Good Shepherd Episcopal Church, Berkeley 2/19/12
Kings 2:1-12 • Psalm 50:1-6 • 2 Corinthians 4:3-6 • Mark 9:2-9
The Rev. Este Gardner Cantor
Today is transfiguration Sunday. Every year I see this Sunday as a kind of great galactic burst of light before the dark and germinating forty days of Lent. I felt somewhat challenged this week to preach about the glorious mountaintop experience of the transfiguration, since my father’s death was only three weeks ago, and I have been intermittently visiting the valley of the shadow of death.
But I am glad to say that amidst the mourning I have experienced a new perspective- I only remember the good and luminous things about my father, as is so often the case when you lose someone. I treasure the time I got to spend with him, and I thank God that it was such an amazingly long time- he lived to be 89 and was absolutely lucid right to the very end.
My father was a life-long atheist, but I had no doubt at all that he would be welcomed into the loving arms of God. His name after all, is David, or, in Hebrew, Dovid, meaning, “the beloved.” And I imagined that once he woke up into the next world, in the living presence of God, he would have the surprise of his life! I even imagined that he might be somewhat annoyed to have his atheism proven wrong.
The day that he died I initially felt OK. I felt that I had done my grieving when I heard that he was in hospice care, and anyway there had been all those death bed visits when he revived, again and again. And it was certainly time. But then evening fell and it began to get dark. I was seized by fear and I realized that I had never had to make it through the night without my father. I remembered C.S. Lewis’ striking first sentence in his amazing book, “A Grief Observed.”
No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness… I keep on swallowing.
My father was a geologist, who had a great love of the bursting glory of the cosmos above and around us. I remember my father first showing me the milky way out in a field on a snowy night in Ithaca New York, when all the stars were out. He explained that our view was from within the galaxy, and so the milky way was just the thickness of the multitudes of stars as we gazed through the breadth of the great spiral. I remember lying down in that same field in the summer with my father and brothers, just waiting and watching until we saw a shooting star. I remember my father first telling me that the sun was a star and the earth was a planet and the moon was, well, a moon.
Since I had in-house lecturer on Astronomy, Geology and Physical science from the time I can first remember hearing words until I was 18 and fled from home, my interest in science was eventually dulled. But now when I hear people talking about science, about astronomy, when I hear the new concepts in particle physics and string theory (pet loves of my husband’s) I am drawn to the science, because it reminds me of my dad. Perhaps, in spite of myself, like Elisha, I am to inherit a double (or at least a single) share of my father’s spirit.
I sometimes feel that as a religious people we should be uniquely qualified to believe in some of the most far-fetched scientific theories. If we can accept the infinite nature of God, God’s love, God’s power, God’s strength, as described today in our psalm, we should have no problem believing in the infinite nature of the universe. Or many of the more fantastic and glorious notions of modern science.
Last week I heard an explanation of the theory of the Holographic Universe. This has become a particularly favorite of mine, brought to us by Quantum Mechanics. It yields a surprisingly God-like picture of the universe. The theory of the holographic universe was inspired by the discovery that when any object enters a black hole out in space, all of the information about that particular object is somehow recorded on the surface of the black hole (what they call the “event horizon”) after it goes in. And apparently, the magic of string theory allows that ALL of the information for all that is or will be or has ever been is recorded- sort of “painted” on some surface boundary of the universe- the “cosmological horizon.” And even more incredibly, our living reality is quite possibly a projected hologram of that information. All that was is and ever will be. If all the information that ever was or ever will be could be seen as the mind of God, could it be said that we, and all around us are the thoughts of God? Or the luminescent dreams of God, lovingly and eternally projected forth?
Way back in 1930, before string theory was a twinkle (or a loop) in anyone’s eye, James Hopwood Jeans wrote: “The stream of [scientific] knowledge is heading towards a non-mechanical reality; the Universe begins to look more like a great thought than like a great machine. Mind no longer appears to be an accidental intruder into the realm of matter... we ought rather hail it as the creator and governor of the realm of matter.”
Jeans felt that consciousness came first, then the matter it created. Consciousness like the infinite scroll of information “painted” on the cosmological horizon- the “tent” of the universe.
The last time I saw my father I asked if I could give him a blessing. He always said yes and always seemed grateful and touched. Since I felt I could not mention God at the death bed of this devout Atheist, I prayed that the earth, that he loved so much, would give him its balance and beauty and peace, and that the cosmos that so delighted him would support him and love him and give him energy and light.
If grief is like one of those great black holes in the universe, then what is the information left on the outside? What remains from that which vanishes? We live on the surface, where all the precious information still abides- the face of our loved one- their smile, their stories, their loves, their passions. They are with us still, maybe not in the same bodily way, maybe more like a transfigured dream of them, glowing in our memory, keeping the their very shape and colors in our hearts and minds .
I have just been looking through my albums for pictures of my father. I found a great one taken when he was in the best of heath, at 31 years old, when my whole family had just climbed a mountain in New Hampshire. His hands are on his knees as he sits on the top of the mountain, beaming this enormous smile. I was, like Peter, basically thunderstruck at his radiance, and, like Peter, I tried to quantify and house the experience of him by some futile gesture. My father immediately turned his ever-present camera on me and said, what are you doing?
“Counting your feet.” I said. And sure enough, another picture shows me, at five years old, with my counting finger out, pointing to one of his boots. My mouth is open, saying either “one,” or “two,” measuring the dimensions of my infinite universe.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Calling...
Jonah 3:1-5, 10; Psalm 62:6-14; 1 Cor. 7:29-31; Mark 1:14-20
Good Shepherd Episcopal Church, Berkeley 1/22/12
The Rev. Este Gardner Cantor
It seems that soon after Jesus emerged from the wilderness, having been tempted by Satan, and surrounded by wild beasts, he decided he did not want to go it alone.
He began to assemble his tribe soon after he emerged from the wilderness, perhaps becoming aware of how easily he could be approached by temptation when all on his own. Particularly after the death of John the Baptist, he must have felt the need to begin to create his own community.
He wasn’t very choosey about these first members of his tribe. Or maybe he was. Fishermen, like shepherds, were the uneducated, low-status and unpretentious equivalents of our truck drivers or street-sweepers. He was not looking for erudition, brilliance or ego. He was, perhaps, looking for faith, and for people willing to leave everything- if only because they had so little to leave. But still- their livelihood, their fathers.
I think as Christians, as people of compassion, we are constantly called away from that which we do not want to leave. We are called into community- called away from our material obsessions, called out of our technological worm holes.
I was musing about the meaning of my dependence on my Mac Book Pro, which sometimes seems like my little instant community, when I began to meditate on the apple symbol on the cover. It is not just a symbol of a apple, but of an apple with a bite taken out of it. This, of course, brings to mind a certain biblical story, whether or not that was the conscious aim of the designers. Not just the story of Adam and Eve in the Garden, but specifically, the bite that was taken from the apple that hung on the tree of knowledge of good and evil, and the fall from grace that it engendered. It made me think that we may have bitten off more than we can chew.
In the early church it was traditional to pray five times a day, as is still required by Islam. If you had a burning question, you might take it to God. You had five times a day to do that. I am sure I consult Google or Wikipedia five times a day. My dependence was unveiled last week in London. I had seen the initials IHS on the chalices in the Tower of London, and although I had learned this long before, and I knew they were Greek initials, I just couldn’t remember exactly what they stood for. Since my Iphone wouldn’t work in England, I had to ask several people in the tower itself. Although none of them knew the answer (except that it meant Jesus Christ, which should have been a big hint for me) I had several lovely conversations. When I got back to the states, and first sat down at my computer to look it up, I found that Wikipedia was on strike to protest the Stop Online Piracy Act. So I had to look it up in my Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church. I was forced to speak to 2 humans and open a book because of my enforced fast from Wikipedia. It is a corruption of the first three Greek letters in the Greek name for Jesus- Iota, eta, sigma. Finally!
There is a kind of safety we find in true community which we do not actually find in the fraudulent communion of zinging electrons that sometimes pose as company, or even as “friends.” Sometimes I think that humans are not so very different from any herd featured in a National Geographic’s special. We are like that lovely flock of Wildebeests, hewing together, roaming over the hills and valleys in one great mass. It is the strays, the loners, who get picked off by the jackals, just as we are much more likely to get felled by depression or addiction when we stray too far from community. So we feel the call to stay with our herd, we sense the danger of an isolated life. This is one good reason we are called to come to church!
Bishop Gene Robinson, was asked why he went to Zocotti Park to participate in the Occupy Movement. He first of all said that, as a Bishop, he was always looking for God. And he saw something of God in this movement. He said that the Occupiers were trying to move away from the “every man woman and child for themselves” model, and back into community. He said it was the most peaceable kingdom he had ever participated in, with food and clothing being freely handed out, a library and think tank, a profusion of art in every imaginable form. He said the movement is being called to a time when my wellbeing depends on your well-being. A time of community.
Very recently, I experienced an unexpected call in the middle of my all-too short vacation in England. This journey did not end up being the vacation of my dreams. The first thing I was confronted with was that my daughter had chosen to follow a call of her own. Right in the middle of that beautiful face of hers, right under her perfectly shaped lower lip, there was now a big silver stud. It looked to me like the Mona Lisa had been slashed in half with a razor blade. But she had felt a call- perhaps a call to freedom from the good graces of her mother. I realized that if I had liked it would have ruined her required rite of individuation. So I was already off balance when the next strange thing happened which was a call for me to leave my family. My brother called to say that my father was dying in the ICU in Baltimore and that I should come home. This was a horrible choice. Do I leave my father, as it were, in the boat with the hired men, or do I stay with my family who I had reunited with only 3 days before? I have rushed to my father’s bedside (not a simple matter when you live 3,000 miles away) at least twice before, and he always perks up. The first time this happened was 15 years ago.
I remembered Jesus’ words to the disciple who wants to follow him, but had to bury his father. “Let the dead bury the dead.” Said Jesus, in one of his more severe moments.
But I followed the call. I left my family in York and sped down by train to Heathrow where I just missed the flight. I booked the next flight which was to leave in 6 hours. While at the airport I got on line and my niece had left me a message saying that my father had stabilized, and that I should go back to my family and come to Baltimore after the end of the vacation, which we did. Predictably, my father had revived, was very weak but absolutely lucid. But perhaps lucid in a different way. He saw me and said, unfortunately in the presence of my two brothers “You have an aura of love around you.” I found this very touching, and both my brothers found it hysterically funny. After I left, my brother sent me an e-mail saying: “Thank you so much for coming to Baltimore. And of course, thank you for your aura.
I was glad to be back in my community, in California
Maybe we should all be looking for God, like Bishop Robinson. And maybe we will find it in Community. We are all imperfect- more like Jonah than Jesus. Jonah refused the word of God, got swallowed by a whale, and it took him three days to figure out that he better start praying. Jonah was a different kind of fisherman- actually, I guess maybe he might be more in the category of bate! But he was called by God, as the fishermen were called by Jesus.
Jonah’s experiences with community were not great. He was thrown off a ship by his on-board community, and then, even as he succeeded in changing the hearts of the people of Nineveh, he boiled with anger when God chose not to punish them, as he had said he would do. In the end Jonah said he was angry enough to die.
But God continued to reason with Jonah, continued to provide him shelter and then remove it, as Jonah still had lessons to learn.
We are a community of imperfect disciples, sometimes making the right choice, often fishing in all the wrong places. But Jesus brings us the good news that our imperfections are not indelible. That he loves us precisely because of them. And that we can always experience metanoia, repentance, and that is what Jesus comes to bring us. He brings us not judgment, not even comfort, but the experience of transformation and the journey from isolation to communion, because the Kingdom of God has come near.
Good Shepherd Episcopal Church, Berkeley 1/22/12
The Rev. Este Gardner Cantor
It seems that soon after Jesus emerged from the wilderness, having been tempted by Satan, and surrounded by wild beasts, he decided he did not want to go it alone.
He began to assemble his tribe soon after he emerged from the wilderness, perhaps becoming aware of how easily he could be approached by temptation when all on his own. Particularly after the death of John the Baptist, he must have felt the need to begin to create his own community.
He wasn’t very choosey about these first members of his tribe. Or maybe he was. Fishermen, like shepherds, were the uneducated, low-status and unpretentious equivalents of our truck drivers or street-sweepers. He was not looking for erudition, brilliance or ego. He was, perhaps, looking for faith, and for people willing to leave everything- if only because they had so little to leave. But still- their livelihood, their fathers.
I think as Christians, as people of compassion, we are constantly called away from that which we do not want to leave. We are called into community- called away from our material obsessions, called out of our technological worm holes.
I was musing about the meaning of my dependence on my Mac Book Pro, which sometimes seems like my little instant community, when I began to meditate on the apple symbol on the cover. It is not just a symbol of a apple, but of an apple with a bite taken out of it. This, of course, brings to mind a certain biblical story, whether or not that was the conscious aim of the designers. Not just the story of Adam and Eve in the Garden, but specifically, the bite that was taken from the apple that hung on the tree of knowledge of good and evil, and the fall from grace that it engendered. It made me think that we may have bitten off more than we can chew.
In the early church it was traditional to pray five times a day, as is still required by Islam. If you had a burning question, you might take it to God. You had five times a day to do that. I am sure I consult Google or Wikipedia five times a day. My dependence was unveiled last week in London. I had seen the initials IHS on the chalices in the Tower of London, and although I had learned this long before, and I knew they were Greek initials, I just couldn’t remember exactly what they stood for. Since my Iphone wouldn’t work in England, I had to ask several people in the tower itself. Although none of them knew the answer (except that it meant Jesus Christ, which should have been a big hint for me) I had several lovely conversations. When I got back to the states, and first sat down at my computer to look it up, I found that Wikipedia was on strike to protest the Stop Online Piracy Act. So I had to look it up in my Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church. I was forced to speak to 2 humans and open a book because of my enforced fast from Wikipedia. It is a corruption of the first three Greek letters in the Greek name for Jesus- Iota, eta, sigma. Finally!
There is a kind of safety we find in true community which we do not actually find in the fraudulent communion of zinging electrons that sometimes pose as company, or even as “friends.” Sometimes I think that humans are not so very different from any herd featured in a National Geographic’s special. We are like that lovely flock of Wildebeests, hewing together, roaming over the hills and valleys in one great mass. It is the strays, the loners, who get picked off by the jackals, just as we are much more likely to get felled by depression or addiction when we stray too far from community. So we feel the call to stay with our herd, we sense the danger of an isolated life. This is one good reason we are called to come to church!
Bishop Gene Robinson, was asked why he went to Zocotti Park to participate in the Occupy Movement. He first of all said that, as a Bishop, he was always looking for God. And he saw something of God in this movement. He said that the Occupiers were trying to move away from the “every man woman and child for themselves” model, and back into community. He said it was the most peaceable kingdom he had ever participated in, with food and clothing being freely handed out, a library and think tank, a profusion of art in every imaginable form. He said the movement is being called to a time when my wellbeing depends on your well-being. A time of community.
Very recently, I experienced an unexpected call in the middle of my all-too short vacation in England. This journey did not end up being the vacation of my dreams. The first thing I was confronted with was that my daughter had chosen to follow a call of her own. Right in the middle of that beautiful face of hers, right under her perfectly shaped lower lip, there was now a big silver stud. It looked to me like the Mona Lisa had been slashed in half with a razor blade. But she had felt a call- perhaps a call to freedom from the good graces of her mother. I realized that if I had liked it would have ruined her required rite of individuation. So I was already off balance when the next strange thing happened which was a call for me to leave my family. My brother called to say that my father was dying in the ICU in Baltimore and that I should come home. This was a horrible choice. Do I leave my father, as it were, in the boat with the hired men, or do I stay with my family who I had reunited with only 3 days before? I have rushed to my father’s bedside (not a simple matter when you live 3,000 miles away) at least twice before, and he always perks up. The first time this happened was 15 years ago.
I remembered Jesus’ words to the disciple who wants to follow him, but had to bury his father. “Let the dead bury the dead.” Said Jesus, in one of his more severe moments.
But I followed the call. I left my family in York and sped down by train to Heathrow where I just missed the flight. I booked the next flight which was to leave in 6 hours. While at the airport I got on line and my niece had left me a message saying that my father had stabilized, and that I should go back to my family and come to Baltimore after the end of the vacation, which we did. Predictably, my father had revived, was very weak but absolutely lucid. But perhaps lucid in a different way. He saw me and said, unfortunately in the presence of my two brothers “You have an aura of love around you.” I found this very touching, and both my brothers found it hysterically funny. After I left, my brother sent me an e-mail saying: “Thank you so much for coming to Baltimore. And of course, thank you for your aura.
I was glad to be back in my community, in California
Maybe we should all be looking for God, like Bishop Robinson. And maybe we will find it in Community. We are all imperfect- more like Jonah than Jesus. Jonah refused the word of God, got swallowed by a whale, and it took him three days to figure out that he better start praying. Jonah was a different kind of fisherman- actually, I guess maybe he might be more in the category of bate! But he was called by God, as the fishermen were called by Jesus.
Jonah’s experiences with community were not great. He was thrown off a ship by his on-board community, and then, even as he succeeded in changing the hearts of the people of Nineveh, he boiled with anger when God chose not to punish them, as he had said he would do. In the end Jonah said he was angry enough to die.
But God continued to reason with Jonah, continued to provide him shelter and then remove it, as Jonah still had lessons to learn.
We are a community of imperfect disciples, sometimes making the right choice, often fishing in all the wrong places. But Jesus brings us the good news that our imperfections are not indelible. That he loves us precisely because of them. And that we can always experience metanoia, repentance, and that is what Jesus comes to bring us. He brings us not judgment, not even comfort, but the experience of transformation and the journey from isolation to communion, because the Kingdom of God has come near.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Prophet in a Trenchcoat
The Spirit Has Anointed Me…
• Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11
• Psalm 126 or Luke 1:46b-55
• 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24
• John 1:6-8, 19-28
Holy Trinity Episcopal Church
The Rev. Este Gardner Cantor, 12/11/11
As an Episcopal Priest in Berkeley, I not infrequently find myself at dinner tables or in group conversations with all kinds of people. And at the revelation that I am a priest, a kind of shocked and horrified silence often settles upon the crowd. And I hear all sorts of unsolicited opinions. Some that have been stated before they know I am a priest.
“All religion is absurd!” I hear.
“Why does there need to be a “magical being who controls everything?”
or “We don’t need God to be good people”
“More harm than good has been done in the name of religion”
“And finally, “You have no hold on reality”
Once I gather my tenuous hold on reality, I say,
“What a bleak world it must be, to believe only in science, to believe only what is visible, what is scientifically provable. What would we do without people of imagination, people of faith, people of the Spirit, what would we do without our prophets? What new invention could come into being without the inventor having imagination, taking a leap of faith, trusting in something that has not yet been proved, and that possibly never can be? What artwork would be created if everything had to have a logical and practical use and explanation and be proven to fit into the scientifically defined realm of reality?
And what force would help us to resist our human tendencies toward greed and self interest and spur us on to a compassionate and just world?”
None of these arguments particularly convince.
I am used to being around atheists here in Berkeley, and I am used to seeing intelligent people on the news or on talk shows who seem to share those views. So I was quite astonished to hear this from the brilliant comedian and writer of the priceless “The Daily Show,” John Steward. He said the following when referring to the great economic inequities in our country. “It’s not Christian!” Then recovering himself, he said, “Or Jewish or Muslim!” He himself is a Jew, married to a Catholic. Then soon after, on a different news show, I heard the wonderful and always controversial Keith Olberman say, when describing Michael Blomberg’s destruction of the Occupy Wall Street camp, exactly the same thing- “Its not Christian!” he bellowed.
But nothing surprised me more that the amazing words of the prophet Chris Hedges.
Chris Hedges is a modern day prophet, whom the Spirit of the Lord has surely anointed. He is a hugely talented, Pulitzer-prize-winning author, journalist and war correspondent, who is also, I found to my amazement, a faithful Christian. I had no idea of his religious background until he made an extraordinary speech, and I looked him up. Then I read that he had gone to seminary at Harvard Divinity School, and that his father was a Presbyterian minister. He has been absolutely fearless, as a prophet must be, covering wars all over the world, and seeing the inevitable horrors. He is quoted in the beginning of the award-winning film about the Iraq War, “The Hurt Locker:
"The rush of battle is often a potent and lethal addiction, for war is a drug."
And yet with all this experience, all this knowledge that would turn most people cynical, he has held on to his faith- in God and in humankind.
Chris Hedges wrote a book, as it turns out, called “I Don’t Believe in Atheists” which came out of a series of interviews he did with three prominent authors, who have been called “The New Atheists.”
Chris Hedges compares the new Atheists with the Christian Fundamentalists, in that the Atheists have made science an absolute religion, whose every word must be taken for absolute truth. They see nothing in shades of gray- everything is absolute- everything is black and white. There is no room for diversity of thought, diversity of belief.
Then I saw another astonishing piece written by Chris Hedges that truly had the passion and fiery certainty of an Old Testament Social Justice prophet, and the blazing heraldry of John the Baptizer proclaiming the coming of something great. This was a defense of the occupy movement, which was also a defense of Christianity, pointing out the great social justice movements in history have been inspired or led by religious leaders. He urges the church of today to embrace the Occupy movement- not let it die. The name of the piece is “Were You There when they Crucified my Movement?”
He started out by saying that outside the doors of churches, many of which have trouble filling a quarter of the pews on Sundays, struggles a movement, driven largely by young men and women, which has as its unofficial credo the Beatitudes:
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they shall possess the earth.
Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for justice, for they shall be satisfied….
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons and daughters of God.
Blessed are they who suffer persecution for justice sake, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.
He goes on to point out that it was the church, and its expression in Liberation Theology in Latin America, which gave moral support and direction for the opposition to dictatorship in the bloody 1970’s in those desperately oppressed countries.
It was the church in East Germany that organized the peaceful opposition marches in Leipzig that would bring down the Communist regime in that country.
It was the church in Czechoslovakia, and its 90-year-old cardinal, that blessed and defended the Velvet Revolution.
And of course it was the church, and especially the African-American church, that made possible the civil rights movements. Not only Martin Luther King Jr, but other the Rev. Fred Shuttlesworth, Rev. John Duffy and so many faithful lay people.
In Advent, when we celebrate hope, when we remember in the church how Mary and Joseph left Nazareth for Bethlehem, we remember who it was who came into the world. We remember who was incarnated on that holy night. Who it was who gave us the Gospel’s radical message of justice and compassion. Who gave us the message of love.
I saw a film of Chris Hedges as he was walking down a New York street, talking to someone about the Occupy movement. He said something like, “I’ve got kids now (he has four as it turns out) and this is not about us anymore, it is about the next generation, my children’s generation. This is about them. My passion for the justice of what you young people are doing, and I would even use the word love, is that you are fighting for the future of my three year old daughter [and here this hardened war correspondent began to cry] and he said, God bless you for it- God bless you.” An unnamed long-haired young man appeared from outside the frame of the film, and, Jesus-like, embraced the tearful prophet, bringing him good news, indeed.
Amen.
• Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11
• Psalm 126 or Luke 1:46b-55
• 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24
• John 1:6-8, 19-28
Holy Trinity Episcopal Church
The Rev. Este Gardner Cantor, 12/11/11
As an Episcopal Priest in Berkeley, I not infrequently find myself at dinner tables or in group conversations with all kinds of people. And at the revelation that I am a priest, a kind of shocked and horrified silence often settles upon the crowd. And I hear all sorts of unsolicited opinions. Some that have been stated before they know I am a priest.
“All religion is absurd!” I hear.
“Why does there need to be a “magical being who controls everything?”
or “We don’t need God to be good people”
“More harm than good has been done in the name of religion”
“And finally, “You have no hold on reality”
Once I gather my tenuous hold on reality, I say,
“What a bleak world it must be, to believe only in science, to believe only what is visible, what is scientifically provable. What would we do without people of imagination, people of faith, people of the Spirit, what would we do without our prophets? What new invention could come into being without the inventor having imagination, taking a leap of faith, trusting in something that has not yet been proved, and that possibly never can be? What artwork would be created if everything had to have a logical and practical use and explanation and be proven to fit into the scientifically defined realm of reality?
And what force would help us to resist our human tendencies toward greed and self interest and spur us on to a compassionate and just world?”
None of these arguments particularly convince.
I am used to being around atheists here in Berkeley, and I am used to seeing intelligent people on the news or on talk shows who seem to share those views. So I was quite astonished to hear this from the brilliant comedian and writer of the priceless “The Daily Show,” John Steward. He said the following when referring to the great economic inequities in our country. “It’s not Christian!” Then recovering himself, he said, “Or Jewish or Muslim!” He himself is a Jew, married to a Catholic. Then soon after, on a different news show, I heard the wonderful and always controversial Keith Olberman say, when describing Michael Blomberg’s destruction of the Occupy Wall Street camp, exactly the same thing- “Its not Christian!” he bellowed.
But nothing surprised me more that the amazing words of the prophet Chris Hedges.
Chris Hedges is a modern day prophet, whom the Spirit of the Lord has surely anointed. He is a hugely talented, Pulitzer-prize-winning author, journalist and war correspondent, who is also, I found to my amazement, a faithful Christian. I had no idea of his religious background until he made an extraordinary speech, and I looked him up. Then I read that he had gone to seminary at Harvard Divinity School, and that his father was a Presbyterian minister. He has been absolutely fearless, as a prophet must be, covering wars all over the world, and seeing the inevitable horrors. He is quoted in the beginning of the award-winning film about the Iraq War, “The Hurt Locker:
"The rush of battle is often a potent and lethal addiction, for war is a drug."
And yet with all this experience, all this knowledge that would turn most people cynical, he has held on to his faith- in God and in humankind.
Chris Hedges wrote a book, as it turns out, called “I Don’t Believe in Atheists” which came out of a series of interviews he did with three prominent authors, who have been called “The New Atheists.”
Chris Hedges compares the new Atheists with the Christian Fundamentalists, in that the Atheists have made science an absolute religion, whose every word must be taken for absolute truth. They see nothing in shades of gray- everything is absolute- everything is black and white. There is no room for diversity of thought, diversity of belief.
Then I saw another astonishing piece written by Chris Hedges that truly had the passion and fiery certainty of an Old Testament Social Justice prophet, and the blazing heraldry of John the Baptizer proclaiming the coming of something great. This was a defense of the occupy movement, which was also a defense of Christianity, pointing out the great social justice movements in history have been inspired or led by religious leaders. He urges the church of today to embrace the Occupy movement- not let it die. The name of the piece is “Were You There when they Crucified my Movement?”
He started out by saying that outside the doors of churches, many of which have trouble filling a quarter of the pews on Sundays, struggles a movement, driven largely by young men and women, which has as its unofficial credo the Beatitudes:
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they shall possess the earth.
Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for justice, for they shall be satisfied….
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons and daughters of God.
Blessed are they who suffer persecution for justice sake, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.
He goes on to point out that it was the church, and its expression in Liberation Theology in Latin America, which gave moral support and direction for the opposition to dictatorship in the bloody 1970’s in those desperately oppressed countries.
It was the church in East Germany that organized the peaceful opposition marches in Leipzig that would bring down the Communist regime in that country.
It was the church in Czechoslovakia, and its 90-year-old cardinal, that blessed and defended the Velvet Revolution.
And of course it was the church, and especially the African-American church, that made possible the civil rights movements. Not only Martin Luther King Jr, but other the Rev. Fred Shuttlesworth, Rev. John Duffy and so many faithful lay people.
In Advent, when we celebrate hope, when we remember in the church how Mary and Joseph left Nazareth for Bethlehem, we remember who it was who came into the world. We remember who was incarnated on that holy night. Who it was who gave us the Gospel’s radical message of justice and compassion. Who gave us the message of love.
I saw a film of Chris Hedges as he was walking down a New York street, talking to someone about the Occupy movement. He said something like, “I’ve got kids now (he has four as it turns out) and this is not about us anymore, it is about the next generation, my children’s generation. This is about them. My passion for the justice of what you young people are doing, and I would even use the word love, is that you are fighting for the future of my three year old daughter [and here this hardened war correspondent began to cry] and he said, God bless you for it- God bless you.” An unnamed long-haired young man appeared from outside the frame of the film, and, Jesus-like, embraced the tearful prophet, bringing him good news, indeed.
Amen.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Occupy Christ
Reflections on Is. 64:1-9; Ps. 80: 1-7, 17-19; 1 Cor. 1:3-9; Mk. 13:24-37
Good Shepherd Episcopal Church
The Rev. Este Gardner Cantor, 11/27/11
The first Sunday of Advent is a good time to come to church. If you stay awake and pay attention, you will hear that all the dark scriptural readings we have just heard are trying to prepare us for something. Clearly, it is something other than Santa Claus.
The readings are dark powerful and alarming. These are not quiet readings, These are not peaceful readings. The sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give it’s light, the stars will fall, and the powers of the heavens will be shaken.
The vision of the coming of the Son of Man, in clouds and great glory, comes directly from a dream. It is the dream of Daniel the prophet, which begins by describing four surrealistically horrifying beasts who emerge from the sea:- a lion with eagle’s wings, a bear with three tusks, a winged leopard and most horrific of all, a gigantic beast with ten horns and steel teeth. The Son of Man arrives on his clouds of glory, interrupting the fourth beast as it tries to destroy the enthroned Ancient One, robed in white. With the coming of the Son of Man, the beast is vanquished. Darkness and chaos are overcome.
The readers of Mark would have been quite familiar with this image and this story from the Book of Daniel, where the Son of Man is placed on his heavenly throne, and given dominion over everything. But in our Gospel reading, the coming of the Son of Man marks the second earthly coming of Jesus, When he comes he faithfully gathers his elect, from all the corners of the earth.
This is an end-time story we hear at the very dawn of Advent. But we are cautioned to stay awake- to keep watch. Because, as the prophets have foretold, something really extraordinary is beginning. From darkness and chaos, something revolutionary will emerge. The whole order of the world will change, the world will be flooded with light, and the forces of darkness will be repelled. After all the suffering, tidings of joy, are heralded.
The truth is, if we are awake at all, if we have ears to hear and eyes to see, we will behold striking expression of the Advent times here in our streets and all over the world- a moving of the spirit and a caution to stay awake that is hard to miss.
My parents we proto-beatniks and they loved nothing so much as to share a bottle of wine and then waft out into the woods, reciting poetry to each other and then (according to my mother, my hand to God) actually embrace the trees. So, from the very beginning, because of my genetics and through no fault of my own, I never had a fighting chance of being a Republican. So I do admit to a weakness for radical movements, a weakness, in fact for revolution. And that is one of the big reasons that I became a Christian. Jesus is just SO RADICAL! He started, from a very unpromising little band of brothers and sisters, who began Occupy Galilee, a most profound and lasting revolution that is still as challenging and radical as the day it was born. And he did it non-violently. Jesus and his disciples kept a common purse, kept no extraneous possessions- and so they were radical in their self-imposed poverty. Jesus told them, “Call no man your master, call no man father, he said “If anyone would be first, he must be last of all and servant of all.” He said let me do the work of a slave, let me wash your feet. So I even I believe he might have preferred a leaderless movement if he could have had one. I believe he would still like that.
Tuesday November 17 I was safe at home in my fold. It was my day off and I was really enjoying doing nothing. But my husband bounded through the door and said, “Robert Reiche, (the wonderful writer, professor and political philosopher), is going to speak at the UC Campus at Sproul Hall at 8:00- let’s go hear him!” It was warm in my house, and I was betting it would be cold at Sproul Plaza, no matter how inspiring the talk. But I decided to stretch my comfort zone and leave the nest. When we approached Sproul Plaza, it was clear that we were not the only ones who decided to come. It looked to be about 5,000 people milling about or sitting in little organized circles. It turned out that these organized circles were the General Assembly of Occupy Cal going full force.
The Wednesday before, the protestors at Occupy Cal had set up tents, as had so many occupy sites, and as in so many other cases, the police were called to pull them down. But what was so astonishing was that the very first action by the police was to viciously (I saw the tape) drive their night sticks into the rib cages of the students who had formed a circle, linking arms to protect their campsite. Well, on Tuesday night, the General Assembly was taking a vote on whether or not to erect the tents again. I was floored at their courage. I was floored anyway, because I had not seen anything like this many young people protesting for peace and justice in just about exactly forty years. I lived in Washington DC during the Vietnam War, so I saw a lot of mass protests of young people then. But not since then. Eighty percent of the students voted to put the tents up again. The motion passed.
At bottom the Occupy movement is about compassion and justice, and not only economic justice. But according to the author of Sacred Economics, Charles Eisenstein, it is about much more than that. He says it is about nothing less than creating a new world, a world of equality and peace and healing that our hearts tell us is possible. Tidings of great joy indeed. I went on a site called globalrevolution.tv, a switchboard for live streaming coverage of the Occupy movement, and up came a picture of a broadly smiling young woman with bright pink hair, holding a sign. It said “Compassion is Revolutionary”. I couldn’t agree more. Then came the live-streaming part: I saw police bristling with nightsticks in riot gear roughly shoving protestors who were trying to march. I thought about the beast with the steel teeth. One woman was poignantly speaking to the policeman pushing her back- “Please don’t fight us-we need you- join us- don’t fight us- we are you!” Then a chant sounded as the police began the arrests “This is a peaceful protest! This is a peaceful protest!” As people were being pushed to the ground the chant changed “The whole world is watching!” The whole world is watching. And compassion is revolutionary. And expensive.
In this Advent season, amid the unavoidable chaos and darkness, we pray for the peace to slow down and open our hearts. For the grace to be ready to embrace the coming Messiah- Emmanuel- God-with-us. For surrender to get our hearts and minds around this amazing and precious notion of God coming to us as a helpless infant. What could be more radical than that? What could be more radical than the incarnation? What could possibly be more radical, more revolutionary than God flooding into a mortal being that he might grow in grace and wisdom and flood into all of us? Last week we heard the gospel reading that showed us that the compassion of Jesus was so complete that he not only identified with the us, he insisted that he actually WAS us; “When I was hungry, you gave me food, when I was thirsty, you gave me drink, when I was a stranger you took me in …”
Even with all its imperfections, the remarkable modern movement we have been witnessing seems to contain something of that spirit- something of divine generosity, something of the Reign of God. All the nations seem to be gathered before us, as the needs of the poor and marginalized are being lifted up to the public attention world-wide- proclaimed in the marketplace, in our modern temples, and on the street.
There has been a lot of anxiety that the movement seems to have no leader. But what I see is the incarnation of the radical Jesus in thousands of leaders in this movement, over-turning the tables of the money changers in the temple, and pointing out the hypocrisy of the mighty. People also complain that there are no specific demands. I would say that they have one great demand, very like the one spoken by the prophet Amos, and taught by Jesus:
"Let Justice roll down like the waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream."
Stay awake- something remarkable is going to be born.
Good Shepherd Episcopal Church
The Rev. Este Gardner Cantor, 11/27/11
The first Sunday of Advent is a good time to come to church. If you stay awake and pay attention, you will hear that all the dark scriptural readings we have just heard are trying to prepare us for something. Clearly, it is something other than Santa Claus.
The readings are dark powerful and alarming. These are not quiet readings, These are not peaceful readings. The sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give it’s light, the stars will fall, and the powers of the heavens will be shaken.
The vision of the coming of the Son of Man, in clouds and great glory, comes directly from a dream. It is the dream of Daniel the prophet, which begins by describing four surrealistically horrifying beasts who emerge from the sea:- a lion with eagle’s wings, a bear with three tusks, a winged leopard and most horrific of all, a gigantic beast with ten horns and steel teeth. The Son of Man arrives on his clouds of glory, interrupting the fourth beast as it tries to destroy the enthroned Ancient One, robed in white. With the coming of the Son of Man, the beast is vanquished. Darkness and chaos are overcome.
The readers of Mark would have been quite familiar with this image and this story from the Book of Daniel, where the Son of Man is placed on his heavenly throne, and given dominion over everything. But in our Gospel reading, the coming of the Son of Man marks the second earthly coming of Jesus, When he comes he faithfully gathers his elect, from all the corners of the earth.
This is an end-time story we hear at the very dawn of Advent. But we are cautioned to stay awake- to keep watch. Because, as the prophets have foretold, something really extraordinary is beginning. From darkness and chaos, something revolutionary will emerge. The whole order of the world will change, the world will be flooded with light, and the forces of darkness will be repelled. After all the suffering, tidings of joy, are heralded.
The truth is, if we are awake at all, if we have ears to hear and eyes to see, we will behold striking expression of the Advent times here in our streets and all over the world- a moving of the spirit and a caution to stay awake that is hard to miss.
My parents we proto-beatniks and they loved nothing so much as to share a bottle of wine and then waft out into the woods, reciting poetry to each other and then (according to my mother, my hand to God) actually embrace the trees. So, from the very beginning, because of my genetics and through no fault of my own, I never had a fighting chance of being a Republican. So I do admit to a weakness for radical movements, a weakness, in fact for revolution. And that is one of the big reasons that I became a Christian. Jesus is just SO RADICAL! He started, from a very unpromising little band of brothers and sisters, who began Occupy Galilee, a most profound and lasting revolution that is still as challenging and radical as the day it was born. And he did it non-violently. Jesus and his disciples kept a common purse, kept no extraneous possessions- and so they were radical in their self-imposed poverty. Jesus told them, “Call no man your master, call no man father, he said “If anyone would be first, he must be last of all and servant of all.” He said let me do the work of a slave, let me wash your feet. So I even I believe he might have preferred a leaderless movement if he could have had one. I believe he would still like that.
Tuesday November 17 I was safe at home in my fold. It was my day off and I was really enjoying doing nothing. But my husband bounded through the door and said, “Robert Reiche, (the wonderful writer, professor and political philosopher), is going to speak at the UC Campus at Sproul Hall at 8:00- let’s go hear him!” It was warm in my house, and I was betting it would be cold at Sproul Plaza, no matter how inspiring the talk. But I decided to stretch my comfort zone and leave the nest. When we approached Sproul Plaza, it was clear that we were not the only ones who decided to come. It looked to be about 5,000 people milling about or sitting in little organized circles. It turned out that these organized circles were the General Assembly of Occupy Cal going full force.
The Wednesday before, the protestors at Occupy Cal had set up tents, as had so many occupy sites, and as in so many other cases, the police were called to pull them down. But what was so astonishing was that the very first action by the police was to viciously (I saw the tape) drive their night sticks into the rib cages of the students who had formed a circle, linking arms to protect their campsite. Well, on Tuesday night, the General Assembly was taking a vote on whether or not to erect the tents again. I was floored at their courage. I was floored anyway, because I had not seen anything like this many young people protesting for peace and justice in just about exactly forty years. I lived in Washington DC during the Vietnam War, so I saw a lot of mass protests of young people then. But not since then. Eighty percent of the students voted to put the tents up again. The motion passed.
At bottom the Occupy movement is about compassion and justice, and not only economic justice. But according to the author of Sacred Economics, Charles Eisenstein, it is about much more than that. He says it is about nothing less than creating a new world, a world of equality and peace and healing that our hearts tell us is possible. Tidings of great joy indeed. I went on a site called globalrevolution.tv, a switchboard for live streaming coverage of the Occupy movement, and up came a picture of a broadly smiling young woman with bright pink hair, holding a sign. It said “Compassion is Revolutionary”. I couldn’t agree more. Then came the live-streaming part: I saw police bristling with nightsticks in riot gear roughly shoving protestors who were trying to march. I thought about the beast with the steel teeth. One woman was poignantly speaking to the policeman pushing her back- “Please don’t fight us-we need you- join us- don’t fight us- we are you!” Then a chant sounded as the police began the arrests “This is a peaceful protest! This is a peaceful protest!” As people were being pushed to the ground the chant changed “The whole world is watching!” The whole world is watching. And compassion is revolutionary. And expensive.
In this Advent season, amid the unavoidable chaos and darkness, we pray for the peace to slow down and open our hearts. For the grace to be ready to embrace the coming Messiah- Emmanuel- God-with-us. For surrender to get our hearts and minds around this amazing and precious notion of God coming to us as a helpless infant. What could be more radical than that? What could be more radical than the incarnation? What could possibly be more radical, more revolutionary than God flooding into a mortal being that he might grow in grace and wisdom and flood into all of us? Last week we heard the gospel reading that showed us that the compassion of Jesus was so complete that he not only identified with the us, he insisted that he actually WAS us; “When I was hungry, you gave me food, when I was thirsty, you gave me drink, when I was a stranger you took me in …”
Even with all its imperfections, the remarkable modern movement we have been witnessing seems to contain something of that spirit- something of divine generosity, something of the Reign of God. All the nations seem to be gathered before us, as the needs of the poor and marginalized are being lifted up to the public attention world-wide- proclaimed in the marketplace, in our modern temples, and on the street.
There has been a lot of anxiety that the movement seems to have no leader. But what I see is the incarnation of the radical Jesus in thousands of leaders in this movement, over-turning the tables of the money changers in the temple, and pointing out the hypocrisy of the mighty. People also complain that there are no specific demands. I would say that they have one great demand, very like the one spoken by the prophet Amos, and taught by Jesus:
"Let Justice roll down like the waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream."
Stay awake- something remarkable is going to be born.
Monday, May 9, 2011
In the Breaking...
Reflections on Luke 24:13-23 5:1-12
Holy Trinity La Santisima Trinidad and Good Shepherd Berkeley, 5/8/11, Easter II
The Rev. Este Gardner Cantor
What a week we have lived through. And what a neck-snappingly swift global change of focus we have had, from the pomp and frills of the royal wedding to the brutal death of Osama Bin Laden. Our own Bishop Marc recently said that we are in an apocalyptic moment. He said that an apocalyptic moment in history is like a baptismal moment for an individual. But what are we being baptized into?
In an individual baptism, you are baptized into the death of Christ, that you might be raised with him, that you might recognize and live into the living Christ. An appropriate notion for our Easter season. And one of the signs of the living Christ, Bishop Marc goes on to say, is how we treat our enemies. Well, the way we have treated our arch enemy just this past week, has created, in my mind, the baptism of fire that we now find ourselves in.
Sometimes it is hard to tell who our enemies are. Sometimes we may wonder if we have any real enemies at all. Often we may feel that we have met the enemy, and he is us. But no such problem exists with the formerly living human being we know as Osama Bin Laden. He is obviously our enemy, and someone who was undeniably instrumental in the deaths of 3,000 of our tribe.
Jesus’ notion of “love your enemy” rather than “an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,” the Old Testament suggestion for enemy combatants, is one of the most original ideas Jesus ever had. Most everything else Jesus said (well, outside of the extraordinarily long-winded monologues in the Gospel of John) are re-iterations of his beloved justice-loving prophets of the Old Testament, who taught him what it was to be a truly righteous Jew.
Do we believe Jesus meant what he said when he told us to love our enemies? When he indicated that even “the least of these my brethren” were worthy to be seen as Christ himself? Was he sincere when he cried out “No more of this!” at his arrest when his disciple severed the ear of the slave?
As civilized, let alone spiritual beings, there must be a way to at least begin to obey these teachings, which are so profound. Assassinating and then proudly proclaiming the death of our enemy, literally dancing in the streets in celebration of man shot to death in the presence of his 12 year-old daughter, does not seem to me to be a close following of the letter of Jesus’ intent.
I understand and share the very basic human tendency to want to celebrate. Times are hard- especially for those of us who have lost our jobs, our homes, our security. We long to run out into the streets, throw our hats up in the air and shout for joy. And I understand the need for a feeling of justice and closure for the horrific events of almost ten years ago. But speaking only for myself, the killing of Bin Laden does not bring justice or closure. It just adds one more death to the tragic toll of 3,000.
I have read many comments and many quotes people have come up with to try to deal with the horrendous and divisive nature of this recent assassination, and the response the world over. Brian McLaren, a progressive Evangelical pastor and writer said,
"Joyfully celebrating the killing of a killer who joyfully celebrated killing, carries an irony that I hope will not be lost on us. Are we learning anything, or are we simply spinning harder in the cycle of violence?”
I also saw a quote from Martin Luther King Jr.’s 1963 book, The Strength to Love, he writes:
"Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars… violence multiplies violence … in a descending spiral of destruction. So when Jesus says “Love your enemies,” he is setting forth a profound and ultimately inescapable admonition. Have we not come to such an impasse in the modern world that we must love our enemies– or else?"
Our gospel story today follows a death that similarly upset the fabric of the society of the day. Some rejoiced mightily, some mourned mightily. There are many eerie similarities in the news of our week and our Gospel story. In both there was an execution of a man who profoundly threatened the powers and principalities of the day.
Great emotions were stirred. Certainly grief and mourning in some sectors- in the heart of the 12 year old daughter in one, and in the heart of Mother Mary, in the other. Great rejoicing took place in our modern story, in front of the White House and at Ground Zero. Doubtless there was rejoicing in some quarters after the crucifixion. And great fear followed both incidents. In our modern day, some might even be tempted to stay inside for fear of the Muslims.
Our gospel contains, once again, a story of mistaken identity. As in Shakespeare, it is a revealing and useful plot devise, because it illustrates how wrong we can be in our assumptions, and it is always useful to be showed how wrong we can be. In our Easter Gospel story, Mary fails to recognize the risen Christ, and mistakes him for the gardener. Our travelers to Emmaus, probably fleeing Jerusalem in terror, fearing for their lives, are not able to recognize Jesus in the several hours they apparently spent together. Until the breaking of the bread.
What are we not recognizing? There is a poignant coincidence in the similarity of the names of our president and of the dead arch enemy. Several times I have caught myself accidentally referring to the death of Obama, and then wanting to knock on wood, cross myself and turn around three times after spitting on the earth, that it may never be so! The Osama/Obama rhyme reveals to us how very differently we recognize these two human beings. We do not even see the humanity, let alone the Christ in one of these children of God.
What else are we not recognizing? I would say that if we allow ourselves to celebrate, if we are complicit in anyway with the murderous act of last week, we are not seeing the Christ in ourselves.
As theologian, writer, and rebel, Father Matthew Fox writes:
"Only the human species dares to deny it’s divinity. But now it is time to 'deny the denial.'” And then he asks :
"Can our churches themselves believe enough in the resurrection and in Pentecost to be resurrected and to become awakeners of the Spirit?”
My response to this question would be, “Yes, we can.”
We need a recognition of the divinity Matthew Fox speaks of, and the inevitable breaking of our cycle of violence that will result. We need it as desperately as we need the breaking of the bread. And it is in this breaking that we will be able to recognize Christ, in ourselves, in our enemies, and in our lives, as we truly live into this baptism of ours, which will, one day, break upon us like a long-awaited dawn.
Amen.
Holy Trinity La Santisima Trinidad and Good Shepherd Berkeley, 5/8/11, Easter II
The Rev. Este Gardner Cantor
What a week we have lived through. And what a neck-snappingly swift global change of focus we have had, from the pomp and frills of the royal wedding to the brutal death of Osama Bin Laden. Our own Bishop Marc recently said that we are in an apocalyptic moment. He said that an apocalyptic moment in history is like a baptismal moment for an individual. But what are we being baptized into?
In an individual baptism, you are baptized into the death of Christ, that you might be raised with him, that you might recognize and live into the living Christ. An appropriate notion for our Easter season. And one of the signs of the living Christ, Bishop Marc goes on to say, is how we treat our enemies. Well, the way we have treated our arch enemy just this past week, has created, in my mind, the baptism of fire that we now find ourselves in.
Sometimes it is hard to tell who our enemies are. Sometimes we may wonder if we have any real enemies at all. Often we may feel that we have met the enemy, and he is us. But no such problem exists with the formerly living human being we know as Osama Bin Laden. He is obviously our enemy, and someone who was undeniably instrumental in the deaths of 3,000 of our tribe.
Jesus’ notion of “love your enemy” rather than “an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,” the Old Testament suggestion for enemy combatants, is one of the most original ideas Jesus ever had. Most everything else Jesus said (well, outside of the extraordinarily long-winded monologues in the Gospel of John) are re-iterations of his beloved justice-loving prophets of the Old Testament, who taught him what it was to be a truly righteous Jew.
Do we believe Jesus meant what he said when he told us to love our enemies? When he indicated that even “the least of these my brethren” were worthy to be seen as Christ himself? Was he sincere when he cried out “No more of this!” at his arrest when his disciple severed the ear of the slave?
As civilized, let alone spiritual beings, there must be a way to at least begin to obey these teachings, which are so profound. Assassinating and then proudly proclaiming the death of our enemy, literally dancing in the streets in celebration of man shot to death in the presence of his 12 year-old daughter, does not seem to me to be a close following of the letter of Jesus’ intent.
I understand and share the very basic human tendency to want to celebrate. Times are hard- especially for those of us who have lost our jobs, our homes, our security. We long to run out into the streets, throw our hats up in the air and shout for joy. And I understand the need for a feeling of justice and closure for the horrific events of almost ten years ago. But speaking only for myself, the killing of Bin Laden does not bring justice or closure. It just adds one more death to the tragic toll of 3,000.
I have read many comments and many quotes people have come up with to try to deal with the horrendous and divisive nature of this recent assassination, and the response the world over. Brian McLaren, a progressive Evangelical pastor and writer said,
"Joyfully celebrating the killing of a killer who joyfully celebrated killing, carries an irony that I hope will not be lost on us. Are we learning anything, or are we simply spinning harder in the cycle of violence?”
I also saw a quote from Martin Luther King Jr.’s 1963 book, The Strength to Love, he writes:
"Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars… violence multiplies violence … in a descending spiral of destruction. So when Jesus says “Love your enemies,” he is setting forth a profound and ultimately inescapable admonition. Have we not come to such an impasse in the modern world that we must love our enemies– or else?"
Our gospel story today follows a death that similarly upset the fabric of the society of the day. Some rejoiced mightily, some mourned mightily. There are many eerie similarities in the news of our week and our Gospel story. In both there was an execution of a man who profoundly threatened the powers and principalities of the day.
Great emotions were stirred. Certainly grief and mourning in some sectors- in the heart of the 12 year old daughter in one, and in the heart of Mother Mary, in the other. Great rejoicing took place in our modern story, in front of the White House and at Ground Zero. Doubtless there was rejoicing in some quarters after the crucifixion. And great fear followed both incidents. In our modern day, some might even be tempted to stay inside for fear of the Muslims.
Our gospel contains, once again, a story of mistaken identity. As in Shakespeare, it is a revealing and useful plot devise, because it illustrates how wrong we can be in our assumptions, and it is always useful to be showed how wrong we can be. In our Easter Gospel story, Mary fails to recognize the risen Christ, and mistakes him for the gardener. Our travelers to Emmaus, probably fleeing Jerusalem in terror, fearing for their lives, are not able to recognize Jesus in the several hours they apparently spent together. Until the breaking of the bread.
What are we not recognizing? There is a poignant coincidence in the similarity of the names of our president and of the dead arch enemy. Several times I have caught myself accidentally referring to the death of Obama, and then wanting to knock on wood, cross myself and turn around three times after spitting on the earth, that it may never be so! The Osama/Obama rhyme reveals to us how very differently we recognize these two human beings. We do not even see the humanity, let alone the Christ in one of these children of God.
What else are we not recognizing? I would say that if we allow ourselves to celebrate, if we are complicit in anyway with the murderous act of last week, we are not seeing the Christ in ourselves.
As theologian, writer, and rebel, Father Matthew Fox writes:
"Only the human species dares to deny it’s divinity. But now it is time to 'deny the denial.'” And then he asks :
"Can our churches themselves believe enough in the resurrection and in Pentecost to be resurrected and to become awakeners of the Spirit?”
My response to this question would be, “Yes, we can.”
We need a recognition of the divinity Matthew Fox speaks of, and the inevitable breaking of our cycle of violence that will result. We need it as desperately as we need the breaking of the bread. And it is in this breaking that we will be able to recognize Christ, in ourselves, in our enemies, and in our lives, as we truly live into this baptism of ours, which will, one day, break upon us like a long-awaited dawn.
Amen.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
The Art of Resurrection
Easter Sunday, 4/24/11
Reflections on John 20:1-18
Holy Trinity/La Santisima Trinidad/ Good Shepherd, Berkeley
Alleluia! Christ has risen!
Three images of the resurrection have come to me lately to illuminate this holy week.
The image on the banner you might have noticed outside the church today describes the heart of our Gospel reading. If you didn’t, it is also helpfully provided in your bulletin! It is from a 12th century fresco in the Scroveni chapel in Padua Italy, and the artist is Giotto di Bondone.
It depicts the moment after Mary Magdalene has heard the voice of Jesus calling out her name- the moment of recognition. She cries out “Rabbouni!” which means “dear teacher”, and falls to her knees, reaching out to touch him. We know from the gospel that Jesus’ reply to her is "Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to my father.”
The angels who stood guard at the tomb are now magically outside of it, appropriately wearing wings and halos, and each brandishing a slender scepter. They are perched high atop what appears to be a huge stone ossuary, and one angel is front and center, with Jesus at the far right and the other angel at the far left. The soldiers guarding the tomb, like the unroused souls in hell, are fast asleep and lie in a heap behind the figure of Mary Magdalene.
Mary, who had already been pulled out of a very dark tomb once by Jesus when he freed her of seven demons, reaches out to touch Jesus as she kneels before him.
A different but equally beautiful depiction of resurrection is on a small plague in our sacristy here. It is 14th century Russian Orthodox icon called “Icon of Victory- The Resurrection.” In this amazing image, The risen Christ, far from resisting their touch, is pulling Adam and Eve from their tombs, grasping them by their wrists and hauling them up into life. They are surrounded by the Old Testament righteous and those souls who Jesus has already liberated from Hell. Below them are the chaotic remains of hell, with Satan bound and gagged and all of hell disintegrated into small sharp fragments. As the old Easter hymn goes,
Christ is risen from the dead,
Trampling down death by death,
And upon those in the tombs bestowing life!
Every year at Easter in Guatemala, another work of art is created by the people.
I read a children’s book that described this annual miracle. The surface of the streets are covered in what appears to be flowers, in fantastic ornamental patterns that resemble the exquisite hupiles that the indigenous women all wear. But fact they are not flowers, but patterns made of colored saw dust, laboriously assembled on the surface of the streets, awaiting the great Easter procession.
The children’s book was about a little girl who had taken part in the creation of this ornate carpeting, or alfombra. When the procession carrying the image of Jesus came to the section of the street the little girl had helped to create, she suddenly ran out and blocked the way with her body- she could not bear to see the beautiful work destroyed.
Her father took her by the hand and led her away. “My daughter,” he said. “It is our custom. The alfombras are like offerings to life. They are not fixed in time. The flowers bloom and then die, but they give us seeds for the birth of other flowers. Life follows death and death follows life.”
In this procession, Jesus was trampling down, not the gates of hell, but an equisite offering- a masterpiece of new blossoms, bearing the seeds of resurrection.
The long days of Lent, long before blossoming, long before seeds, and the progression of Holy week, leading up to the desolation of Good Friday have been fullfilled. These days mirror our own lives, our own descents into the tomb. The tomb of loss- loss of a home, a job, a wife, a husband, a child. Losing our health, our wholeness, our spirit, our faith. Looking into that tomb, as Mary did, hopefully, even in her grief, and not even finding the expected body- finding only an empty tomb. Finding only two small piles of desolate rags. And so Mary weeps as do we. Mary despairs as do we.
And then Jesus apprears, but in her greif, as perhaps in ours at first, she does not recognize the risen Christ. Then, in that joyful moment of recognition, she reaches out her hands.
Why does Jesus tell Mary not to hold onto him, when he seems like the only thing worth holding on to? One comentary I read simply said that Mary must learn a new relationship with Jesus- a spiritual rather than a physical one. I think Mary has the same instinct we all do when a loved one has passed away- we want to hold onto them- to have a lock of their hair, to hold onto a possession of theirs, to bury our face in their garment.
But Jesus was in a liminal state, one that could not be grasped. The tomb and the angels had created some kind of Chrisalis for the resurrection. And now in our Gospel reading, Jesus finds himself, in the words of ancient Celtic spirituality, in a “thin place” between life and death, a place where the veil between this world and the next is very thin. Mary has to see, as do we all, that there is a more eternal presence than the physical one. And although we might not be able to hold that presence, it is able to hold us, and eternally.
We don’t always know what resurrection might look like for us- or what it might take to get us there. We don’t know how that blinding light breaking on us from outside of the tomb might feel. To our shock, our sawdust flowers may be swept away to be replaced by the real thing. The familliar comfort of our coffin may be denied us.
But Jesus comes to us, and reaches for our hands, and whether or not we reach for him, he takes our wrists, and pulls us, blinking and gasping, into the bright, unaccustomed brilliance of abundant life.
Amen
Reflections on John 20:1-18
Holy Trinity/La Santisima Trinidad/ Good Shepherd, Berkeley
Alleluia! Christ has risen!
Three images of the resurrection have come to me lately to illuminate this holy week.
The image on the banner you might have noticed outside the church today describes the heart of our Gospel reading. If you didn’t, it is also helpfully provided in your bulletin! It is from a 12th century fresco in the Scroveni chapel in Padua Italy, and the artist is Giotto di Bondone.
It depicts the moment after Mary Magdalene has heard the voice of Jesus calling out her name- the moment of recognition. She cries out “Rabbouni!” which means “dear teacher”, and falls to her knees, reaching out to touch him. We know from the gospel that Jesus’ reply to her is "Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to my father.”
The angels who stood guard at the tomb are now magically outside of it, appropriately wearing wings and halos, and each brandishing a slender scepter. They are perched high atop what appears to be a huge stone ossuary, and one angel is front and center, with Jesus at the far right and the other angel at the far left. The soldiers guarding the tomb, like the unroused souls in hell, are fast asleep and lie in a heap behind the figure of Mary Magdalene.
Mary, who had already been pulled out of a very dark tomb once by Jesus when he freed her of seven demons, reaches out to touch Jesus as she kneels before him.
A different but equally beautiful depiction of resurrection is on a small plague in our sacristy here. It is 14th century Russian Orthodox icon called “Icon of Victory- The Resurrection.” In this amazing image, The risen Christ, far from resisting their touch, is pulling Adam and Eve from their tombs, grasping them by their wrists and hauling them up into life. They are surrounded by the Old Testament righteous and those souls who Jesus has already liberated from Hell. Below them are the chaotic remains of hell, with Satan bound and gagged and all of hell disintegrated into small sharp fragments. As the old Easter hymn goes,
Christ is risen from the dead,
Trampling down death by death,
And upon those in the tombs bestowing life!
Every year at Easter in Guatemala, another work of art is created by the people.
I read a children’s book that described this annual miracle. The surface of the streets are covered in what appears to be flowers, in fantastic ornamental patterns that resemble the exquisite hupiles that the indigenous women all wear. But fact they are not flowers, but patterns made of colored saw dust, laboriously assembled on the surface of the streets, awaiting the great Easter procession.
The children’s book was about a little girl who had taken part in the creation of this ornate carpeting, or alfombra. When the procession carrying the image of Jesus came to the section of the street the little girl had helped to create, she suddenly ran out and blocked the way with her body- she could not bear to see the beautiful work destroyed.
Her father took her by the hand and led her away. “My daughter,” he said. “It is our custom. The alfombras are like offerings to life. They are not fixed in time. The flowers bloom and then die, but they give us seeds for the birth of other flowers. Life follows death and death follows life.”
In this procession, Jesus was trampling down, not the gates of hell, but an equisite offering- a masterpiece of new blossoms, bearing the seeds of resurrection.
The long days of Lent, long before blossoming, long before seeds, and the progression of Holy week, leading up to the desolation of Good Friday have been fullfilled. These days mirror our own lives, our own descents into the tomb. The tomb of loss- loss of a home, a job, a wife, a husband, a child. Losing our health, our wholeness, our spirit, our faith. Looking into that tomb, as Mary did, hopefully, even in her grief, and not even finding the expected body- finding only an empty tomb. Finding only two small piles of desolate rags. And so Mary weeps as do we. Mary despairs as do we.
And then Jesus apprears, but in her greif, as perhaps in ours at first, she does not recognize the risen Christ. Then, in that joyful moment of recognition, she reaches out her hands.
Why does Jesus tell Mary not to hold onto him, when he seems like the only thing worth holding on to? One comentary I read simply said that Mary must learn a new relationship with Jesus- a spiritual rather than a physical one. I think Mary has the same instinct we all do when a loved one has passed away- we want to hold onto them- to have a lock of their hair, to hold onto a possession of theirs, to bury our face in their garment.
But Jesus was in a liminal state, one that could not be grasped. The tomb and the angels had created some kind of Chrisalis for the resurrection. And now in our Gospel reading, Jesus finds himself, in the words of ancient Celtic spirituality, in a “thin place” between life and death, a place where the veil between this world and the next is very thin. Mary has to see, as do we all, that there is a more eternal presence than the physical one. And although we might not be able to hold that presence, it is able to hold us, and eternally.
We don’t always know what resurrection might look like for us- or what it might take to get us there. We don’t know how that blinding light breaking on us from outside of the tomb might feel. To our shock, our sawdust flowers may be swept away to be replaced by the real thing. The familliar comfort of our coffin may be denied us.
But Jesus comes to us, and reaches for our hands, and whether or not we reach for him, he takes our wrists, and pulls us, blinking and gasping, into the bright, unaccustomed brilliance of abundant life.
Amen
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Open Your Eyes...
Reflections on John 9:1-41
Holy Trinity/La Santisima Trinidad, Richmond, 4/3/11
This is a long and astonishing parable on blindness and belief. As always in the Gospel of John, the true believers are the ones who, unfailingly believe in Jesus as the Messiah. The unbelievers are the people of Jesus’ religion and heritage: the Jews.
We hear of the strictness of the Pharisaic code- a man must not work on the Sabbath - even to mix saliva with mud to enact a miracle. A man born blind is simply proof of the sins of his parents or himself- the only question is- which one sinned? But nothing is more chilling than the terror displayed by the parents of the man born blind. When pressed by “the Jews” they would sooner turn in their own son “Let him speak for himself” than suffer the worst thing imaginable for any Jew- to be expelled from the synagogue.
A text now called the Birkat Ha-minim, or Benediction Against Heretics was discovered in the Cairo Genizah in 1896. Apparently, any first century Jew was forced to recite this before they could enter the temple, making it impossible for the Christian Jews to enter their former house of worship.
…And let the arrogant Government (the Romans)
be speedily uprooted in our days.
Let the Nazarenes (the Christians)
And the Minim (the heretics) be destroyed in a moment
And let them be blotted out of the Bood of Life and
Not be inscribed together with the righteous.
Blessed art thou, O Lord, who humblest the proud.
Blindness in the presence of miracles is an oft-repeated theme in the Old and New Testaments. I spoke of Hagar last week, who was certain that she was lost in the wilderness, and so desperate that she left her young son under a bush so that she would not see him die, then she wandered away.
But God opened her eyes- he took away her desperate blindness, and she saw that she was right in front of a well of water. No longer desperate, but filled.
Mary Magdalene, upon seeing the risen Lord, was blind enough to take him for the gardener! And on the road to Emmaus, two of Jesus’ disciples, those closest to him, came upon Jesus on the road, and took him for just some guy who, apparently had a remarkably good handle on the scriptures!
How do we remain blind to the miraculous? After a long cold winter, I took down heavy curtains in my bedroom to launder them. When I woke up, for the first time in a very long time, I was looking directly outside at the dawn. There were exquisite bands of gold and pink stretching across the sky, and I thought-
“Wow! Does this happen every day?” How do we insulate ourselves, how do we protect our selves, how do we all remain blind to the miraculous?
For more than a year, I have been mourning my best friend Alison, who died after a long illness. She used to travel to California from Georgia every summer for 13 years with her young son, Alexander. My eyes were gloriously opened, this Spring, when her beautiful son, now 21 years old and the spitting image of her (except that he is 6’6”) gave us a call. He said he wanted to continue the tradition- he wanted to spend his Spring break with us, and then come back to camp with us in Big Sur in the summer- just as he and Alison always used to do. The miraculous occurred- Alison was resurrected for me in her beautiful boy, and now I too, have a son, and Alexander has the closet thing possible to a mother. He spent a wonderful week with us in March, and his smile, his humor, his sandy blond hair- so much of him was my dear friend come to visit. My daughters were reunited with their new older brother, and it was, for the first time in my life, like having three kids!
Before his visit, I had known, I had seen what was true, which was that there was no resurrection, and I had lost my best friend of 43 years, and there could be no comfort for me. But fortunately, my eyes were opened to the miraculous, in the person of my tall, blond, sweet new son.
Jesus, tells us that he came into the world so that those who are blind may see, and those who see may become blind.
I think all of us err on the side of out-thinking God. We KNOW what will or will not happen. We can just SEE it. We don’t take into account that miracles can and do happen. We are too apt to see what we see, believe what we believe. The disciples of course, were champions at this. There they were, actually in Jesus’ presence, and still, so often, they were blind.
Thich Nhat Hanh, the Christian/Buddhist poet and theologian has a lovely passage about this in a meditation about the Eucharist:
The disciples had been following Jesus, and had seen Him, had the chance to look at Him, to look into his eyes, to see him smile, to see Him in reality. But it seems they were not capable of being in contact with that marvelous reality. Then he broke bread and poured wine and said, “This is my flesh and blood, take it, eat it, drink it, and you will have eternal life.” We eat a lot, we drink a lot [we SEE a lot] but what do we eat? We eat phantoms, we drink ghosts. We don’t eat real bread, real wine, real life. But Jesus said, “This is my flesh, this is my blood. It’s a very drastic way of awakening us from our forgetfulness, from our ignorance.
A drastic way of awakening us from our blindness.
Amen.
Holy Trinity/La Santisima Trinidad, Richmond, 4/3/11
This is a long and astonishing parable on blindness and belief. As always in the Gospel of John, the true believers are the ones who, unfailingly believe in Jesus as the Messiah. The unbelievers are the people of Jesus’ religion and heritage: the Jews.
We hear of the strictness of the Pharisaic code- a man must not work on the Sabbath - even to mix saliva with mud to enact a miracle. A man born blind is simply proof of the sins of his parents or himself- the only question is- which one sinned? But nothing is more chilling than the terror displayed by the parents of the man born blind. When pressed by “the Jews” they would sooner turn in their own son “Let him speak for himself” than suffer the worst thing imaginable for any Jew- to be expelled from the synagogue.
A text now called the Birkat Ha-minim, or Benediction Against Heretics was discovered in the Cairo Genizah in 1896. Apparently, any first century Jew was forced to recite this before they could enter the temple, making it impossible for the Christian Jews to enter their former house of worship.
…And let the arrogant Government (the Romans)
be speedily uprooted in our days.
Let the Nazarenes (the Christians)
And the Minim (the heretics) be destroyed in a moment
And let them be blotted out of the Bood of Life and
Not be inscribed together with the righteous.
Blessed art thou, O Lord, who humblest the proud.
Blindness in the presence of miracles is an oft-repeated theme in the Old and New Testaments. I spoke of Hagar last week, who was certain that she was lost in the wilderness, and so desperate that she left her young son under a bush so that she would not see him die, then she wandered away.
But God opened her eyes- he took away her desperate blindness, and she saw that she was right in front of a well of water. No longer desperate, but filled.
Mary Magdalene, upon seeing the risen Lord, was blind enough to take him for the gardener! And on the road to Emmaus, two of Jesus’ disciples, those closest to him, came upon Jesus on the road, and took him for just some guy who, apparently had a remarkably good handle on the scriptures!
How do we remain blind to the miraculous? After a long cold winter, I took down heavy curtains in my bedroom to launder them. When I woke up, for the first time in a very long time, I was looking directly outside at the dawn. There were exquisite bands of gold and pink stretching across the sky, and I thought-
“Wow! Does this happen every day?” How do we insulate ourselves, how do we protect our selves, how do we all remain blind to the miraculous?
For more than a year, I have been mourning my best friend Alison, who died after a long illness. She used to travel to California from Georgia every summer for 13 years with her young son, Alexander. My eyes were gloriously opened, this Spring, when her beautiful son, now 21 years old and the spitting image of her (except that he is 6’6”) gave us a call. He said he wanted to continue the tradition- he wanted to spend his Spring break with us, and then come back to camp with us in Big Sur in the summer- just as he and Alison always used to do. The miraculous occurred- Alison was resurrected for me in her beautiful boy, and now I too, have a son, and Alexander has the closet thing possible to a mother. He spent a wonderful week with us in March, and his smile, his humor, his sandy blond hair- so much of him was my dear friend come to visit. My daughters were reunited with their new older brother, and it was, for the first time in my life, like having three kids!
Before his visit, I had known, I had seen what was true, which was that there was no resurrection, and I had lost my best friend of 43 years, and there could be no comfort for me. But fortunately, my eyes were opened to the miraculous, in the person of my tall, blond, sweet new son.
Jesus, tells us that he came into the world so that those who are blind may see, and those who see may become blind.
I think all of us err on the side of out-thinking God. We KNOW what will or will not happen. We can just SEE it. We don’t take into account that miracles can and do happen. We are too apt to see what we see, believe what we believe. The disciples of course, were champions at this. There they were, actually in Jesus’ presence, and still, so often, they were blind.
Thich Nhat Hanh, the Christian/Buddhist poet and theologian has a lovely passage about this in a meditation about the Eucharist:
The disciples had been following Jesus, and had seen Him, had the chance to look at Him, to look into his eyes, to see him smile, to see Him in reality. But it seems they were not capable of being in contact with that marvelous reality. Then he broke bread and poured wine and said, “This is my flesh and blood, take it, eat it, drink it, and you will have eternal life.” We eat a lot, we drink a lot [we SEE a lot] but what do we eat? We eat phantoms, we drink ghosts. We don’t eat real bread, real wine, real life. But Jesus said, “This is my flesh, this is my blood. It’s a very drastic way of awakening us from our forgetfulness, from our ignorance.
A drastic way of awakening us from our blindness.
Amen.
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