That Which We Have Heard & Known

Occasional thoughts of an Anglican Episcopal priest

Category: Spirituality (Page 46 of 116)

Unsignaled Turns – From the Daily Office – August 11, 2014

August 11, 2014 / / 0 Comments

From the Gospel according to John:

Jesus said to Nicodemus: “The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”

(From the Daily Office Lectionary – John 3:8 (NRSV) – August 11, 2014)

Turn SignalI wasn’t going to mention this, really, but the mind makes strange associations and when I read the Gospel lesson this morning, particularly this line about the wind blowing where it will and us being unable to tell its origin or its destination, the image that came immediately to mind is an automobile turn signal.

It may be that that happened because in the past several days there have been three incidents at intersections where other drivers have failed to signal their turns and I, anticipating that they would be going straight, have nearly collided with them. Yesterday’s near-collision, I thought, was the worst.

Since moving to Ohio eleven years ago, my wife and I have several times commented a local phenomenon of driver behavior that we have not previously encountered living in other states. We have lived and been licensed drivers in Nevada, California, and Kansas since marrying, and driven in many other places, and we’ve never seen this phenomenon with the same frequency that it occurs here. The phenomenon in question? Drivers signaling their turn after beginning their maneuver.

This is what happened yesterday: I arrived, northbound, at a four-way stop-sign-controlled intersection simultaneously with a southbound vehicle; neither of us were signaling a turn. There was one eastbound vehicle, which proceeded through the intersection as the southbound vehicle and I came to a stop. When the eastbound vehicle cleared the intersection, we both started, the southbound vehicle beginning a left turn into my drive path and at that moment turning on its turn signal. Of course, we both slammed on our breaks and the other driver began yelling at me. I yelled back and proceeded through the intersection.

That incident was still on my mind when I read about the wind and the Spirit’s unknown movements. I thought, “How silly and ridiculous! I’m not going to write about that!” But I couldn’t shake the image from my mind, so I resolved to write nothing in the way of a reflection or meditation until this evening when I would read the other lessons and the evening psalm and, perhaps, have a more “spiritual” take on things.

And then this happened . . . . On the way to the office this morning, northbound on a major roadway through the southern part of our town, I was nearly hit by an historical Jeep (I know it to have been “historical” because it had a license tag that so proclaimed it). The historical Jeep whipped around the corner of an east-west side street, neither stopping (or even slowing down) at a stop sign nor signaling its turn. Fortunately, I was able to (again) slam on my breaks and avoid a collision, the Jeep proceeding ahead of me, the driver completely oblivious to our near-collision; I don’t think he ever saw me! (But I got a good look at his historical vehicle license plate.)

I wonder if Jesus might have used this as alternative metaphor if he were talking with Nicodemus today: “Other drivers go where they choose, and you hear the sound of them, but you do not know where they come from or where they are going, because they do not signal or stop. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” Probably not. It lacks the ambiguity of the wind/spirit image inherent in both Hebrew and Greek where the same word is used for the two words.

Nonetheless, it reminds me how dangerous the Spirit can be! The danger of a ton or two of steel headed down a city street piloted by a driver who fails to obey traffic laws cannot compare to the danger presented by the Holy Spirit! I am reminded of a favorite quotation from Annie Dillard’s 1982 book Teaching a Stone to Talk:

Does any-one have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping god may wake some day and take offense, or the waking god may draw us out to where we can never return.

It also reminds me how irresponsible God can be! These drivers who fail to signal, who fail to stop, who aren’t obeying the rules are simply irresponsible. Like the wind in Jesus’ metaphor they go where they choose and the rest of us have no idea where that might be; we just have to be on our guard or get out of the way. And Jesus says that this powerful, uncontrollable, unknowable, freely-changing-direction behavior is shared by those who are reborn in the Spirit. Have you taken a good, close look at the people that are so empowered? Have you really looked closely at anyone to whom God has given the power to make unsignaled turns in life?

If not . . . grab a mirror and do so.

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A request to my readers: I’m trying to build the readership of this blog and I’d very much appreciate your help in doing so. If you find something here that is of value, please share it with others. If you are on Facebook, “like” the posts on your page so others can see them. If you are following me on Twitter, please “retweet” the notices of these meditations. If you have a blog of your own, please include mine in your links (a favor I will gladly reciprocate). Many thanks!

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Father Funston is the rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Medina, Ohio.

The Storm of Depression – Sermon for August 19, 2014, Pentecost 9, Proper 14A

August 10, 2014 / / 0 Comments

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On the Ninth Sunday after Pentecost, August 10, 2014, this sermon was offered to the people of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Medina, Ohio, where Fr. Funston is rector.

(The lessons for the day were: 1 Kings 19:9-18; Psalm 85:8-13; Romans 10:5-15; and Matthew 14:22-33. These lessons can be read at The Lectionary Page.)

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Icon of ElijahThere is a very strong possibility that at least five people in this nave today are suffering from depression. Not just garden variety, feeling a little bit down, depression, but from clinical depression that is being (or should be) treated with medication and therapy. Psychiatrists see more people suffering from depression than people suffering from all other emotional problems combined. It is currently estimated that one in every twenty Americans has been medically diagnosed is currently under treatment for depression. If all of those patients were formed into some sort of organization it would be more than twice the size of the Episcopal Church.

So there’s a very, very good chance that a few of those patients are here today. And it’s a certainty that there is at least one former depression patient in the room: me. I won’t go into the gory details, but about 17 years ago, I had my own bad run-in with clinical depression, but with medication, cognitive therapy, and most importantly spiritual direction, I came through it.

I bring this up because we have two lessons today that directly address the matter of depression and human failure to cope with failure, chaos, and fear. These lessons are instructive not only for those who suffer from clinical depression, but also for those who live and work with them, and for everyone who occasionally suffers from disappointment with life, with frustration and regret. The first is part of the story of Elijah, the Man of God.

Today we have heard a famous and familiar story from the 19th Chapter of the First Book of Kings, the story of Elijah encountering God at the entrance of a cave on Mt. Horeb, which is also called Mt. Sinai, the very place where Moses received the Law from the hand of God. Technically and religiously, what Elijah experiences is called a theophany or epiphany, a manifestation of the divine, but practically what he has received is treatment for depression. Elijah is a classic example of a clinically depressed human being and Yhwh does for him exactly what modern psychiatry has come to understand as the best treatment for depression.

But let’s back up and get the back story on all of this.

This is actually the second theophany Elijah experiences in relatively short order. The first was on another mountain, Mt. Carmel, which is about 280 miles north-northwest of Mt. Horeb. The occasion was Elijah’s battle with the prophets of Baal. You may recall that at the time Ahab was king in Israel, the northern kingdom. Ahab’s queen is a woman named Jezebel who is a princess of Tyre in Phoenicia and a worshiper of Baal. One of Elijah’s prophetic complaints against King Ahab is that he has allowed his queen to establish Baal worship in Israel. As a demonstration of the supremacy of Yhwh, Elijah challenged the 400 prophets of Baal who served Jezebel to a duel. They would each offer a sacrifice on Mt. Carmel and the one whose sacrifice is accepted will be shown to be the prophet of the true god.

The prophets of Baal erected an altar, as did Elijah, and they placed upon it several butchered animals, as Elijah did on his altar. Then the prophets of Baal began to solicit their god; they danced and prayed and sang and prostrated themselves but nothing happened. Then it was Elijah’s turn. Before invoking Yhwh, however, Elijah had the people douse his altar and the offering on it with water, not once but three times. Then, when he called upon the Lord, heavenly fire consumed not only the sacrificed livestock, but the very stones of the altar. This is the first theophany.

As a result, the people repented of their faithlessness, fell on their faces, and worshiped Yhwh. Then Elijah ordered them: “Seize the prophets of Baal; do not let one of them escape.” (1 kg 18:40) Which they did, and they killed all of the prophets of Baal. King Ahab was present during the challenge and witnessed the slaughter of his wife’s religious leadership.

At the beginning of Chapter 19, Ahab rides back to his palace in the city of Jezreel and tells Jezebel what has happened. Her response is to threaten Elijah with death. She sends him a message: “So may the gods do to me, and more also, if I do not make your life like the life of one of [the prophets of Baal] by this time tomorrow.” (v. 2) So he flees the northern kingdom for Mt. Horeb and this is where we are in our reading today.

Elijah experiences the second theophany. He hears the voice of God asking him, “Elijah, what are you doing here?” (v. 9) Elijah’s answer is the that of a severely depressed person! “I have been very zealous for the Lord, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away.” (v. 10)

What do we know about this answer. We know that most of it isn’t true. The Israelites have not forsaken God’s covenant: at Mt. Carmel just a short while before they had repented of any allegiance to the religion of Baal and sworn themselves faithful to Yhwh. They have not killed Yhwh’s prophets with the sword: they have, in fact, killed the prophets of Baal. Elijah is not left alone: there are all those people who swore that oath of repentance at Mt. Carmel, if not many others. They are not all seeking his life: only Jezebel and her followers are doing so.

Elijah, exhibiting classic signs and symptoms of depression, has focused on and exaggerated the negatives in his life, completely ignoring anything and everything positive.

So God decides to get his attention, maybe shake him out of this funk. God sends an earth-shattering wind, then with an earthquake, then with a great fire, but (our scripture insists) God is not in any of those things. Lastly, there is “the sound of sheer silence” and in that deep, deep desert silence Elijah hears a small, still voice . . . the voice of God . . . asking once again, “Elijah, what are you doing here?” (v. 13)

And how does Elijah answer? Almost exactly as he did before: “I have been very zealous for the Lord, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away.” (v. 14) Despite this dramatic theophanic event, in which God has intended to lift Elijah out of his despondency, Elijah’s responses to Yhwh, both before and after the theophany, are nearly identical. His thoughts, words, and actions are those of severely depressed person — withdrawal and escape, moodiness, apprehension and fear, self-pity, feelings of worthlessness, loss of hope and confidence, anger, irritability, wrong headedness, fixation on negative events, and physical exhaustion to name just a few.
And what does God do?

God doesn’t tell him cheer up; God doesn’t tell him to snap out of it; God doesn’t try to reason with him and convince him that all is well. No, God sets Elijah a goal; he gives him a task to perform. Yhwh gets Elijah active and involved once again in his prophetic ministry. “Get up and go do this,” God says, “anoint two new kings in Aram and Israel, and prepare for your retirement by taking Elisha as your apprentice and successor.” (vv. 15-16) This is precisely the sort of specific goal-setting that modern psychology prescribes for the treatment of depression!

Just last year a study published at the University of Liverpool demonstrated that people with clinical depression tend to describe personal goals lacking a specific focus. The lack of specificity makes it more difficult to achieve the goal and this, in turn, creates a downward cycle of negative thoughts. Setting specific goals and realizing them triggers an electro-chemical chain reaction in the brain that makes the patient feel rewarded, and this stimulates happiness, motivation, and self-esteem. (Generalized Goals Linked to Depression)

This is exactly what Yhwh does for Elijah, setting specific goals. What is scientific research has shown to be psychologically true is shown here in scripture to be spiritually true.

The second lesson that I believe directly addresses the issue of depression is the gospel tale of Jesus walking on the stormy waters of the Sea of Galilee.

I must be honest with you; this is one of those Jesus stories with which I am decidedly uncomfortable. I don’t think these stories of Jesus violating the laws of nature are meant to demonstrate Jesus to be some sort of superman or a powerful magician or even to be God. I believe they are, rather, prophetic actions, physical metaphors from which we are to learn something much more important, something about ourselves and about human nature.

Throughout the biblical canon, in other literature of the ancient middle east, and even in our world today, the image of a storm at sea is a powerful metaphor of chaos and even of uncontrollable evil. Twice the gospel writers use it as a way to demonstrate Jesus’ power. First, there is the incident when Jesus is in the boat with the disciples, asleep during a storm. They awaken him and he rebukes the wind and calms the sea. According to Matthew, whose gospel we are exploring in this year of the lectionary cycle, that incident took place earlier. This is the second time the disciples on are on the Galilean lake in bad weather at night, but this time Jesus isn’t with them.

In this story, Jesus is walking on the water and (Mark asserts in his version of the tale – Mk 6:47-51) intends to pass them by. However, they see him, think he is a ghost, and cry out. He identifies himself and reassures them, at which point Peter decides he would like to try this water-walking thing and asks Jesus, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” (Mt 14:28) Jesus says, “Come” and Peter gets out of the boat and begins to walk on the stormy sea. Note that — Jesus has not quelled the storm. The wind is still blowing; presumably, the water is still choppy, the waves still beating on the boat. Peter successfully takes a few steps, but then is distracted and frightened by the weather and begins to sink. Jesus rescues him; they get in the boat; and that’s when the storm ends and the sea becomes calm.

So what does this say to us about dealing with depression and disappointment?

Let’s say that the stormy sea, the wind, the waves, and all of that are a metaphor for the negativity, chaos, and fear which is clinical depression (and, to a lesser extent, any experience of sadness or grief). And let’s say that Jesus is setting for Peter (and by extension the other disciples) the same sort of goal that Yhwh set for Elijah, a specific, attainable goal, something easily accomplished . . . just walking on the water. We know it can be done; Jesus hass just demonstrated that.

And Peter in fact does accomplish it — he takes a few steps. But then he is distracted; the negative thoughts of depression, the repetitive ruminating over the fear and chaos sets back in. This can and does happen. Recovery from depression is not the quick and easy path the story in First Kings might suggest (and, in fact, even there it isn’t clear that Elijah recovered — he only accomplishes one of the three goals set for him). Recovery from depression takes time; dealing with disappointment, grief, and sadness takes time, and there can be (probably will be) set backs.

The set backs, however, if proper support is given by family, friends, therapists, spiritual directors, and others, don’t prevail. Recovery does happen. Depression can be conquered. The storm of grief can be weathered. The sea can be calmed.

In the epistle today, Paul tells the Romans that the righteousness of faith is not something far away. One doesn’t have ascend to heaven or descend into the abyss to find it. It is, he says, very near; it is, he says, “on your lips and in your heart.” So, too, is the strength that overcomes depression, that gets through regret and grief. Every person has it, has been gifted with it by God. Recognizing that fact takes time and support.

Most clearly in our lesson from Elijah, but also found in our other lessons, the psychological truth demonstrated by modern science are the spiritual truths set out in scripture. “Listen to what the Lord God is saying, for he is speaking peace to his faithful people and to those who turn their hearts to him,” especially those who are struggling with depression or emotional illness, with sadness, frustration, and regret. Let us pray:

Heavenly Father in whom we live and move and have our being: yours is the small still voice of guidance in good times and bad. In your infinite mercy, bring peace and comfort to those who face days sometimes filled with pain and depression. Help us to realize that through you there is joy and the promise of lasting peace. Help us through the rough times and over the stormy seas. Walk before and beside us that we may reach out to you in our journey through life. Help us to focus not on our misfortunes, but on our blessings, through your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord who calms our seas and who is alive and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.

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A request to my readers: I’m trying to build the readership of this blog and I’d very much appreciate your help in doing so. If you find something here that is of value, please share it with others. If you are on Facebook, “like” the posts on your page so others can see them. If you are following me on Twitter, please “retweet” the notices of these meditations. If you have a blog of your own, please include mine in your links (a favor I will gladly reciprocate). Many thanks!

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Father Funston is the rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Medina, Ohio.

Tomato Juice Bombs – From the Daily Office – August 9, 2014

August 9, 2014 / / 0 Comments

From the Psalter:

So teach us to number our days
that we may apply our hearts to wisdom.

(From the Daily Office Lectionary [Morning Psalm] – Psalm 90:12 (BCP Version) – August 9, 2014)

Dog Washed in Tomato Juice“In the tragedies in Iraq, Western Africa and Gaza, the waters of chaos are overwhelming us. My personal response right now is to keep my eyes on our Lord. My prayers ascend for all. Save us Lord.”

— The Rt. Rev. Nicholas Knisely, Episcopal Bishop of Rhode Island (posted as a Facebook status this morning)

This prayer and its good advice from the bishop dovetails with the morning psalm. Keep our eyes on the Lord that God may teach us and we may apply our hearts to wisdom. Because what we’ve been applying our hearts to hasn’t been working.

I wrote a poem about that a few days ago: it’s entitled Tomato Juice Bombs

“Tomato juice!”
Every time the dog
encounters a skunk
and ends up stinking
to high heaven
of volatile compounds
and skunk musk
the cry goes up,
“Tomato juice!”

It doesn’t really work.
Those near the dog,
washing the dog,
covered themselves
in tomato juice
suffer olfactory fatigue;
they think it works.
“Tomato juice!”
It doesn’t really work.

“Bombs and soldiers!”
Every time the world
encounters fanatics
and ends of stinking
to high heaven
of rocket fuel
and murdered children
the cry goes up,
“Bombs and soldiers!”

It doesn’t really work.
Those near the bombs,
dropping the bombs,
covered themselves
in dirt and blood and smoke
suffer ethical fatigue;
they think it works.
“Bombs and soldiers!”
It doesn’t really work.

Dogs and fanatics,
Skunks and rockets,
Tomato juice bombs,
don’t really work.
It all still stinks
to high heaven.

Please, Lord, help us keep our eyes on you; teach us, that we may apply our hearts to wisdom and learn to do something that works.

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A request to my readers: I’m trying to build the readership of this blog and I’d very much appreciate your help in doing so. If you find something here that is of value, please share it with others. If you are on Facebook, “like” the posts on your page so others can see them. If you are following me on Twitter, please “retweet” the notices of these meditations. If you have a blog of your own, please include mine in your links (a favor I will gladly reciprocate). Many thanks!

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Father Funston is the rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Medina, Ohio.

My Thawb and My Keffiyeh – From the Daily Office – August 8, 2014

August 8, 2014 / / 0 Comments

From the Psalter:

You who live in the shelter of the Most High,
who abide in the shadow of the Almighty,
will say to the Lord, “My refuge and my fortress;
my God, in whom I trust.”

(From the Daily Office Lectionary [Evening Psalm] – Psalm 91:1-2 (NRSV) – August 8, 2014)

Lawrence of Arabia (Peter O'Toole)Psalm 91 (along with some verses out of Isaiah) is the basis for Michael Joncas’s 1979 folk hymn On Eagle’s Wings, which (I think) is one of those songs that people either love or hate. I learned recently that a young relative (for whom the 1970s are ancient history) has threatened to haunt anyone who sings it at her funeral. Having officiated at too many requiems where the song was included in the music, I sympathize.

My objections, though, are less about the music than about the psalm itself. I’ve come to a place in life where I no longer think of God or my faith in God as a rock-solid, concrete, abiding foundation for life. I simply don’t conceive of God as “refuge” or “castle,” “strong rock” or “crag,” any longer. Fortresses don’t hang on crosses and cry out “I thirst” or “Why have you forsaken me?” The unmoving monolithic fortresses of the psalms no longer offer an appropriate metaphor either for God or my faith in God.

Rather, my faith and the God in which it abides are like a robe, a shawl, or a scarf. There’s a scene in the movie Lawrence of Arabia in which Lawrence is making his way across the desert. It is after he has adopted Arab dress, so he is wearing a thawb (robe) and keffiyeh (head scarf). A sandstorm kicks up, so Lawrence and his companions wrap their robes and scarves tightly around them as protection. That, for me, is a better metaphor for God’s protection, and for my faith, than a rocky fortress.

My faith and the God in whom I trust sometimes hang loosely about my life. They don’t bind or hinder, they don’t anchor me down like a rocky foundation. In a gentle breeze or even a stiff wind, they may flutter and dance like a flag. But when the storm comes, when the wind carries with it things that can injure, my faith and my God protect me like Lawrence’s thawb and keffiyeh. If injury should occur, my faith and my God like a bandage cover and protect my wounds. And unlike a cave, a cavern, a rock, or a fortress, my robe and my scarf travel with me; they are my companions along the way.

One of my favorite prayers in the Office of Evening Prayer is the collect for the presence of Christ which draws on the story of Cleopus and his companion encountering the Lord on the road to Emmaus:

Lord Jesus, stay with us, for evening is at hand and the day is past; be our companion in the way, kindle our hearts, and awaken hope, that we may know you as you are revealed in Scripture and the breaking of bread. Grant this for the sake of your love. Amen. (BCP 1979, p. 124)

No concrete, monolithic fortress can do this, but my robe and my scarf, my faith and my God can; they travel with me along the way, day or night.

Some will question and some will criticize my conflating “my faith and my God,” but as I wrap myself in the gauzy metaphor of the robe and shawl, I cannot tell which is thawb and which keffiyeh and, in truth, it does not matter. The God in whom I trust and the trust I have in God are so intimately bound that it does not matter.

I, who live in the shelter of the Lord, will say to the Lord, “My robe and my scarf, my thawb and my keffiyeh; my God, in whom I trust.”

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A request to my readers: I’m trying to build the readership of this blog and I’d very much appreciate your help in doing so. If you find something here that is of value, please share it with others. If you are on Facebook, “like” the posts on your page so others can see them. If you are following me on Twitter, please “retweet” the notices of these meditations. If you have a blog of your own, please include mine in your links (a favor I will gladly reciprocate). Many thanks!

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Father Funston is the rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Medina, Ohio.

I Pondered the Works of God – From the Daily Office – August 7, 2014

August 7, 2014 / / 0 Comments

From the Psalter:

I will ponder the glorious splendor of your majesty
and all your marvelous works.

(From the Daily Office Lectionary – Psalm 145:5 (BCP Version) – August 7, 2014)

Motorcycle CrashThis morning, I woke up from a dream, grabbed the notepad on my nightstand, and scribbled some notes for a poem.

Then I poured a cup of coffee — thanking God for the wonder of automatic timer-controlled coffee makers — and opened my Book of Common Prayer to read the Daily Office.

Two psalms this morning. The first, Psalm 85:

They have said, “Come, let us wipe them out from among the nations;
let the name of Israel be remembered no more.”
* * *
Do to them as you did to Midian,
to Sisera, and to Jabin at the river of Kishon:
They were destroyed at Endor;
they became like dung upon the ground.

Too much this psalm reminds of Gaza and rockets and bombs and dead children, and I am not sure I want to continue the Office, but habit and discipline compel me to do so.

The second psalm . . . speaks to that strange dream and intermingles with my poem notes and I scribble some more and then hurry through the rest of the Office, unhappy when the reading from Judges presents Gideon as the hero who slew the Ishmaelites and, again, the dead of Gaza come to mind, but I rush through the prayers, hurriedly petitioning, “May they rest in peace and rise in glory,” and then return to my notes and finish the poem.

I’ll title it I Pondered the Works of God. Don’t ask me what it means. You decide.

I dreamed a dream of God
who was riding a motorcycle
a racing bike
and wearing a splendid
one-piece jumpsuit
of metallic silver fabric
and a helmet
and the visor on the helmet
obscured God’s face
when he turned
to look at me.

God laid the bike down
on the track
in a cloud of tire smoke
like a burnt holocaust
of an ancient time
and God stood up
gloriously unharmed
and sprinted off the track
to open the trunk of his car
a 1957 Cadillac Coupe de Ville
and God began
to take off his helmet
and to climb
into the trunk
as he turned
to look at me.

And I woke up
I awakened to a day
I knew would be filled
with decisions and doubts
with answers that would be
partial.

And I pondered the works of God
how marvelously he piloted his cycle
how skillfully he laid it down
how carelessly he left it lay
how athletically he ran to his car
how absently he climbed into the trunk
how majestically he turned to look at me.

And I knew
my partial answers
my doubtful decisions
would be
the solid foundation
of years to come
when God would turn
and look at me.

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A request to my readers: I’m trying to build the readership of this blog and I’d very much appreciate your help in doing so. If you find something here that is of value, please share it with others. If you are on Facebook, “like” the posts on your page so others can see them. If you are following me on Twitter, please “retweet” the notices of these meditations. If you have a blog of your own, please include mine in your links (a favor I will gladly reciprocate). Many thanks!

====================

Father Funston is the rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Medina, Ohio.

A Pointless Question? – From the Daily Office – August 6, 2014

August 6, 2014 / / 0 Comments

From the Gospel according to John:

The next day John again was standing with two of his disciples, and as he watched Jesus walk by, he exclaimed, “Look, here is the Lamb of God!” The two disciples heard him say this, and they followed Jesus. When Jesus turned and saw them following, he said to them, “What are you looking for?” They said to him, “Rabbi” (which translated means Teacher), “where are you staying?”

(From the Daily Office Lectionary – John 1:35-38 (NRSV) – August 6, 2014)

Come and See by Cerezo BarredoEvery time I read this tale from John’s gospel, I am caught up short by this apparently pointless question. It seems such a non-sequitur, a request for irrelevant information. What could it have mattered where Jesus was staying? John doesn’t bother to give us an answer. We don’t know where this event took place. John never tells us a town and though the two disciples are permitted to come and see where Jesus was staying, the information is never given to the reader. A useless, irrelevant question made important in the dialog but never resolved for the audience — my college writing instructors would have torn this story apart.

All this question does is give Jesus an opportunity to invite them to come with him and spend the rest of the day (and perhaps the night) talking with him, which is all that John wants it to do. The question itself and its answer really don’t matter. Except they do . . . to nitpicky detail freaks like me!

I’ve read a lot of exegeses of this verse. Some suggest that the dialog — “What are you looking for?” “Where are you staying?” “Come and see.” — is an encapsulated invitation to discipleship. That feels like an eisegesis (a reading-into) of the scripture to me. Others suggest that the two men’s question should be understood something like slang, such as we used to use back in the 1970’s — “Where are you at, Jesus?” “What’s happening with you, Jesus?” — but that seems even less likely than the first idea.

I’ve always been convinced that John is just using the question as a scene-setting device and it has no deeper meaning. But today I’m not so sure . . . today I’m thinking maybe John is suggesting that there are no useless, irrelevant questions. Not because this one is some sort of code for entering the discipled life, nor because it’s a colloquial way to make inquiry into the deeper meaning of Jesus teaching, but rather because we can never know what questions may be meaningful nor where the answers to seemingly innocuous questions may lead us.

I didn’t write my Daily Office thoughts this morning for a variety of reasons — computer failure being at the top of the list, but also because of early morning commitments to the veterinarian and to the intake nurse at my orthopedist’s office. I am having surgery on my knee next week, so I had to go first thing this morning to the doctor’s office and answer a bunch of questions. Later in the day, I had to go through almost the same litany of inquiries (and more) at the surgical center where the procedure will be done.

Many of the questions were relevant, but some seemed entirely pointless. I wondered why they were being asked. Apparently some legislators and judges believe that questions about firearm ownership are irrelevant to medical treatment. A recent Federal Appeals Court decision upheld a Florida state law prohibiting physicians from asking about that. I didn’t mind answering any of the questions and wouldn’t have minded answering about gun ownership (the answer would have been “No”). I might have wondered why the question, but the asking wouldn’t have bothered me. (On the other hand, state legislators second guessing my doctor and telling him what he can and can’t ask, that bothers me.)

One of the apparently pointless questions in the afternoon session, however, led to an extended inquiry into very relevant data, however. So I began to appreciate the breadth of the queries and to see why they were being asked. And as I thought about that on my drive back to my office, I made a connection with John’s tale of Andrew and his companion asking Jesus, “Rabbi, where are you staying?”

It may seem like a pointless and irrelevant question. Maybe even John thought its substance was irrelevant (after all, he didn’t give us the answer), but the asking of it led to a life changing event in Andrew’s life, and then to a change in his brother’s life, and his brother’s life led to leadership in a new religious community, and that leadership led to the creation of the church and the spread of the Gospel . . . . One never knows where a question may lead.

Perhaps that is the point of John’s story. One never knows.

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A request to my readers: I’m trying to build the readership of this blog and I’d very much appreciate your help in doing so. If you find something here that is of value, please share it with others. If you are on Facebook, “like” the posts on your page so others can see them. If you are following me on Twitter, please “retweet” the notices of these meditations. If you have a blog of your own, please include mine in your links (a favor I will gladly reciprocate). Many thanks!

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Father Funston is the rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Medina, Ohio.

We Just Don’t Know – From the Daily Office – August 5, 2014

August 5, 2014 / / 1 Comment

From the Psalms:

Hear my teaching, O my people;
incline your ears to the words of my mouth.
I will open my mouth in a parable;
I will declare the mysteries of ancient times.
That which we have heard and known,
and what our forefathers have told us,
we will not hide from their children.

(From the Daily Office Lectionary [Morning Psalm] – Psalm 78:1-3 (BCP Version)
– August 5, 2014)

Bible BCP and ShieldThis is the text from which I took the title of this blog, That Which We Have Heard & Known.  I did so because of my conviction that we have heard and known many things from Scripture, but we don’t know that we know them.  We have heard them.  If we are Episcopalians we have heard them many times over, but they never seem to be familiar.

So I believe that we know them, we just don’t know that we know them.

Since the adoption of the current iteration of The Book of Common Prayer in 1976 (it is known as “the 1979 book” because it was ratified in that year having been first approved by the General Convention in 1976) with a three-year eucharistic lectionary and a two-year Daily Office cycle, Episcopalians have prided themselves on the fact that nearly all of Holy Scripture (about 80% is what I remember being told) is read in church in public worship in the course of 36 months.  Since our adoption a few years ago of the Revised Common Lectionary with its “two track” options for lessons from the Hebrew Scriptures, an even more is read over the course of 72 months if both Old Testament tracks are used (I’m not sure what that percentage would be).

In addition, we like to point out that a good deal of The Book of Common Prayer — the prayers, the litanies and responsorials, the various liturgies, to say nothing of the Psalter — is taken directly from Scripture, so even when we aren’t specifically reading from the Bible, we are using and hearing the language of the holy text.  However, in my estimation, we aren’t learning it!  We’ve heard it, but we don’t know it.

If there is one abiding failure in my denominational tradition (and there are, I must admit, more than one, but for the moment we’ll limit our discussion), it is that we do not promote the biblical literacy of our members.  And we seem to take pride in our failure.  When Episcopalians are reminded about how much better some other Christian traditions are at remembering the words of Scripture, I have heard them reply along the lines of . . . “Well, in the Episcopal Church we aren’t required to leave our brains at the door; we’re allowed to think!  We don’t just memorize bible verses.”  I wonder if those who pride themselves on not “just memorizing” bible verses would also take pride in not memorizing the multiplication tables.  If one’s brain is to function, if one is truly to think, if one is to undertake the calculus of faith, one must have at hand and in memory the data and the techniques required, just as one must know the numbers and the techniques of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division to do the calculus of higher mathematics.

One of my favorite prayers in the BCP is the collect for Proper 28 used on the Sunday closest to November 16.  Because it comes at the end of Ordinary Time, which is frequently truncated, we often do not hear it:

Blessed Lord, who caused all holy Scriptures to be written for our learning: Grant us so to hear them, read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest them, that we may embrace and ever hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life, which you have given us in our Savior Jesus Christ; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

We Episcopalians are pretty good on the hearing, not bad on the reading. But marking, learning, and inwardly digesting . . . those we need to work on.  We have heard them; we know them; we just don’t know that we know them.

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A request to my readers: I’m trying to build the readership of this blog and I’d very much appreciate your help in doing so. If you find something here that is of value, please share it with others. If you are on Facebook, “like” the posts on your page so others can see them. If you are following me on Twitter, please “retweet” the notices of these meditations. If you have a blog of your own, please include mine in your links (a favor I will gladly reciprocate). Many thanks!

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Father Funston is the rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Medina, Ohio.

Good Question, God – From the Daily Office – August 4, 2013

August 4, 2014 / / 1 Comment

From the Psalms:

O Lord God of hosts, how long will you be angry with your people’s prayers?

(From the Daily Office Lectionary [Morning Psalm] – Psalm 80:4 (NRSV) – August 4, 2014)

Question MarkI am becoming quite fond of the New Revised Standard Version’s Psalter! It keeps hitting me with new ways, often disturbing ways of understanding the hymns of David, which I have habitually read from the Book of Common Prayer (1979) since being ordained. However, I’m finding new insights by using the NRSV and other translations instead of the Prayer Book.

Take the fourth verse of this morning’s psalm, for example. The BCP version is:

O Lord God of Hosts, how long will you be angered despite the prayers of your people?

There’s a huge difference between this and the NRSV’s rendering, a staggering difference. God being angered “despite” our prayers is a very, very different thing from God being angry “with” our prayers! The Authorized (King James) version uses yet another preposition:

O Lord God of Hosts, how long wilt thou be angry against the prayer of thy people.

Any of these is a valid interpretation of the somewhat ambiguous Hebrew word ‘ad which has a root meaning of “until” and, frankly, the King James is perhaps the best because it picks up that ambiguity.

The Prayer Book’s “despite” suggests that our prayers ought to be acceptable to God, that God’s anger persists in the face of supplications and petitions which should be satisfactory to God and should placate God’s anger. The NRSV’s “with,” on the other hand, would imply that our prayers are not acceptable, that they are the cause of God’s anger. The KJV’s “against” could mean either.

In any event, the NRSV’s translation throws the question in the Psalm back at me in a way the BCP version never has, although even there it should. The question really is not how long will God be angry; the question might be, “What is it about my prayer that angers God or fails to assuage God’s discontent? What is inadequate or unacceptable in my prayer?”

Asking that question, however, reminds me of two things. First, I recall what I was taught about prayer as a child – that its purpose is not to change God, but to change me. The reason we pray is not to change God’s mind, but to conform our minds to God’s. Second, I recall a line from an ancient hymn: “God is love and where true love is, God himself is there.” Remembering those two things, the question changes again: “Is God truly angry, or am I [is the Psalmist] simply perceiving God as angry because I am not conformed to God’s love, because I am somehow out of sync, out of a proper relationship with God?”

The Psalm’s question to God, “How long will you . . . .?” is really God’s question of me, “How long will I . . . .?” How long will I persist in attitudes and behaviors that distort my relationship with God, that make me perceive God’s love as anger? God can’t (or won’t) answer that question; only I can.

Good question, God, really good question.

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A request to my readers: I’m trying to build the readership of this blog and I’d very much appreciate your help in doing so. If you find something here that is of value, please share it with others. If you are on Facebook, “like” the posts on your page so others can see them. If you are following me on Twitter, please “retweet” the notices of these meditations. If you have a blog of your own, please include mine in your links (a favor I will gladly reciprocate). Many thanks!

====================

Father Funston is the rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Medina, Ohio.

Uncounted, Unnamed Children – Sermon for August 3, 2014, Pentecost 8, Proper 13A

August 3, 2014 / / 1 Comment

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On the Eighth Sunday after Pentecost, August 3, 2014, this sermon was offered to the people of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Medina, Ohio, where Fr. Funston is rector.

(The lessons for the day were: Isaiah 55:1-5; Psalm 145: 8-9,15-22; Romans 9:1-5; and Matthew 14:13-21. These lessons can be read at The Lectionary Page.)

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Tabgha Mosaic - Loaves and FishToday we are witnesses to one of the great and popular miracles of the gospel story, the feeding of the 5,000, which is actually the feeding of many more than that — notice the last few words of the gospel lesson text: “those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children.” (v. 21, emphasis added) Matthew gives little thought to the men’s wives or their uncounted, unnamed children.

I would like to put us in context, both in time and space, so we have a fuller picture of what we have just witnessed. Matthew tells this story in the middle of chapter 14 of his gospel. In chapter 13 he related all those parables told by Jesus sitting in a boat off the shore of the Galilean lake at Capernaum, but at the end of the chapter he doesn’t leave Jesus sitting in the boat. Instead, he tells us that “when Jesus had finished these parables, he left that place [and] came to his hometown,” which would be Nazareth. (Mt 13:53-54) (You may recall that that didn’t go well: Jesus was heard to say that ” prophets are not without honor except in their own country” – v. 57)

Then, at the beginning of chapter 14 Matthew leaves Jesus altogether and tells us about the beheading of John the Baptist, which took place Sebastia, about 36 miles south of Nazareth. Matthew then brings us back to Jesus saying at the beginning of our lesson today that upon hearing the news of John’s execution, Jesus “withdrew in a boat to a deserted place.” (14:13)

Since Nazareth is not on any river or lake, I’m not sure how he did that! Here’s my difficulty: Nazareth is about 20 miles due west of the southern tip of the Sea of Galilee. In order to “withdraw in a boat” he’d have had to walk for a day or two first. It’s possible though.

Near by Nazareth, about four miles away, is the city of Sepphoris, believed to be the Virgin Mary’s hometown. In Jesus’ time it was a Roman city and may have been where craftsmen from Nazareth, like Joseph, worked. There probably was regular commerce between Sepphoris and the Roman city of Tiberias on Galilee; today there is a highway between them. Jesus may have walked to Tiberias and then gotten in a boat to make his way back to Capernaum (about 10 miles north along the shore).

Tradition tells us that the feeding of the 5,000 (or more) took place about three miles south of Capernaum at a place called Tabgha, or al-Tabigha in Arabic, a name derived from the Greek name Heptapegon meaning “seven springs”. As early as the Fourth Century there was a shrine at the identified location. A pilgrim woman from Spain named Egeria chronicled her travels in the Holy Land around the year 384 and, about Tabgha, wrote: “In the same place (not far from Capernaum) facing the Sea of Galilee is a well watered land in which lush grasses grow, with numerous trees and palms. Nearby are seven springs which provide abundant water. In this fruitful garden Jesus fed five thousand people with five loaves of bread and two fish.” (Egeria, of course, has thought only of the men, not their wives or their uncounted, unnamed children.)

In the floor of that shrine was a mosaic of loaves and fishes which has become famous throughout the Christian world. It is reproduced on your bulletin cover and is now preserved in the floor before the altar of the Church of the Multiplication, a Benedictine monastery church built at the site. The place is about a mile inland from the shore of Lake Galilee.

One last detail must be attended to and that is the question, “Could there really have been that many people there?” Possibly. That’s the best answer one can give. There are many towns and cities close enough to Tabgha that, if word got around that a miracle worker were there, people could have gotten there within a day or less of good solid walking, more quickly if they could ride a donkey or camel. Sepphoris had a population 40,000 or more, and Tiberias may have been of similar size; both were within a day’s journey. Capernaum probably had a population of 2,000 or more. The city of Chorazin, which Jesus (by the way) had cursed, is nearby. Migdala Nunia, the hometown of Mary Magdalene, is nearby. A large, m ixed crowd of Jews, Romans, and other Gentiles could easily have gathered. Matthew may be exaggerating, but even if he has increased the number of men tenfold, we are still witnessing something wonderful. Jesus is able to feed a whole lot more people than he ought with two fish and a few loaves of bread.

So that’s when and where we are as we witness this scene of Jesus providing lunch for an unbelievably huge number of people. We are on a hillside a mile from the Sea of Galilee where Jesus has gone in an attempt to get away by himself. He has just recently had a negative experience in Nazareth; he has just heard about the execution of his cousin John; he has tried to get away from it all, but the people have followed him and now find themselves with nothing to eat. And so they have turned to Jesus’ disciples, to the Twelve (who seem also to have followed him) and asked them for food. And the Twelve are at loss about what to do. They have taken stock and they simply do not believe that they can feed all these men, to say nothing of the women and the uncounted, unnamed children.

So they have a very reasonable suggestion for Jesus: “Send them away. Tell them to go back where they came from, or if that is too far away then to one of the nearer towns, and buy themselves something to eat. We cannot feed all these men and their women and their unnamed, uncounted children.”

Send them away! We do not have enough to share with these children who are fleeing drug wars and violence in Central America and illegally crossing our border and . . . .

O, wait . . . I’m mixing up my stories, sorry. This isn’t the Mexican border. This is the Holy Land. Right . . . .

Send them away! We do not have enough to share with these Palestinian children with their demands for civil liberty and a country of their own and . . . .

O, darn. I’ve done it again, mixed up my stories. This isn’t Gaza; this is the Galilee. Right . . . .

But the stories are easy to mix up. Unnamed people in need, unnamed children in need, and the response at the Mexican border is the response in Gaza is the response on that hillside at Tabgha. Send them away! Get rid of them! And whatever you do don’t count the children, don’t name the children, don’t even think of them as children.

Think of them as “law breakers.” Think of them as “illegal immigrants.” Think of them as “migrant hispanics.” And send them away. Get rid of them.

A few days ago, a major news organization quoted a North Carolina politician as saying (and, as God is my witness, I am not making this up): “To me, they’re breaking the law when they come here. If we can’t turn them back, I think if we pop a couple of them off and leave the corpses laying on the border, maybe they’ll see that we’re serious about stopping immigration.” (Raw Story)

Send them away! Get rid of them! And whatever you do don’t count them, don’t name them, don’t even think of them as children.

A few days after the current fighting in and around Gaza started a U.N. school was bombed — Hamas claimed it was an Israeli shell; Israel claimed it was an errant Hamas rocket; but to the seventeen children who died that was really irrelevant. The numbers of Palestinian dead began to rise and a disproportionate number of the dead every day are kids. By July 23, over 600 Gazans had died, 150 of them children. On that day, international aid agencies were reporting that “a child had been killed in Gaza on average every hour for the preceding two days, and more than 70,000 children had been forced to flee their homes.” (The Guardian)

That week, the Israeli human rights organization B’Tselem offered for radio broadcast a public service advertisement listing the names of some of the children. The Israeli Broadcasting Authority banned the ad saying its content was “politically controversial.” B’Tselem appealed and in its appeal said: “Is it controversial that the children [aren’t] alive? That they’re children? That those are their names? These are facts that we wish to bring to the public’s knowledge.” Its appeal was denied and the names of the children have never been published in Israel.

Whatever you do don’t count the children, don’t name the children, don’t even think of them as children. Think of them as “collateral damage.” Think of them as “Hamas sympathizers.” Think of them as “dirty Palestinians.” But send them away. Get rid of them.

On learning that the advertisement had been banned, the respected British children’s author Michael Rosen wrote a poem. Rosen, for two years, was British Children’s Laureate and has written more than 140 books for children. He is, incidentally, an ethnic Jew. This is his poetic response to the Broadcasting Authority’s ban:

Don’t mention the children.
Don’t name the dead children.
The people must not know the names
of the dead children.
The names of the children must be hidden.
The children must be nameless.
The children must leave this world . . .
having no names.
No one must know the names of
the dead children.
No one must say the names of the
dead children.
No one must even think that the children
have names.
People must understand that it would be dangerous
to know the names of the children.
The people must be protected from
knowing the names of the children.
The names of the children could spread
like wildfire.
The people would not be safe if they knew
the names of the children.
Don’t name the dead children.
Don’t remember the dead children.
Don’t think of the dead children.
Don’t say: ‘dead children’.
(Don’t Name the Dead Children)

“Send them away,” said the Twelve, “Get rid of them.” Jesus answer took them by surprise: “You feed them,” he said. And he proceeded to show them how they could, to prove to them that with whatever resources they had, they could care for those 5,000 men and their wives and their uncounted, unnamed children.

LambsAbout a mile away from the spot where that happened, on the beach of the Sea of Galilee is another church. It is called by two names. One is the Church of the Primacy of Peter; the other is Mensa Domini, the Lord’s Table. It marks the place where, after his Resurrection, the Lord appeared to his disciples and cooked for them a breakfast of broiled fish. As they ate, Jesus asked Peter, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Peter

said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my lambs.” A second time he said to him, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Tend my sheep.” He said to him the third time, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, “Do you love me?” And he said to him, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep.” (Jn 21:15-17)

On the Mexican border, in the person of our brothers and sisters who work in Episcopal Border Ministry or Episcopal Migration Ministry, we meet those refugee children fleeing violence and death in Central America . . . In Gaza, in the person of our sisters and brothers of the Episcopal Diocese of Jerusalem who work in the hospitals and clinics our own Good Friday offerings support, we meet the Palestinian children facing bombs and rockets and death . . . And when we meet those uncounted and still in the media unnamed children, we are just like the Twelve standing on that hillside at Tabgha looking at those 5,000 men and their wives and their unnamed, uncounted children and wondering, “How are we going to deal with this?” Some of us will want to say “Send them away we can’t handle this,” but Jesus says to us as he said to the Twelve, “Feed them.”

Jesus asks us what he asked Simon, son of John, on that beach, “Do you love me?” And if our answer is “Yes” he will name those children: he will name them “my lambs,” and what he said to Peter he will say to us, “Feed my lambs.”

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A request to my readers: I’m trying to build the readership of this blog and I’d very much appreciate your help in doing so. If you find something here that is of value, please share it with others. If you are on Facebook, “like” the posts on your page so others can see them. If you are following me on Twitter, please “retweet” the notices of these meditations. If you have a blog of your own, please include mine in your links (a favor I will gladly reciprocate). Many thanks!

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Father Funston is the rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Medina, Ohio.

Death-Shadow – From the Daily Office – August 2, 2014

August 2, 2014 / / 0 Comments

From the Psalms:

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil;
for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

(From the Daily Office Lectionary [Evening Psalm] – Psalm 23:4 (BCP Version) – August 2, 2014)

Dark ValleyThe 23rd Psalm is so popular, such a familiar and well-loved devotion for so many people, that one is loath to say anything about it. It was something my grandfather (staunch Methodist Sunday School teacher) insisted his grandchildren memorize and recite every night before bed, so I even have personal trepidation about messing with it. But mess with it I will.

I’m critical of the language used by the King James edition interpreters: “the valley of the shadow of death.” It’s not that it’s a bad translation. In fact, it’s almost a verbatim rendering of the Hebrew . . . and that’s the problem! A verbatim rendering misses the point (I think).

My entire life I have personalize “the shadow of death.” I suspect I’m not alone. I’ve always thought of this as a metaphor for the Evil One and, thus, have spiritualized this psalm. I’ve thought it had to do with passing through the some realm in the afterlife like Orpheus seeking Eurydice. But that’s wrong!

The Hebrew is tsalmaveth, a compound word made from tsel meaning “shadow” and maveth meaning “death.” It would best be rendered as “death-shadow,” meaning the deepest, thickest, blackest, gloomiest darkness one can imagine and, figuratively, a place of extreme danger.

The Complete Jewish Bible renders this verse, “Even if I pass through death-dark ravines, I will fear no disaster; for you are with me; your rod and staff reassure me.” Understanding tsalmaveth in this way (as deep darkness and potential extreme danger) makes so much more sense of the “comforted (or reassured) by rod and staff” part!

This isn’t about not going to or through or beyond Hell. It’s about getting through life, through real-life situations of danger, with God’s help.

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A request to my readers: I’m trying to build the readership of this blog and I’d very much appreciate your help in doing so. If you find something here that is of value, please share it with others. If you are on Facebook, “like” the posts on your page so others can see them. If you are following me on Twitter, please “retweet” the notices of these meditations. If you have a blog of your own, please include mine in your links (a favor I will gladly reciprocate). Many thanks!

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Father Funston is the rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Medina, Ohio.

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