I note this week how hard it was to go home. Our unpaved country road's coated with ice especially at the crest of the second of two steep hills. While the woods retain their sparse winter beauty, the landscape's treacherous transformation from sanctuary to danger is disconcerting.
Standhill, our home, nestles half way between the small town of Guinea Station where Stonewall quietly succumbed to wounds sustained earlier in battle at Chancellorsville, and Prospect Hill, where the North unsuccessfully tried to flank Fredericksburg to the southeast in an 1862 drive toward Richmond. In the forests surrounding Standhill, ancient wagonwheel ruts are preserved in hardscrabble clay. An abandoned Confederate railroad line crosses over the northern base of the hill below. The permanence of this place and its history orders a considered life and presages reassurance of continuity.
Before the troubles in the Episcopal Church our parish perservered like a structural support beam that frames a sturdy yet charmingly untidy house. The old sacred space was home to much more than mere common community. Within those enveloping walls, church years played out, with I playing the parts of oldest living teenager and Mr. Outreach so much so that when I entered on Sunday, I'd inevitably hear someone shout, 'Hey, I've got a bag of underpants for you.' Others embodied the natures of wise man, clown, mother, artist, lector, cook, seamstress, and so much more, encompassing all the familiar Episcopalian actors. Four hundred souls, five hundred directions, yet one.
Like the ice that grips our woods, the church is now overcome and taken away. What storm can freeze the hearts of friends? How many times can you construct a vulnerable faith in the permanence of place and yet find the rug pulled out from under the foundation? Is there a price so dear to pay for the preservation of the comfort of familiar things? In pursuit of answers, I'm mindful of comments by two former Episcopalians. The first: "Nothing has changed but the leadership." The second: "Legislation imprisoning gays is not a showstopper."
'Ism's' and 'doxy's' hold colossal power to vanquish friendship. Contempt overcomes relationship. Inequalities are formalized in a short time, then nutured. Bad science confirms spurious assumptions. Government policies legitimized by Church enable legislation spawned by a shifting majority, fueled by sensation, that enshrines persecution as law. Those abandoned suffer not from ethereal problems of theology but from real violence, humiliation, terror, death.
Is it altogether possible to ignore the wider implications while parish life peacably continues? Is there any justifiable rationalization for a perceived advantage in a matter of competing regional faiths, or support of a concept, here a worldwide Anglican Communion, that's worth alignment with a power complicit in unwarranted imprisonment, torture or death? When the policy of appeasement failed in 1939, its chastended broken architect Neville Chamberlain spoke on the eve of war, "Now may God bless you all, and may he defend the right. For it is evil things that we shall be fighting; against brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution, and against them I am certain that Right will prevail."
In the wake of Tanzania, we must first pay attention to Changing Attitude Nigeria whose very lives far beyond any notion of comfort are at stake. They say, "The Anglican Communion can never come to an integrated teaching on human sexuality until it has listened with open mind and heart to our experience and Christian testimony. We object outright to the idea that it is possible to divide our innate sexuality as gay people from what the church insists on calling 'genital activity.' Like heterosexuals we believe the love between two mature adults should be expressed in a faithful, life-long, partnership in which sexual expression is integral."
Within the broad front response to Tanzania, I agree most with Bishop Steven Charleston of the Divinity School in Cambridge, Massachusetts, "I would be willing to accept being told I'm not in communion with places like Nigeria if it meant I could continue to be in a position of justice and morality. If the price I pay is that I'm not considered to be part of a flawed communtion, then so be it."
When I'm compelled by business to leave Standhill, I use Richmond Airport. Rather than I-95 South, I drive Route 2, the Old Richmond Highway which transits small towns, rivers, forests and farms. One evening at sunset, a bald eage flew low over a bridge following a golden stream. I've found peace in Virginia, in my town, my church, my home. How do even these beloved things measure against justice? I take exception to the point of sacrificing them in opposition to those who say nothing's changed or that imprisonment of gays isn't a showstopper. It could only be so if you turn a blind eye to consequences of your actions. What's most ironic is that they who voted to leave and align with Archbishop Akinola of Niegera purportedly value consequences immeasurably, yet apparently ignore them, while those who've stayed in the Church can't evade them, and are condemned as liberals not concered with consequences at all.
When John Steinbeck's Tom Joad in 'Grapes of Wrath,' must leave his family lest he endanger them, he says, "whatever you do, I'm always with you. Head and heart. I'll be everywhere you look. Whenever there's a fight so hungry people can eat, I'll be there. Wherever there's a cop beatin' up a guy, I'll be there...an' when our folks eat the stuff they raise an' live in houses they build - why, I'll be there. See?"
Wherever there are persecuted, the poor, the hungry, outcasts, I'll be there. Whenever there is injustice and violence, I'll be there, to witness against the perpetrators and their followers, no matter how distant. I'll be with the Episcopal Church as long as it doesn't appease false prophets, retreat from hard fought gains or take too much longer to ordain full inclusion. I can not turn a blind eye for the sake of comfort and familiarity in order to accomodate oppresson for accomodation's own sake nor risk another rug pulled out from under the foundation of our hopes. Only when all our folks live, worship and prosper together, can we truly come home, and I'll be there. See?
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Friday, February 16, 2007
Who Said That?
I note this week that the Arkansas legislature killed a bill honoring Thomas Paine. A legislator complained the founding father was anti-Christian. So the pen of the man of whom John Adams wrote in 1776, "Without the pen of Paine, the sword of Washington would have been yielded in vain," has at last been vanquished by the sword of a lawgiver who plainly stands for something other than what this original American had in mind.
Here's half a dozen quotes from the week gone by. I'll attribute them afterwards:
1) "Why am I here? What am I supposed to be about as a human being? How am I supposed to relate with other people?"
2) Gene Robinson's elevation is "a satanic attack on the Church of God."
3) "The marks of our church are grace, tolerance and living with difference."
4) May we remind our Muslim brothers that they do not have the monopoly of violence in this nation."
5) "It is very dangerous to come out as gay in Nigeria. You have a big chance of losing your life, or your family and friends. And the church now makes things worse."
6) "It's about achieving a world where human beings live with dignity and have what they need to live with dignity."
I was baptised, age 43. Up until then, works performed were in and of themselves. After conversion, those same works were elevated by a joy and intentional purpose I believe of the Holy Spirit. I experience faith as a sanctifying unfinished progression. My Christian life, as well as the secular life before, is and was in accord with the statements 1, 3, 5 and 6 above. I can't ever imagine, whether pre-Christian or post, aligning with statements 2 and 4.
The attributions: 1) Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefforts-Schori, The Episcopal Church; 2) Archbishop Akinola of Nigeria; 3) Archbishop Ndungame of South Africa; 4) Akinola; 5) Davis Mar-Iyalla of Changing Attitude Nigeria; 6) Bishop Katharine.
When recently asked about the possibility of an afterlife, our PB replied, "that's not a question that concerns me day in and day out. I think I'm meant to use the gifts I have to transform the world in this life." How does she know, how can I know, if the acts I undertake are transformationally just or unjust?
The 18th century philosopher Emmanuel Kant writes all we can know is known through the experience of our senses. An example is throwing a ball. Once the ball is thrown we can observe the ball only through the reality of how our senses perceive a ball in flight. Besides the actual external reality of the ball in flight, which we can not know, there is also something that involves the decision to make the throw. That involves will, free will, and the 'ought' question whether to throw or not. According to Kant, what constitutes the ought, or the just or unjust action behind the throw, is unknowable since it also lays outside the perception of our senses. Kant, however, was not an atheist. Though his logic follows that to prove the existence or non-existence of a God that is the source of oughts is not possible, Kant was a believer.
The 20th century theologian Karl Barth also considered God unknowable. Regardless, he beheld God's humiliation on the Cross, ultimate power reversed, as so unique, that it inevitably leads to changes in behavior of a person that accepts the act as a gift. He wrote, "You can only know Him through the miracle on God's side. This is analogia fidei, an analogy of faith." He encapsulates wondrously by writing of "The Agency as Beauty in which to bask."
Within these quotes lie beauty that elevates humanity and plagues that stalk the darkness. This is what makes us human, imperfect, in need of Christ. Which of these are consistent or inconsistent with the intention and consequences of your actions and allegiances? I'll leave this week with the last quote appropriately enough from Thomas Paine, "Belief in a cruel God makes a cruel man."
Here's half a dozen quotes from the week gone by. I'll attribute them afterwards:
1) "Why am I here? What am I supposed to be about as a human being? How am I supposed to relate with other people?"
2) Gene Robinson's elevation is "a satanic attack on the Church of God."
3) "The marks of our church are grace, tolerance and living with difference."
4) May we remind our Muslim brothers that they do not have the monopoly of violence in this nation."
5) "It is very dangerous to come out as gay in Nigeria. You have a big chance of losing your life, or your family and friends. And the church now makes things worse."
6) "It's about achieving a world where human beings live with dignity and have what they need to live with dignity."
I was baptised, age 43. Up until then, works performed were in and of themselves. After conversion, those same works were elevated by a joy and intentional purpose I believe of the Holy Spirit. I experience faith as a sanctifying unfinished progression. My Christian life, as well as the secular life before, is and was in accord with the statements 1, 3, 5 and 6 above. I can't ever imagine, whether pre-Christian or post, aligning with statements 2 and 4.
The attributions: 1) Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefforts-Schori, The Episcopal Church; 2) Archbishop Akinola of Nigeria; 3) Archbishop Ndungame of South Africa; 4) Akinola; 5) Davis Mar-Iyalla of Changing Attitude Nigeria; 6) Bishop Katharine.
When recently asked about the possibility of an afterlife, our PB replied, "that's not a question that concerns me day in and day out. I think I'm meant to use the gifts I have to transform the world in this life." How does she know, how can I know, if the acts I undertake are transformationally just or unjust?
The 18th century philosopher Emmanuel Kant writes all we can know is known through the experience of our senses. An example is throwing a ball. Once the ball is thrown we can observe the ball only through the reality of how our senses perceive a ball in flight. Besides the actual external reality of the ball in flight, which we can not know, there is also something that involves the decision to make the throw. That involves will, free will, and the 'ought' question whether to throw or not. According to Kant, what constitutes the ought, or the just or unjust action behind the throw, is unknowable since it also lays outside the perception of our senses. Kant, however, was not an atheist. Though his logic follows that to prove the existence or non-existence of a God that is the source of oughts is not possible, Kant was a believer.
The 20th century theologian Karl Barth also considered God unknowable. Regardless, he beheld God's humiliation on the Cross, ultimate power reversed, as so unique, that it inevitably leads to changes in behavior of a person that accepts the act as a gift. He wrote, "You can only know Him through the miracle on God's side. This is analogia fidei, an analogy of faith." He encapsulates wondrously by writing of "The Agency as Beauty in which to bask."
Within these quotes lie beauty that elevates humanity and plagues that stalk the darkness. This is what makes us human, imperfect, in need of Christ. Which of these are consistent or inconsistent with the intention and consequences of your actions and allegiances? I'll leave this week with the last quote appropriately enough from Thomas Paine, "Belief in a cruel God makes a cruel man."
Friday, February 9, 2007
The Sabbath Was Made for Man
I was hoverng in the Religion stacks of my beloved bookstore last week. The male half of a young couple struggling with a squirming toddler was also scouring the shelves. The decibel level told all about why Pop was seeking solace. When the child grabbed The Spirituality of India, Papa snatched it and replaced it on the shelf. "Isn't that just like you," Mom said, "stealing Gandhi from a baby."
I note Epsicopals are now charged with the same offense. A woman claims if the Diocese is successful in re-inhabiting property it already owns, then Sunday School children, crayons and all, will be out of pocket. Not content to stop there, another commenter posted it's likely the crayons would be melted down into rainbow colors.
Why so mean? A personal goal as I age is to blossom as a curmudgeon but I'm having a hard time swinging it. The just late and lamented Molly Ivins said she couldn't help feeling sorry when Nixon left the White House. She wrote, "birds gotta fly, liberals gotta bleed." When those who voted to leave the Episcopal Church finally leave, flock, Brock and Carol, I will harbor nothing but profound sorrow on their behalf. Knowing the hearts of the Faithful Fabric, once the old familiar pews are regained, there is no doubt they will make provision so that no child will be left behind.
Bishop Katherine was also mocked this week by fans of a reporter with an agenda who sought to pin her down about who goes to heaven, and why. The reply that earned their scorn was, "that's not a question that concerns me day in and day out. I think I'm meant to use the gifts I have to transform the world in this life." I attended a Diocesan meeting on Virginia poverty once at a tiny church in the poorest part of Richmond. The pulpit was surrounded by chairs like spokes in a wheel. This is a place where people have no choice but to take notice of their neighbors whether they may be sleeping during a sermon or missing in action. The priest told me likewise he was more immediately concerned about saving the neighborhood than saving souls.
In the Brothers Karamazov, Dostoyevsky portrays a scene where a policeman says, "We're not particularly afraid of all the Socialists, anarchists, infidels, revolutionists, we keep watch on them and know all their goings on. But there are a few peculiar men among them who believe in God and are Christians but at the same time are socialists. They are dreadful people. The socialist who is a Christian is more to be dreaded than a socialist who's an atheist."
I'm no socialist, neither is Bishop Katherine nor the Richmond priest, though I suspect we hold something in common. When I was managing a faith based homeless shelter, I was told by some what mattered most was saving souls. I found what mattered most was saving lives. Attempting the latter publicly, I prayed for the former privately. At best, shelter evangelization encourages less harmful if not holier lives through the example of a poor imitation of Christ. Rather than the salvation of questionable souls, it's more often the constant humbling, not of Dostoyevsky's dreadful Christian socialist but God's faithful social worker that is regularly attained.
I'm humbled by the emails I read from The Fabric in all their uncompromising good will in the face of difficult circumstances. I was especially elevated this week, though, by the reaction of an old friend in response to the story of the dictionary that got away. He's a former member of St. Margaret's who left before the brouhaha saying that although we didn't agree theologically, he was leaving because he didn't want others like me to have to go. After he read the blog, he said he'd mail his great grandmother's 1868 Websters. What blessed assurance that even though there are serious matters that divide us, there remain bonds we both hold dear.
A critic once wrote, "the play's a success, the audience is a failure." When the unpleasantness ends, when the play is over, Sunday schools will be open again for wholesale business. Most of us aren't really mean although some of us try from time to time.
I note Epsicopals are now charged with the same offense. A woman claims if the Diocese is successful in re-inhabiting property it already owns, then Sunday School children, crayons and all, will be out of pocket. Not content to stop there, another commenter posted it's likely the crayons would be melted down into rainbow colors.
Why so mean? A personal goal as I age is to blossom as a curmudgeon but I'm having a hard time swinging it. The just late and lamented Molly Ivins said she couldn't help feeling sorry when Nixon left the White House. She wrote, "birds gotta fly, liberals gotta bleed." When those who voted to leave the Episcopal Church finally leave, flock, Brock and Carol, I will harbor nothing but profound sorrow on their behalf. Knowing the hearts of the Faithful Fabric, once the old familiar pews are regained, there is no doubt they will make provision so that no child will be left behind.
Bishop Katherine was also mocked this week by fans of a reporter with an agenda who sought to pin her down about who goes to heaven, and why. The reply that earned their scorn was, "that's not a question that concerns me day in and day out. I think I'm meant to use the gifts I have to transform the world in this life." I attended a Diocesan meeting on Virginia poverty once at a tiny church in the poorest part of Richmond. The pulpit was surrounded by chairs like spokes in a wheel. This is a place where people have no choice but to take notice of their neighbors whether they may be sleeping during a sermon or missing in action. The priest told me likewise he was more immediately concerned about saving the neighborhood than saving souls.
In the Brothers Karamazov, Dostoyevsky portrays a scene where a policeman says, "We're not particularly afraid of all the Socialists, anarchists, infidels, revolutionists, we keep watch on them and know all their goings on. But there are a few peculiar men among them who believe in God and are Christians but at the same time are socialists. They are dreadful people. The socialist who is a Christian is more to be dreaded than a socialist who's an atheist."
I'm no socialist, neither is Bishop Katherine nor the Richmond priest, though I suspect we hold something in common. When I was managing a faith based homeless shelter, I was told by some what mattered most was saving souls. I found what mattered most was saving lives. Attempting the latter publicly, I prayed for the former privately. At best, shelter evangelization encourages less harmful if not holier lives through the example of a poor imitation of Christ. Rather than the salvation of questionable souls, it's more often the constant humbling, not of Dostoyevsky's dreadful Christian socialist but God's faithful social worker that is regularly attained.
I'm humbled by the emails I read from The Fabric in all their uncompromising good will in the face of difficult circumstances. I was especially elevated this week, though, by the reaction of an old friend in response to the story of the dictionary that got away. He's a former member of St. Margaret's who left before the brouhaha saying that although we didn't agree theologically, he was leaving because he didn't want others like me to have to go. After he read the blog, he said he'd mail his great grandmother's 1868 Websters. What blessed assurance that even though there are serious matters that divide us, there remain bonds we both hold dear.
A critic once wrote, "the play's a success, the audience is a failure." When the unpleasantness ends, when the play is over, Sunday schools will be open again for wholesale business. Most of us aren't really mean although some of us try from time to time.
Saturday, February 3, 2007
The Dictionary That Got Away
Connie and I visited the antique show today at the Fredericksburg Conference Center. I espied a beautifully worn Websters 1934 Second Edition dictionary. A foot thick, it weighed in at fifteen pounds.
The problem was that the proprietor of the booth was nowhere to be found. A half dozen people were browsing and waiting. Another fella picked it up, thumbed through it. Connie and I decided we'd wander that aisle and up the next before returning to see if the owner was there. That took 15 minutes. By the time we reached the booth, he was back. The dictionary was gone. Just to know, I asked how much he'd sold it for. I was near tears when the proprietor said it was only $35.
That was the first dictionary I've seen at an antique show. Now I have a quest. Though I'll continue to use my beloved Webster's New World, College Edtion, circa 1958, I will scour the world to find her an older partner.
Words are important to me. Writing may be the only thing I'm half good at. It's not only important to be precise and logical but to do it with style. The best teachers I had were the the then ancient bureaucrats I met thirty years ago when I was just starting out. They had the knack of composing a six page memo where you thought you were reading something of substance but it turned out there was nothing anyone could pin down as being for or against the matter at hand. The composition had not one unnecessary or inelegant word to spare, reflecting the E.B. White style manuals found on their desks. Today they're dead.
On the hour and twenty minute commute to work, I've continued reading the history, theology and philosophy books I feel is a part of a self-punishing Protestant read ethic bequeathed to me by my parents. In the evening, though, when I'm bushed from the day's labor, during the same eighty minutes it takes to ride the train home, I've been reading Thurber, Runyon, Cerf, and I'm still looking for Fred Allen. You can find these dusty books on the welcoming shelves of our Carnegie-era library down town. I miss the date stamp lists so you can tell the last time someone checked it out. I'm sure no one's checked out these funny old tomes in quite a while. The best book on writing I've found so far is The Art of Fiction by John Gardiner. His main point: remember all the bad stuff you've read, realize you can't do any worse, and that you might do better.
I've started this blog because I've felt uncomfortable sending emails to all the beloved Faithful Fabric. Though Connie and I left the parish in 2005, my heart remains at St. Margaret's. It's no secret I would have voted against leaving the Episcopal Church but there are many reasons for casting a similar vote. Mine is primarily human rights. Just as I couldn't remain a member of the fundamentalist church where I was baptised, when I felt my presence and pledge was contributing to a world view and discernment of Scripture, I thought wrong, harmful, and even dangerous, I could not have sat in a pew at St. Margaret's Nigerian knowing my presence and pledge were part of a movement I felt the Christian and political antithesis of all I've held dear for almost fifty years.
That is only my view, however, and just as I reject the arrogance of those who would impose their view upon me, I shant impose mine. As an ex-pat, I feel so strongly about what the Faithful Fabric means and how important it is not only locally but nationally and for the world. By writing in a blog, and continuing to write letters to the editor of our local rag, I'll write what I can't hold back, but it'll only be available if you choose to read it. I don't have a right nor the temerity to speak on behalf of you or The Fabric.
As President Reagan, said, there you go again. And I do. You can see that I've capitalized so that is an improvement from the emails already. I'm still trying to learn how to indent paragraphs. Connie's niece has a blog. She's managed to bring me thus far though I'd still feel more comfortable with a quill and parchment. To indent is on the horizon. And more. As the great philosopher, Stymie, of the Little Rascals, was wont to say, "I don't know where we're going but we're on our way." We'll get there together, whevever it is, if you come along for this ride.
If anyone knows of an antique dictionary that needs a good home, let me know.
The problem was that the proprietor of the booth was nowhere to be found. A half dozen people were browsing and waiting. Another fella picked it up, thumbed through it. Connie and I decided we'd wander that aisle and up the next before returning to see if the owner was there. That took 15 minutes. By the time we reached the booth, he was back. The dictionary was gone. Just to know, I asked how much he'd sold it for. I was near tears when the proprietor said it was only $35.
That was the first dictionary I've seen at an antique show. Now I have a quest. Though I'll continue to use my beloved Webster's New World, College Edtion, circa 1958, I will scour the world to find her an older partner.
Words are important to me. Writing may be the only thing I'm half good at. It's not only important to be precise and logical but to do it with style. The best teachers I had were the the then ancient bureaucrats I met thirty years ago when I was just starting out. They had the knack of composing a six page memo where you thought you were reading something of substance but it turned out there was nothing anyone could pin down as being for or against the matter at hand. The composition had not one unnecessary or inelegant word to spare, reflecting the E.B. White style manuals found on their desks. Today they're dead.
On the hour and twenty minute commute to work, I've continued reading the history, theology and philosophy books I feel is a part of a self-punishing Protestant read ethic bequeathed to me by my parents. In the evening, though, when I'm bushed from the day's labor, during the same eighty minutes it takes to ride the train home, I've been reading Thurber, Runyon, Cerf, and I'm still looking for Fred Allen. You can find these dusty books on the welcoming shelves of our Carnegie-era library down town. I miss the date stamp lists so you can tell the last time someone checked it out. I'm sure no one's checked out these funny old tomes in quite a while. The best book on writing I've found so far is The Art of Fiction by John Gardiner. His main point: remember all the bad stuff you've read, realize you can't do any worse, and that you might do better.
I've started this blog because I've felt uncomfortable sending emails to all the beloved Faithful Fabric. Though Connie and I left the parish in 2005, my heart remains at St. Margaret's. It's no secret I would have voted against leaving the Episcopal Church but there are many reasons for casting a similar vote. Mine is primarily human rights. Just as I couldn't remain a member of the fundamentalist church where I was baptised, when I felt my presence and pledge was contributing to a world view and discernment of Scripture, I thought wrong, harmful, and even dangerous, I could not have sat in a pew at St. Margaret's Nigerian knowing my presence and pledge were part of a movement I felt the Christian and political antithesis of all I've held dear for almost fifty years.
That is only my view, however, and just as I reject the arrogance of those who would impose their view upon me, I shant impose mine. As an ex-pat, I feel so strongly about what the Faithful Fabric means and how important it is not only locally but nationally and for the world. By writing in a blog, and continuing to write letters to the editor of our local rag, I'll write what I can't hold back, but it'll only be available if you choose to read it. I don't have a right nor the temerity to speak on behalf of you or The Fabric.
As President Reagan, said, there you go again. And I do. You can see that I've capitalized so that is an improvement from the emails already. I'm still trying to learn how to indent paragraphs. Connie's niece has a blog. She's managed to bring me thus far though I'd still feel more comfortable with a quill and parchment. To indent is on the horizon. And more. As the great philosopher, Stymie, of the Little Rascals, was wont to say, "I don't know where we're going but we're on our way." We'll get there together, whevever it is, if you come along for this ride.
If anyone knows of an antique dictionary that needs a good home, let me know.
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