripture? Here is where things get uncomfortable; there's an elephant in the room, and it is racism. There's not a prettier way to put it - racism is real, and racism makes itself known in ways seen and unseen in the Church just as in society at large. This should not come as a surprise to anyone who's read Acts; the journey to embracing all people as worthy of God's grace is not a pretty one, and it is FULL of conflict and awkwardness. The Jewish believers won't serve the Greek believers' community; the leaders of the Jerusalem church are reluctant to grant full communion to non-Jewish believers who don't adhere to all aspects of the Torah. We struggle with what to do with those who are not like us.
In the context of the ELCA, and mainline Protestantism in general, "those who are not like us" typically means people who are not white or of northern/western European ancestry. The ELCA is well over 90% white, and the vast majority of its members are not only white, but from five ethnic communities within the white milieu - German, Norwegian, Swedish, Danish, and Finnish. To give credit where it's due, we celebrate (at least in our public proclamation) the grace-filled embrace of all peoples that we hear about in Acts and Galatians. But...proclamation and practice aren't always the same thing, are they? Racism finds a way to work, even among those who would reject its most overt manifestations.
Perhaps racism belongs on the roll of that horde of devils filling the land, threatening to devour. There aren't a shortage of examples of how "racism" and "demonic-seeming behavior" can go hand in hand - Google image search "lynching," if you doubt that. Real harm is done to sisters and brothers in Christ by racism, not just in society, but in the Church...and not just by overt displays of it (like today at LSTC), but by the subtle undercurrent of it that whispers the lie "you don't belong," as a friend of mine said earlier in his reflecting upon events.
Where does grace show up in this? In the very midst of the struggle. Luther wrote in one of his works ("Against Hanswurst," for those keeping score at home) that the "little word" that subdues the devil here is "Devil, you lie!" In the naming of racism for what it is when it appears; in the difficult conversations; in the suffering of people who've committed no offense other than to be different from the majority; in the gathering together in solidarity to support those whose very worth is called into question; in acts of repentance; in resisting the urge to call unclean what God has called clean - it is here that we get a taste of what God's grace is all about. Paul says we are called to the ministry of reconciliation in 2 Corinthians 5; in chapter 6, he fleshes out what that means:
"as servants of God we commend ourselves in every way: by great endurance, in afflictions, hardships, calamities, 5 beatings, imprisonments, riots, labors, sleepless nights, hunger; 6 by purity, knowledge, patience, kindness, the Holy Spirit, genuine love; 7 by truthful speech, and the power of God; with the weapons of righteousness for the right hand and for the left; 8 through honor and dishonor, through slander and praise. We are treated as impostors, and yet are true; 9 as unknown, and yet well known; as dying, and behold, we live; as punished, and yet not killed; 10 as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, yet possessing everything."
"White Power" - supremacist talk at worst, and ignorant speech that wounds others at best - is not the ministry of reconciliation. Insisting that no, really, it's not fundamentally different from saying "black power" isn't the ministry of reconciliation. Calling the thing what it is - a means of showing "genuine love; by truthful speech" - and naming racism where it rears its head...that looks a lot more like what we're called to in Christ.
There will be difficult conversations in the days ahead - certainly at LSTC, probably in other places. Perhaps, at this time in this place, we have no greater opportunity to witness to the reconciling love and grace of Christ than by speaking that one little word to racism and that which propagates it - Devil, you lie!
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