Word Perfect (I Th. 2:9-13)

I laughed out loud when I first heard Martin Luther’s explanation of how the Reformation happened: "While I have been sleeping, or drinking Wittenberg beer with my friend Philip and with Amsdorf, it is the Word that has done great things. . . . I have done nothing, I have let the Word act. It is all powerful, it takes hearts prisoner." When I was sitting there in Intro to Church History sessions, preaching and reforming sounded heady, or easy. And now flying under the radar of the tee-totaling family in which I was reared, I drank with my friends Philip and Tom, and I anticipated how powerful the word would be in my ministry. I was even poised to answer cleverly the pastoral question, "Can Methodists drink?" The answer, of course, is "Some can, some can’t."

As it turns out, whether I sleep much or little, and whether beer is involved or not, I am repeatedly puzzled over how the words I offer up in the pulpit might become the word. Seems like some can, some can’t. Paul congratulated the early Christians for "accepting" his word, "not as the word of men but as what it really is, the word of God." Is this metamorphosis of my words to God’s word up to the listener? My sermon’s chances are ruined when they get stuck in critique mode, or when they leap to agree or disagree instead of letting the words do the word’s work in them. But what is my role? How can my words have a chance to be heard as God’s word?

Professors taught us to start by reading the text slowly, and in Hebrew or Greek if possible. But do we spot the word in a hitpa ‘el verb? Or in a modifying participle? Is the word revealed in the commentaries? Or are they nothing but jackhammers that dig up something under the pavement? Do I close my eyes and pray, hoping that when they open, the word will be there?

Maybe the secret to the words becoming the word isn’t the words, but the silences between the words. Winston Churchill prepared his speeches carefully, including pauses and fumblings. Are my pauses and fumblings the open spaces where the Spirit can breeze in gently and take hearts captive? Frederick Buechner suggested that preaching is "putting a sort of frame of words around the silence that is truth because truth . . . can at best be only pointed to."

But how do we point? Where we miss out on the words becoming the word. I suspect, is when we speak sweetly: "He’s in a better place." "Just trust God and all will be well." "Jesus is the answer to every question." "The family that prays together stays together." We forget that "the Word became flesh and dwelt among us" -- down here, not in sugarcoated pretending, but in the ache, the hollowness, the loneliness. The closer we can get with our words to the reality of mundane life down here, the closer then we will be to the word of God.

The word isn’t the antidote to life in its raw agony. The word showed itself in that flayed nakedness, in the brutally honest admission that we are flawed, mortal, wounded, downright crazy. If our words are nothing but kitsch, mere pleasantries, we miss the shadows, the ugliness -- and didn’t Luther teach us that God is hidden not in the glorious, shiny glitz, but in the darkness?

Maybe we all need more sleep, or more beer. Paul can be downright annoying when he blatantly brags about "how holy, righteous and blameless was our behavior." What minister hasn’t wanted to holler when church folk jab him with dumb remarks about cussing or drinking? But have we unwittingly earned their affectionate derision? If our words are always sunny or vapidly positive, aren’t we distancing ourselves not just from the people of God but from Jesus himself? Jesus was worldly, accused of gluttony, drunkenness and hanging around with the wrong crowd.

Maybe for our words to become the word, we need to get a life, to sit around with Philip or Tom, maybe drink a little -- or whatever else might immerse us in the world so that we might be able to build a frame of words around the silence people crave where God can whisper the word. John Chrysostom said, "Let us astound them by our way of life." He did not say, "Let us bore them with our way of life." A piously smug life, or a tentative, hesitant, bland lit e, can sneak into the sermon. So can a robust life that has thought deeply about the incarnation and God’s presence in the world.

Maybe we find the words out there, in the marketplace, a coffee shop, a stadium, where people aren’t dressed for church and can speak their own true words (if we’ll listen) about the flesh, their fears, the blessing and curse of family, the craziness, not to mention dreams, fantasies, habits and memories. The sermon, then, will dance along that elusive intersection between the truth of God, the startling news of God’s ravishing presence, and the real life in which God was clothed, the mundane places where either we meet God or we don’t. This kind of talk might become that frame through which together we peer into the darkness and listen carefully to the silence.

Hopeful Grieving (I Th. 4:13-18)

My wife is afraid of heights. She didn’t like flying out west, and she didn’t want to peer down into the Grand Canyon. I wonder how she would feel at the end of time, "caught up together with the saints in the air to meet the Lord." I know she’d prefer that this reunion happen down here on solid, flat ground.

Mark Allan Powell has suggested that biblical critics have mined the apocalyptic by fixing it in a context of long ago and thus "depriving everyday Christians of the heartfelt expectation of their Lord’s return," I feel the opposite: it’s because the biblical scenarios speak to a situation long ago that they provide bearings for my life now. As Christopher Lasch says, "Children need to learn about faraway times and places so they can make sense of their own surroundings."

For many Christians today, apocalyptic scenarios are coming closer and closer, and kindling a fire of anticipation as they do. Not for me. If I have been deprived of a heartfelt expectation of the Lord’s return, I blame Hal Lindsey and Tim LaHaye, with their blockbusters The Late Great Planet Earth and the Left Behind series. Church members who’ve never shown up at Bible study are plunking down money for the latest installment of Left Behind. This hip, modern spin on the apocalyptic has become a surrogate religion, making me want to have nothing to do with things apocalyptic.

Problems creep in as readers absorb more and more LaHaye stuff. Readers begin to think, "This is Christianity." Faith becomes irresponsible, an elitist gnosticism. Shamefully, apocalyptic misconstruals even seem to influence America’s foreign policy.

Perhaps the most insidious by-product of modern apocalyptic scenarios is that grief is shoved right off the table. This is what Paul addresses, saying that the Thessalonians do "not grieve as others do who have no hope." In LaHaye’s fiction, those who grieve are those who have no hope; they discover that they did not listen to the preacher who told them they could be caught up in the air, and now they are stuck on earth -- and so they grieve. Believers, on the other hand, do not grieve at all. With immense satisfaction they relish having flown away just in the nick of time. As horrors unfold on earth, they lick their chops, taking perverse delight that the bowls of wrath are being poured outright on schedule.

LaHaye’s fans may be more pious than I am. But when I see what’s going on in the world, I veer from outrage to a numb, intense sorrow. LaHaye might say, "Rejoice and be glad! God knew all this would unfold, and if you’re among the elect, then dance a jig: you’ll be flying at any moment!" But Paul does not say this. "Do not grieve as those who have no hope." We are to grieve, but as those who have hope. How do the hopeful grieve?

Nicholas Wolterstorff’s Lament for a Son is a book worth handing to grieving friends. After his son died, Wolterstorff believed that for the rest of his life he would look at the world through tears. "Perhaps I shall see things that dry-eyed I could not see." Jesus said, "Blessed are those who mourn," Wolterstorff notes. "The mourners are those who have caught a glimpse of God’s new day, who ache with all their being for the day’s coming, and who break out into tears when confronted with its absence. . . . The mourners are aching visionaries. Jesus says: Be open to the wounds of the world. Mourn humanity’s mourning, weep over humanity’s weeping, be wounded by humanity’s wounds, be in agony over humanity’s agony. But do so in the good cheer that a day of peace is coming."

What do those who grieve with hope do while waiting for that day of peace? They grieve -- and when they grieve, they draw near to the God who grieves. Through tears they understand the old bumper sticker I saw a while back: "Jesus is coming: Look busy." The apocalyptic does not relieve us of responsibility down here on solid ground. We hear of wars and rumors of wars, and instead of flipping through LaHaye to pinpoint the event, we pray, protest and labor for peace. We hear of poverty or the AIDS crisis -- and we do not even blush to read Columbia University economist Jeffrey Sachs’s audacious proposal (The End of Poverty) that our generation can choose to end poverty. We say not, "Don’t bother, Jesus is coming soon," but "Jesus is coming, so let’s eradicate poverty." We grieve as those with hope.

Clarence Jordan offered an interesting reflection on "Blessed are those who mourn." To him, "real mourners grieve over injustice in God’s world. "There are ‘fake mourners’ who say, ‘Sure, the world’s in a mess, and I guess maybe I’m a bit guilty like everybody else, but what can I do about it?’ What they’re really saying is that they are not concerned enough about themselves or the world to look for anything to do." Mourning elicits courageous, hopeful engagement. Jordan, who was clearly no fake mourner, warned: "You’d better watch out when a fellow gets that certain gleam in his eye and a certain set to his jaw. He’s getting ready to ‘mourn.’ And he’ll be awfully hard to stop, because he will be receiving tremendous strength and power and encouragement from seeing his mourning become deeds." We grieve as those with hope.

Jesus is coming. Look busy -- busy grieving and busy working. We will begin to recover that "heartfelt expectation" of our Lord’s return. But please, a reunion that’s held not 17,000 feet in the air, but on solid ground. My wife is grieving and working too, and I want her by my side.

Childish Behavior (I Th. 2:1-8)

A few months ago, the evening news was playing in the background as our family was getting organized for supper. I overheard the anchor ask, "Who is the most powerful preacher in Charlotte? Is it . . . ?" and he named four relatively prominent clergy. "Call in and vote! Or e-mail us! And we’ll tell you tomorrow night who really is the most powerful preacher!" After we stopped laughing, I thought, "How southern. I bet this doesn’t go on in Vermont or Europe." The next night, falling for the gambit, I tuned in and saw the friend who had "won." He was reflecting on what it’s like to be so powerful.

Could any adjective describing the clergy or the church be more inaccurate than powerful? We can’t get our own volunteers to show up on time, much less make some sweeping impact on a big city. Which exact muscles should we be flexing? In today’s world, we are not powerful; we are -- what might the best adjective be? -- -Lilliputian? impotent? scrawny? How do we live in a culture that rushes by the church and either yawns with boredom or wrinkles its eyebrows with cynicism? Is there any clue in an obscure text like 1 Thessalonians 2:1-8?

I rarely pay attention to textual variants when studying a passage. Once in a great while, I pretend I am a young intellectual back in seminary and retrieve words like Sinaiticus or Alexandrinus or Bodmer papyrus out of the cobwebs of my brain, but usually I skim past them. Since I am writing here for a few who attend to such details, I plunged into the text of verse 7 and discovered a spiritually intriguing decision that translators must make.

In my old RSV, Paul says, "We were gentle among you." Abraham Malherbe’s commentary claims that epioi or gentle is the superior reading. The alternative is infants, nepioi, or epioi with an "n" stuck on the front, which appears in Bodmer, Vaticanus and Jerome. Sinaiticus at first read nepioi, but somebody corrected it to epioi. Did a scribe drifting off to sleep jiggle the stylus to add the "n" inadvertently? Was this a little joke from a copyist who’d just become an uncle? Could infants be right?

In heaven we can ask Paul himself, but in the meantime I’m rooting for nepioi, infants. Gentle does not fit the prickly, irascible Paul very well, although in one of his fits of braggadocio he might have fudged a little. Paul was more infantlike, and I don’t mean that in any warm, fuzzy way. Martin Luther spoke the truth when in 1538 he looked at his family of six children, ages four to 12, and remarked, "Christ said we must become as little children to enter the kingdom. Dear God, this is too much. Must we become such idiots?" I seem to remember incessant screaming at ungodly hours, being thrown up upon, never getting anything done and staggering wearily through the day with a soiled spot on the shoulder of my jacket.

Thinking about infants, I see a thicket of analogies between their mode of being and the way Paul invaded a city like Thessalonica: demanding, wanting a response now, being the center of attention, brooking no rivals. Paul had no desire to please people; he spoke boldly, frankly. Infants may elicit gentleness from others, but they are not themselves very gentle. Gentleness, even gentility, is cultivated over time, When we grow up, we learn how to stop acting like infants: Don’t be demanding, don’t cry out loud, don’t wake anyone up. We are tutored in how to be pleasing, and pleasantness has its rewards in the life of the church. But we run the risk of turning out like that chaplain whom teenaged Thomas Merton heard preaching on 1 Corinthians 13: "His exegesis was a bit strange . . . Charity meant good sportsmanship, cricket, the decent thing, wearing the right clothes, using the proper spoon, not being a cad. . . . I think Peter and the Apostles would have been rather surprised at the concept that Christ had been scourged and beaten by soldiers, cursed and crowned with thorns and subjected to unutterable contempt and finally nailed to the cross and left to bleed to death in order that we might all become gentlemen."

Clergy and laity are taught to be professional, to pursue excellence, and surely God is embarrassed by Christians who wear ridiculous clothes and act like cads. But how do we flee the devil’s snare? How do we avoid being lured into a veneer of respectability that neuters the gospel we were ordained to bear awkwardly and pointedly? Is our vocation always to be gentle, which comes off as being saccharine or vapid? Or to be more infantlike, raising a voice, demanding some reply, shedding tears right out in the open, following Jesus into unpleasant, dirty places, risking the evaluation that we are idiots?

Never forgetting Paul’s total lack of modesty, we set out to live differently. John Chrysostom instructed his congregation on how to win over unbelievers: "Let us astound them by our way of life. This is the unanswerable argument. Though we give 10,000 precepts in words, if we do not exhibit a far better life, we gain nothing. It is not what is said that draws their attention, but what we do. Let us win them therefore by our life." You’ll miss a few parties; you won’t get invited certain places. Most adults on the prowl for a quiet evening prefer peace and quiet and therefore will not get near the baby. It’s OK. In The Lord of the Rings, the wise wizard Gandalf tells the hobbits, "Let folly be our cloak." Folly worked pretty well for Jesus, Paul, St. Francis and a holy host of others . . . or we might say it didn’t "work well," but was faithful and strangely powerful in an infant, toddling kind of way.

Science under Siege

Chris Mooney has written a stinging indictment of the Republican Party’s attitudes toward science, focusing particularly on the manipulative and dismissive thinking and policies of the current administration. Even if only a part of what he says is true, he documents an appalling state of affairs. Although in terms of scientific know-how and capability the United States surpasses all other nations, it seems that its leaders come close to having contempt for -- and often are ignorant about -- science.

In chapter after chapter, Mooney details the ways in which powerful Republicans of the past 10 to 15 years have trashed scientific ideas, persecuted outstanding scientists, and avoided or otherwise downplayed one important scientific finding after another. Stem cell research, cancer research, environmental questions -- these topics have found their way into the sights of the political right and been picked off one by one.

And yet I put the volume down feeling somewhat dissatisfied. Part of the problem is structural. You can read only so many cases of wrongheadedness before your eyes start to glaze over. The book is relentless -- one failing after another is recounted, until even the most rabid Democrat is going to start nodding off. This points not simply to a lack of skill by the author, but to an underlying weakness in the book. One wants a bit more than accounts of deeds and misdeeds. One longs for an analysis that digs into the reasons why we have the kind of politicians that we do and why science is in their sights.

Mooney does offer some causal discussion. One of the biggest sources of trouble is big business. Many business leaders paid to get the Republicans elected, and for them it’s been payback time. If a coal company pours thousands of dollars into the successful campaign of a member of Congress or a senator, that company later does not want any nonsense about restrictions on the production of atmosphere-fouling mercury.

At one level this is surely true and obvious -- the aim of big business is to make money for shareholders, not to help society. But at another level it is not obvious. Surely there are businesses that take social responsibility seriously. The chap who fixes my car could rob me blind if he wanted to. As it is, he charges me a fair (not overly cheap) price, he does the work, and he is pleased not just that I am pleased but that he has done a good job. He is in it for the money, but not just for the money. Is there no big business whose CEO feels the same way, if only out of enlightened self-interest and the fact that the employees might work better if they feel they are doing a good job? I want to know a bit more about business, especially about the businesses that support the Republicans.

The other cause of trouble pinpointed by Mooney is religion. He argues that a lot of the Republican trashing of science is due to the power of evangelical Christians and their allies (which these days include an increasing number of Roman Catholics) who give their votes to Republicans and expect payoffs of their own. President Bush has put severe restrictions on the use of federal money for stem cell research, ordering that only certain preexisting lines be used for such work. There is ongoing controversy about such things as needle exchanges (for addicts), which clearly cut down on the transmission of diseases such as hepatitis and AIDS, but seem at some level to condone if not encourage drug use. Too recent to be discussed in Mooney’s book is the battle over the nonprescription sale of "morning after" pills. Above all, there is the huge row about what is to be taught in the biology classes of public schools. Should creation science, or its most recent morph, intelligent-design theory, be taught alongside Darwinian evolutionary theory?

Again, Mooney does no real digging into causes and connections -- something surely essential if one wants to see change come about. Prima facie one would think that big business and evangelical Christianity make strange bedfellows. After all, Jesus’ advice to the rich young man was to give all of his wealth to the poor and follow him. And if the big businesses that are supporting the Republicans are basically the types of businesses that are concerned simply with making money, then there can be no genuine alliance with evangelicals. In fact, in the past presidential election many Americans voted Republican against their own economic interests. They voted along with those who are out- sourcing as fast as they can and taking jobs from Ohio and Indiana and relocating them in India or Taiwan or China or elsewhere if costs are thereby reduced. These Americans voted on the basis of "moral values" -- regarding abortion, capital punishment, gun control -- rather than on the basis of their pocketbooks.

The point is that there seem to be major differences between the different groups supporting the Republican attack on science. Should we always expect these groups to work in tandem? Is it possible that those of us who deplore the attack on science might find some way to drive a wedge between the two groups?

As it is, a wedge is opening up. An increasing number of evangelicals are staffing to worry about the environment. Their reading of the book of Genesis tells them that God wants us to care for God’s creation. We are not absolute owners, to do with the world as we please. We are God’s stewards, and that gives us responsibilities toward the land and all of its inhabitants. And that means caring about mercury pollution and similar phenomena.

I can see more conflicts down the road. Suppose stem cell research really does take off and provides avenues for major medical advances -- the use of designer drugs, for instance, to treat various illnesses that today can be treated only partially, if at all. Suppose that there really is a breakthrough in treating Parkinson’s disease. Are the drug companies going to sit back and let the evangelicals restrict their research and the products of this research? I think not.

These are the kinds of issues that must be dealt with if we are to think seriously about the place of science in society. These issues are not going to vanish if Democrats return to power. Now that Mooney has drawn attention to the problem, we need a much more comprehensive analysis.

Those who do not vote Republican need to ask if they are not contributing to the problem. I have spent the past 30 years fighting creationism in its various guises. One thing that has become apparent to me is that in some ways the creationists and intelligent-design theorists have a very good point. Science, or at least its leading spokespeople, tends to be strongly anti-religious. No subgroup of scientists is more vocal than the biologists, including the evolutionists. Francis Crick, co-discoverer of the double helix, declares: "If revealed religions have revealed anything it is that they are usually wrong." Richard Dawkins, best-selling author of The Selfish Gene and other books, says: "It is fashionable to wax apocalyptic about the threat to humanity posed by the AIDS virus, mad cow disease, and many others, but I think a case can be made that faith is one of the world’s great evils, comparable to the smallpox virus but harder to eradicate." Stephen Jay Gould, who until his death a couple of years ago was even more popular than Dawkins, describes humanity thus: "We are here because one odd group of fishes had a peculiar fin anatomy that could transform into legs for terrestrial creatures; because the earth never froze entirely during an ice age; because a small and tenuous species, arising in Africa a quarter of a million years ago, has managed, so far, to survive by hook and by crook. We may yearn for a higher answer -- but none exists."

I am not surprised, then, that many American Christians do not much care for science. Not that they are necessarily opposed to the fruits of science; often they are quite good with computers, internal combustion engines and the like. But they feel belittled by science.

Those who love science (and I am one), including those of us who are nonbelievers (and I am one), should quit sneeringly giving religion the backs of our hands and start to look seriously at the limits of science and whether it is appropriate for religion to fill the gaps. We should look at how that space-filling should take place, at how those of us who do not want to use religion to fill the spaces should do their work, and at how science should respond to religious people as they do their filling. Perhaps this effort will lead to an even greater divide between science and religion. But we should try.

Beyond Darwin

The attempt to force classical Darwinian thinking into the role of an explanatory principle of almost universal scope has proved singularly unconvincing. It seeks to inflate an assembly of half-truths into a theory of everything. Sober evaluation of the adequacy of the insights being proffered soon pricks this explanatory bubble.

Humans’ increasing ability to process information coming from the environment is clearly an advantage in the struggle for survival, but this does not explain why it has been accompanied by the trait of conscious awareness. Indeed, one might suppose that the latter, with its limited focus of attention and no more than a peripheral openness to signals coming from other possible directions, might be more a hazard than a help.

Evolutionary epistemology has attempted to explain and validate the human power to attain reliable knowledge as something originating through Darwinian development. Once again one encounters a half-truth. Of course, being able to make sense of everyday experience is a vital survival asset. If one could not figure out that stepping off a high cliff was a dangerous thing to do, life would soon be imperiled. Yet when Isaac Newton recognized that the same force that makes the high cliff dangerous is also the force that holds the moon in its orbit around the earth and the earth in its orbit around the sun, thereby going on to discover universal gravity, something happened that went far beyond anything needed for survival.

When Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson first meet, the great investigator feigns not to know whether the earth goes round the sun or the sun around the earth. He defends his apparent ignorance simply by asking what it matters for his daily work as a detective. Of course, it does not matter at all, but human beings know many things that neither bear relation to mundane necessities nor could plausibly be considered simply as spin-offs from the exercise of rational skills developed to cope with those necessities.

This point was reinforced about 200 years after Newton when Albert Einstein’s discovery of general relativity produced the modern theory of gravity -- capable of explaining not only the behavior of our little local solar system but also the structure of the whole cosmos. In both relativity theory and quantum theory, modes of thought are required that are totally different from those appropriate to everyday affairs. The human mind has proved capable of comprehending the counterintuitive world of subatomic physics and the cosmic realms of curved spacetime.

It has turned out that it is our mathematical abilities that have furnished the key to unlock deep secrets of the physical universe. Once more one encounters a mystery impenetrable by conventional evolutionary thinking. Survival needs would seem to require no more than a little arithmetic, some elementary Euclidean geometry and the ability to make certain kinds of simple logical association. Whence then comes the human ability to explore non-commutative algebras, prove Fermat’s last theorem and discover the Mandelbrot set? These rational feats go far beyond anything susceptible to Darwinian explanation.

The ability to use the experience of yesterday as a guide to coping with the challenges of today is clearly a significant aid to survival. But does this fact alone give us sufficient license to trust in human ability to reconstruct from fragmentary evidence the history of a past extending over many millions of years? Darwin himself felt some doubts on this score, writing in old age to a friend that "‘with me the horrid doubt arises whether the convictions of man’s mind, which has been developed from the mind of lower animals, are of any value or are trustworthy."’

There is something touching in the spectacle of this great scientist poised with rational saw in hand and tempted to sever the epistemic branch on which he had sat while making his great discoveries. Surely his doubts were unjustified. The cumulative power of scientific thinking has vindicated itself many times over in the course of human investigations into reality. Why science is possible in this deep way is a question which, if pursued, would take us well beyond science itself. I believe that ultimately it is a reflection of the theological fact that human beings are creatures who are made in the image of their Creator (Gen. 1:26-27).

Sociobiology seeks to explain human ethical intuitions in terms of inherited patterns of behavior favoring the propagation of at least some of an individual’s genes. Once again, one may acknowledge a source of partial insight. No doubt ideas of kin altruism (the mutual support extended between those who share in the family gene pool) and reciprocal altruism (favors done in the expectation of favors later to be received) shed some Darwinian light on aspects of human behavior. Models of behavioral strategies that optimize probable returns in given circumstances -- such as "tit for tat": respond in the same manner that your opponent has displayed to you -- give some insight into the nature of prudent decision making. But sociobiology tells too banal a story to be able to account for radical altruism -- the ethical imperative that leads a person to risk his or her own life in the attempt to save an unknown and unrelated stranger from the danger of death. Love of that incalculable kind eludes Darwinian explanation.

Equally elusive to evolutionary explanation are many human aesthetic experiences. What survival value has Mozart’s music given us, however profoundly it enriches our lives in other ways?

The proper response to all this is not to adopt a Procrustean technique of chopping down the range of human experience until it fits into a narrow Darwinian bed, nor is it to abandon evolutionary thinking altogether. Rather, it is to release that thinking from the poverty of its neo-Darwinian captivity. This requires two steps. One is an enrichment of the concept of the environment within which hominid evolution has taken place. The other is an enhancement of our understanding of the processes that have been at work. When these steps have been taken, we shall be freed from being driven to the construction of implausible just-so stories, alleging that human capacities of which we have basic experience are totally different in character from what we, in fact, know them to be.

One way of enhancing understanding of the actual scope and character of the human environment can be provided by thinking about the nature of mathematics. Most mathematicians are convinced that their subject is concerned with discovery and not with mere construction. They are not involved in playing amusing intellectual games of their own contrivance, but are privileged to explore an already existing realm of mentally accessed reality. In other words, as far as their subject is concerned, mathematicians are instinctive Platonists. They believe that the object of their study is an everlasting noetic world which contains the rationally beautiful structures that they investigate. Benoit Mandelbrot did not invent his celebrated set; he discovered it. Acknowledgment of the existence of this rational dimension of reality is vital to the possibility of understanding the origin of human mathematical powers.

At some stage of hominid development, our ancestors acquired a brain structure that afforded them access to the mental world of mathematics. It then became as much a part of their environment as were the grasslands over which they roamed. At first this noetic encounter must have been limited to a utilitarian style of mundane thinking, involving just an engagement with simple arithmetical and geometrical ideas. However, once that intellectual traffic had started it could not be limited to such elementary matters. Our ancestors were beguiled into further exploration of noetic richness which, once begun, continued with an ever-increasing fruitfulness. What drew them into this exploratory process was not a Darwinian drive to the enhanced propagation of their genes, but an entirely different mechanism.

The kinds of considerations in the case of mathematical experience that lead us to take seriously an enriched human environment apply equally to other distinctive forms of human ability. Human ethical intuitions indicate the existence of a moral dimension of reality open to our exploration. Our conviction that torturing children is wrong is not some curiously veiled strategy for successful genetic propagation, nor is it merely a convention adopted arbitrarily by society. It is a fact about the nature of reality to which our ancestors gained access at some stage of hominid development. Similarly, human aesthetic experiences gain their authenticity and value from their being encounters with yet another aspect of the multidimensional reality that encompasses humanity Experiences of beauty are much more than emotion recalled in tranquillity; they are engagements with the everlasting truth of being.

Once one accepts the enrichment beyond the merely material of the context within which human life is lived, one is no longer restricted to the notion of Darwinian survival necessity as providing the sole engine driving hominid development. In these noetic realms of rational skill, moral imperative and aesthetic delight -- of encounter with the true, the good and the beautiful -- other forces are at work to draw out and enhance distinctive human potentialities. Survival is replaced by something that one may call satisfaction, the deep contentment of understanding and the joyful delight that draws on inquirers and elicits the growth of their capacities. No doubt the neural ground for the possibility of psychosomatic beings like ourselves to be able to develop aptitudes in this way was afforded by the plasticity of the hominid brain. Much of the vast web of neural networking within our skulls is not genetically predetermined, but it grows epigenetically, in response to learning experiences. It is formed by our actual encounters with reality.

The era of these developments was the time when human culture. emerged, generating a language-based Lamarckian ability to transfer information from one generation to the next through a process whose efficiency vastly exceeded the slow and uncertain Darwinian method of differential propagation. It is in these ways that a recognition of the many-layered character of reality, and the variety of modes of response to it, make intelligible the rapid development of the remarkable distinctiveness of human nature.

Hominid evolution inaugurated the exercise of these new creaturely capacities here on planet Earth, but it did not bring into being the reality to which these nascent abilities gave access. What emerged were mathematicians, not mathematics. The latter was always "there," even if unrecognized by creatures during billions of years of cosmic history. The rational, moral and aesthetic contexts within which hominid capacities began to develop are essential and abiding dimensions of created reality. From the point of view of dual-aspect monism, these realities exist at the extreme mental pole of the complementary duality involved, just as sticks and stones exist at the far physical pole.

One should go on to ask what is the origin of these many diverse but interrelated aspects of reality. For the religious believer, the source of these dimensions lies in the unifying will of the Creator, a fundamental insight that makes it intelligible not only that the universe is transparent to our scientific enquiry, but also that it is the arena of moral decision and the carrier of beauty. Those dimensions of reality, the understanding of whose character lies beyond the narrow explanatory horizon of natural science, are not epiphenomenal froth on the surface of a fundamentally material world, but are gifts expressive of the nature of this world’s Creator. Thus moral insights are intuitions of God’s good and perfect will, and aesthetic delight is a sharing in the Creator’s joy in creation, just as the wonderful cosmic order discovered by science is truly a reflection of the mind of God. Thinking about human experience in this way affords the possibility of a satisfyingly unified account of multi-layered reality. Theology can lay just claim to being the true Theory of Everything.

Marked for a Purpose (Is. 42:1-9; Acts 10:34-43; Matt. 3:13-17)

Several years ago I was invited to preach on this gospel passage from Matthew at the National Cathedral on the Sunday designated to honor the state of Hawaii. I struggled with the subject of Jesus’ baptism, partly because baptism is not an easy concept to explain, and this story seemed strange indeed. Why would Jesus insist on being baptized by John, and what could it mean that as John was baptizing him in the Jordan the voice of God spoke from heaven, saying, "This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased"?

I suspect that to many Christians baptism seems a curious and antiquated custom. People want their children baptized but can’t say much about why they want it, and what the rite is meant to signify. Many adults who attend church faithfully nevertheless would be hard-pressed to say what their baptism means to them. It might help to remember that in the early church the baptism of Jesus was a much more important feast than Christmas. Now that Christmas has become the year’s biggest marketing machine, we may count that as a good thing: imagine John the Baptist in his animal skins as a singing plush doll.

But there are important reasons why Jesus’ baptism was observed as one of three feasts of light, which include Epiphany, marking the wise men’s recognition of the true nature of the Christ child, and the wedding feast at Cana, at which Jesus performed his first miracle. These are feasts of light because they illuminate God’s nature. They are three occasions on which God chose to reveal an aspect of God made flesh, as incarnated in Jesus Christ. And they indicate that the incarnation is not only about Jesus but about us: these three feasts demonstrate to Christians not only what God is like but also who God wishes us to be.

Baptism, then, is about celebrating the incomparable gift we receive as creatures beloved of God. But baptism is also about more fully engaging the responsibility that this identity entails. The baptism of Jesus initiated his public ministry, which led him to the cross. For individual Christians, baptism is our call to the community of the church, which often provides us with crosses of our own to bear. Yet it is together, as church, that we are meant to witness to peace in a cruel and violent world and bring a message of hope in the face of despair. Whatever the worldly powers may be--Roman rulers or contemporary dictators, corrupt lobbyists, arms traders and war profiteers--Christians are called to witness to another, greater power. Our baptisms mark us for this purpose.

Not long before I was to preach my sermon, East Asia was hit by a monstrous tsunami that caused death on an unimaginable scale. In Internet chat rooms I found many people coping with the tragedy by engaging in the all-American pursuits of bad science (concerning the tsunami’s causes and effects) and bad theology (concerning the fate of the dead). A striking number of people asserted that most of the tsunami’s victims were going to hell because they had not been baptized. I guess this is what you can expect when you apply self-serving human logic to a divine mystery. Baptism is a blessing, not a bludgeon. It is a sacrament, not a weapon of mass destruction. Baptism’s import is so much larger than Christians generally acknowledge when they say, "I was baptized a Catholic," or an Episcopalian, or a Methodist. A Christian is baptized into the Christian faith, and not a particular denomination. Baptism is that big. Today’s readings in Isaiah and Acts offer us a glimpse of something bigger still: a God who is not limited by our understanding of baptism and what it signifies--a God who created humanity in the divine image and whose love for us is so great that it embraces all people, no exceptions. This God is beyond our understanding and our comfort zones.

One comfort zone that this Gospel story in particular can help pastors assault is that of biblical illiteracy. It provides a great opportunity to explore what Walter Brueggemann would call a "thick text," one that is dense with our history as a people of faith. I once heard Brueggemann speak on this Gospel passage, pointing out that in it Jesus reenacts the whole history of Israel. It is at the Jordan that Moses interprets the Torah, that Israel enters a land of freedom apart from "Pharaoh’s production schemes," and that Elisha receives Elijah’s spirit. When Jesus approaches John on the banks of the Jordan River all of this collective memory is put into play. And all of it will be recapitulated in the life, ministry, death and resurrection of the Son of God. The occasion of his baptism is so momentous that we are jolted all the way back to the first chapter of Genesis, as the separation of earth and sky that God established at creation is refigured. God breaks through in order to speak directly to human beings.

Brueggemann insisted that all of these memories and meanings are right there in the story. It is up to us to retrieve them and make them known, reaching not only back into the Hebrew scriptures but looking ahead to the early church. The baptism of Jesus is the event that allows the story to go forward into the community of those who follow him and become his disciples, those who will be known as Christians. It is that big.

Lamb of God (Is. 49:1-7; Ps. 40:1-11; 1 Cor. 1:1-9; John 1:29-42)

I am often at a loss for words when people ask me what I think. To me, thinking--making clear and linear progress through my mental swamp--is drudgery that I perform only when it is necessary. But if someone says, "Tell me a story," I am in my element. Psalm 40 tells a familiar story: "I waited for the Lord, and he heard me; he drew me up from the desolate pit and put a new song in my mouth; he gave me an open ear and a mouth to praise." And while my response to this gift is never what it should be, I am often able to fulfill a part of it, telling the glad news of deliverance "in the great congregation" and not hiding it away in my heart. As a writer I have devoted my life to fulfilling the storyteller’s vocation.

It can help to take a nonlinear approach to this Gospel, as stories are being told in a way that doesn’t make much sense. In describing the baptism of Jesus, John the Baptist defines the dove that descends from heaven as the Holy Spirit. He then declares to his disciples--twice, in case they don’t get it the first time--that Jesus is the Lamb of God. And then two disciples of John do get it and immediately begin to follow Jesus. We jump from one scene to another, as in a movie, and the first recorded conversation between Jesus and his new disciples seems more appropriate for a Wes Anderson film than for sacred scripture: "What are you looking for?" "Teacher, where are you staying?" "Come and see." It feels less than illuminating.

But if we stay with the strangeness for a while, we find in this peculiar exchange a key to understanding what faith entails. It is not so much a matter of thinking as doing--and not doing so much as being and witnessing. Just come and see, and we might realize that Jesus came to make us both more holy and more fully human. Just come and see, and we can comprehend the life and ministry of Jesus as the very center of our own faith. Of course, this puts pressure on us as Christians to live a life worthy of the name. If we were asked where we "stay," to define where it is we make our stand, what witness would our life make? Would we look like everyone else in the rat race, distracted and disaffected, prone to resentment and ready to stick derogatory labels on those who do not act, think or worship as we do? Or would we remember, as Paul reminds the contentious Corinthians, that we are called to be saints? Would we respond to this call in a self-aggrandizing way, certain that God loves us more than other people? Or would we respond by shutting down our egocentricity and opening our ears?

Last July I attended an interfaith conference at St. John’s Abbey in Minnesota. The speakers were monastics from the Christian and Zen Buddhist traditions, as well as an Islamic scholar, who seemed impressed with the hospitality of her Benedictine hosts. Instead of the hostile questioning she often receives in America these days, she was simply asked to share her story. What had she seen in Islam that attracted her? She had been raised as a Christian, as had the Buddhists, but had begun to explore Islam as a graduate student in Paris. Her endeavor began not so much as an intellectual pursuit as a response to what she witnessed in the lives of the Africans who were her fellow students. Appalled at the daily insult and discrimination they received as blacks and as Muslims, she was astonished at their ability to endure such persecution with dignity and without bitterness. They attributed their perseverance under pressure to their Muslim faith, and that caused her to take a closer look. To go and see.

Another speaker was a French Benedictine who reported on the longstanding exchange program that French monastics have had with Japanese Zen Buddhists. (American monastics have a similar exchange with Tibetan Buddhists.) He said that after the Buddhist had been in the monastery for about a month, he had only one question. It seemed to him that the monks did not live very well. They worked hard, their food was neither good nor plentiful, and they did not get enough sleep. "Yet they are joyful," he said, "and I want to know: from where does this joy come?" Come and see.

When we come to John’s Gospel we find it opening, like the book of Genesis, with the words, "In the beginning," and while John seems more a theologian than a storyteller, his narrative races along, and at every turn someone receives a new name. John calls Jesus the Lamb of God, while the disciples name him Rabbi or Teacher, but soon are calling him something more: Messiah, the Anointed One. Jesus returns the favor, declaring that Simon is now to be known as Cephas, or Peter. As any Native American could tell you, naming ceremonies are important. They signify a new creation, in this case the church, full of those flawed people who will bear the name of Christian. Isaiah has told us: listen, pay attention. And the psalmist asks: did you ever find the strength to sing a new song when you were in the pit? Or perhaps you were standing on the banks of a muddy rivulet and discovered there the river of life. How is this possible? What has come into the world so that it can happen? It is not answers that matter here, but the invitation that we can only hope we have the grace to hear: come and see.

 

Hearts Sing (Is. 9:1-4; Psalm 27:1, 4-9;1 Cor. 1:10-18; Matt. 4:12-23)

Our hearts may sing as we hear the glorious prophecy of Isaiah, as repeated in Matthew’s Gospel: "The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light." But as we listen to the epistle a nagging voice suggests that the Corinthians have been remarkably busy in their attempts to put that light out. On some days I wonder if this admittedly sour perspective doesn’t explain a good part of Christian history, as well as our present volatile and noisily divisive situation. The light came and we have been devising clever ways to extinguish it ever since.

For the third Sunday in a row, we hear talk of baptism. But instead of the story of Jesus and John at the Jordan we hear Paul addressing the Corinthians in an exasperated tone, asking them to consider what their own baptisms mean. Apparently they had been dividing themselves into cliques, identifying themselves as belonging not to Christ but to whoever had baptized them.

The Corinthians remind me of my niece and nephew in their younger days, when they fought ferociously over issues both large and small. One afternoon as they raged over the question of who would sit in the front seat as Mom drove them home on the daily commute, I asked, "Is there anything you two won’t fight about?" The shouting stopped as both children looked at me. Beaming, they happily declared, "No!" and resumed their squabbling. Of course they love each other, and always have. As brother and sister they are indivisible. And Paul evidently had this hope for the Corinthians as well. Attempting to bring them to their senses, he asked a remarkable question: "Has Christ been divided?" The only answer can be: Of course not. Light is light. And only light can bring our fragmented darkness into proper perspective and allow us to see things whole.

We may be unable to bring to fruition the wholeness envisioned by Isaiah, but we are asked to imagine it nevertheless, and believe that God can make it happen. This passage, as with much of Isaiah, illustrates the power of metaphor and imagery, and insists that envisioning God’s reign is a small but necessary step along the way toward making it real. What cannot be imagined will surely not come to pass. This is why it is so important to keep telling the story of how the light did come to those who were in darkness. If it happened once, it can happen again. And again--as often as we need it to happen, for God’s love for us is inexhaustible. Paul seems to assume that the Corinthians will always have their differences, but he wants them to see that it is only the unity found in Christ that matters.

Reading today’s texts, I am intrigued and delighted to find myself enclosed within a poetic loop. I enter the circle with Isaiah speaking of God making "glorious the way of the sea, the land beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the nations." And as I make my way around to the Gospel, I find stories of Jesus’ ministry and acts of healing drawing people from Galilee "and from beyond the Jordan." I am back where I started. But along the way I have moved from Jesus’ baptism at John’s hands to the start of a ministry that will lead to his death in Jerusalem. I have entered territory that extends beyond the safe boundaries of what I know, wandering by way of the sea, as well as the far-off lands where Paul will soon be wrestling with the Corinthians over what it means to be baptized into Christ, and into his death and new life.

An ignominious death on a cross may seem like foolishness to those who can’t imagine anything beyond what they already know of the world. But to those who can believe in something more, it is the very power of God. If this truth doesn’t transcend our divisions, we are lost indeed. Division is so much a part of human experience that we are often divided against ourselves.

Psalm 27 reminds us that whatever happens, whatever our circumstance may be, the important thing is to keep seeking God’s face. We are not to dwell on the worst that can happen but remember that the best we can hope for is to remain in God’s house, free to always--in a phrase I love-- "inquire in his temple." This is not a choice I have made: I am there because God has called me there, to be a disciple. I must keep seeking God’s face because I know all too well what life becomes when I neglect to do so and am cast into inner darkness.

I do not know what lies beyond the Jordan; the sea is deep and treacherous. If I am called to cross it and fear that God has forsaken me there, I need more than ever the memory of all that God has already done for me and my ancestors in the faith. I need to praise God by his right name: the "God of my salvation."

 

Apocalypse Now (Is. 64:1-9; Ps. 80:1-7, 17-19; 1Cor. 1:3-9; Mk. 13:24-37)

The most prophetic thing that Thomas Merton ever did was to say to a drugstore clerk who asked him which brand of toothpaste he preferred, "I don’t care." Intrigued by the clerk’s response, Merton wrote, "He almost dropped dead. I was supposed to feel strongly about Colgate or Pepsodent or Crest. . . And they all have a secret ingredient." He concluded that "the worst thing you can do now is not care about these things."

Merton wrote in the early 1960s, long before the art of making us care about "the secret ingredient" had so aggressively entered into every aspect of American life. We can’t ride a bus, open a magazine or go online without being asked to consider which insurance company offers the best rates or which paper towel picks up the most dirt. Advent is a good time to reclaim our senses and reply with a resounding, "I don’t care!"

During Advent the voices of the prophets come through loud and clear. In preparing us for the coming of God in human form, God calls out the big guns to get our attention. And what better, if unwelcome, wake-up call than Isaiah proclaiming that "we have all become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth." Just what we want to hear on a Sunday morning, as part of the good news -- thanks be to God -- that is proclaimed and pondered in church.

When such readings are proclaimed, pastors become jugglers with way too many balls in the air. Advent means preparing ourselves to celebrate not only the birth of Jesus but his second coming, an event which does not lend itself to nostalgia or glad carols. When Isaiah tells us that even our good intentions and actions can be worthless in God’s sight, the pastor must remind those in the family who feel worthless already that Isaiah is not trying to make them feel worse. The good news is that we are all in this together.

The prophets provide cold clarity about what it means to be God’s people, and what our responsibilities are to each other and to this awesome God. How remarkable that God refuses to give up on us. How amazing that even after we have had tears "in full measure," this is the God to whom we pray: "Come, save us. This is the God who has promised to come to us.

How often in extremity have we prayed, "Give us life, that we may call upon your name," making an implicit promise to use our lives to better purpose next time, to resist the temptations to sloth, anger, pride, greed, malice and everything else that would deflect us and diminish our better selves. I once saw this prayer crudely but effectively expressed in a bumper sticker on a beat-up car in Williston, North Dakota: "O Lord, Give Us Just One More Oil Boom. We Promise Not to Piss It Away This Time." We’re not laughing at you, God, but with you. Maybe weeping a little, too.

The passage from 1 Corinthians is helpful as a mirror to Isaiah, as Paul also addresses what it means to be God’s people, specifically those who are members of the body of Christ. What a blessing it is to hear, "I give thanks to God always for you because of the grace of God that has been given you in Jesus Christ." We might employ this affirmation during Advent in place of the exchange of peace. Who knows what might happen if the strangers, friends, enemies and indifferent parties who make up any congregation on a Sunday morning could say this to one another, and discover that they mean it?

Paul assures us that God has already given us the strength we need to bear whatever comes our way in life, and I need it when I listen to today’s gospel, which is the sort of Bible passage that is often used as a bludgeon to terrify people into believing in a God who, as Roberta Bondi once put it, loves you so much he’s gonna get you if you don’t watch out! This is the scary God who comes in the night, the God who delighted my Grandmother Norris and worded her son, my uncle, because he wanted to play baseball in the morning and not have to deal with the end of time.

The weary pastor might stop juggling and offer a refresher course on the meaning of apocalypse, which, though it comes from the depths of human desperation, is meant to bring us hope. The late poet Czeslaw Milosz placed his own writing in "that stream of catastrophist literature which attempts to overcome despair." Isaiah’s "Oh, that you would rend the heavens and come down" is the cry of a people who realize that they’ve made such a mess of the world that only God can set it right. And this reflects a truth of personal experience: that it’s only after a crisis, with the stars falling from our sky and the ground shaking beneath our feet, that we see clearly -- that we remember what is worth caring about and what is not.

The word apocalypse simply means to reveal, to uncover, and if facing reality brings us despair, we need to ask why. Above all, we must reject the literalist notion that apocalyptic literature is about a future pie in the sky. It is a command to come to full attention in the here and now. And that is hard to do. Last year one advertisement for a beaded handbag costing thousands of dollars featured a model with her eyes closed, looking beautiful but comatose, as the words "Comfort and Joy" blazed across the page. Let’s keep our own eyes open, and as we prepare to sing of comfort and joy this year, let’s look for them where they may be found.

Standing on Promises (Is. 6:1-4,8-11; Ps. 16; I Thes. 5:16-24; John 1:6-8, 19-28)

It is hard to believe what we hear, that we are a blessed people, standing in God’s favor. Hard to believe that God will bring righteousness to our world as mysteriously and yet naturally as a seed sprouts and grows out of the earth. We know it is foolish to put stock in such promises, when we have devastated God’s creation with war and willful misuse. For centuries we have turned good topsoil into barren dust. We have poisoned the earth and its waters so badly that what grows there is often damaged and unfit to eat. Promises, promises. Pie in the sky.

To believe in a promise requires a level of trust that is increasingly hard to come by. These days, the very words that would engender and foster our trust have been stripped of meaning. High-sounding mission statements do not prevent corporate bosses from routinely betraying their employees, retirees and stockholders. The powerful words of scripture have not prevented clergy from abusing the trust of parishioners and their children. And ordinary words in the mouths of politicians have become weapons against trust itself, betraying anyone who hasn’t amassed enough wealth and power to insure against betrayal. A nuclear accident becomes "an event." A fatally misguided foreign policy becomes a "mission accomplished," which, years later, is still claiming the lives of Iraqi civilians and American soldiers every day.

Is it any wonder that, as Thomas Merton once stated, people have grown so weary they "don’t want to hear any more words"? Some 50 years ago, Merton warned us about what can happen when "all words have become alike." It means that we can no longer presume that even our most sacred words still have meaning or value. With a poet’s brevity and wit, Merton commented that "these days to say ‘God is love’ is like saying ‘Eat Wheaties."’ And all too often we act as if that is true, and the body of Christ is just another marketing tool, useful to ideologues but having little place for poets, let alone prophets. To be a real Christian, the marketers insist, means believing in bad science. To be a real Christian means being a devout member of one political party or another. To be pro-this, or anti-that.

We need both silence and words to still the cacophony. And, by God’s grace, our words do find ways of reaching us. Etymology itself can redeem them. "Promise," for example, turns out to be not empty air at all, but a word closely related to "mission." It derives from a Latin word meaning, in Eric Partridge’s phrasing, "to send, hence put, in front, hence to engage to (do something)." A promise, then, is a call to take action, to move, to perform a required service. We are not so foolish after all to regard God’s promises as the solid ground on which we stand.

If we will trouble to listen, to bend an ear to this Sunday’s readings, we hear from a prophet, a psalmist and the writer of an ancient epistle that no matter what befalls us, God is faithful, and God’s promises are true. The psalmist insists that God will see to it that we who are lost will find our way home, and we who sow in tears will reap with joy. The prophet offers a beatitude, promising the consolation of gladness to those who mourn. Both authors presume our intimate knowledge of pain and loss, but they assert that far better things await us, joys we can scarcely imagine. The epistle writer gives us a primer, almost a little rule, for holding on to our faith in these or any times: be thankful, pray no matter what, listen for the spirit’s prompting and do not spurn it when it comes, refuse to scorn with worldly wisdom the words of prophets.

"Test everything," we are commanded, and "hold fast to what is good." The testing will counter our tendency to pride, to boasting of all that God has done for us in ways that belittle others. The holding fast will keep us primed to believe in all the promises God has given. What Isaiah can proclaim, the Christian insists, Jesus has become. The prophet’s words, and Jesus as the Word, have a power all their own to accomplish what is said. To be both message and mission, word and act.

In John’s Gospel we find that the high theology of the beginning verses has receded, leaving us with something more simple, and perhaps more necessary. It is a story that begins, as stories often do, "There was a man." Not just any man, we are told, but one "sent from God, whose name was John." And what name will we give, when God’s promise turns into our mission? It won’t be Isaiah, although we may need to cite him in plentiful measure to keep our hopes at the ready. It won’t be Elijah, or the Messiah. It will be the ordinary name we are known by in the world -- Molly or Henry, Alice or Joe. It is we ourselves who will bear, and who will become, the promise.