At Table With the Saints (I John 3:1-3)

Pastor, my cousin is in Genera! Hospital. Her name is Theda Manheim. The family doesn't go to church. Won't you visit her?" It was more of a command than a request. Clara Goggins was like that. She was known for her tangle of gray hair, ridiculous hats and sharp tongue. Her heart was pure, though -- al least in regard to my visiting her cousin. She explained, "Theda's cancer has spread. The doctors told her yesterday that there was no sense in surgery. Chemotherapy may give her a bit more time and ease the pain, but that's all."

I went to visit. I poked my head in the door. Theda was flat on her back. Her husband, George, was propped up beside her in a chair. What struck me about them was they were doing nothing. They were not talking, watching TV or reading the newspaper. They were just sitting and looking. I figured they were actually quite busy. Every ounce of them, every neuron and muscle, was working to get their minds and emotions around the diagnosis that had been dealt them.

I introduced myself. The first thing out of Theda's mouth was, "We don't go to church. We wouldn't live any differently if we did, so we don't." She looked at her husband for confirmation, which he gave with a slight nod. He made scant eye contact with me, his eyes glancing off mine to gaze at nothing across the room.

What I almost said to them -- what I so wanted to say but didn't and haven't yet figured out if it was pastoral sensitivity' or cowardice on my part -- was, "So it wouldn't make any difference in how you live. Would it make any difference in how you die?" That is the question I wanted to press on them. It is the question that would have made my visit helpful.

More than that, it is the question that would have made me God's representative rather than a reluctant pastor making a call just to keep a demanding parishioner happy. It is the question forced on us by being in church on All Saints' Sunday. Will it make any difference in how we die?

All Saints' Sunday brings out the mystical and the sentimental in me. In the early evenings of my childhood, the mothers in the neighborhood stuck their heads out the back screen doors to call to their children. "Bruce, come home for supper," my mother sang. "Coming," I chanted back. 'Roberta, Alan, Dale, Steve, Terry, time for supper," the other mothers sang in turn. We broke off our play and headed for the family dinner table.

Standing at the Lord's table on All Saints' Sunday, I call to supper all of those who've gone before us in the Faith. "Let us give thanks to the Lord," I sing. "Coming," they reply, singing back, "It is right to give him thanks and praise."

Gathered around the table, I sing to God on their behalf. "In the blessedness of your saints you have given us a glorious pledge of the hope of our calling that, moved by their witness and supported by their fellowship, we may run with perseverance the race that is set before us and with them receive the unfading crown of glory. And so, with the church on earth and the hosts f heaven, we praise your name and join their unending hymn." And then we all sing, "Holy, holy, holy Lord, God of power and might."

The "all" singing those words are the hosts of heaven and us on earth. It is their hymn we sing. St. John the Divine gives us the words from the heavenly worship service as he heard them in his vision. We echo other words from the heavenly service as well. 'Worthy is Christ, the lamb who was slain... . Power, riches, wisdom and strength, and honor, blessing and glory are his."

But when we sing these words on All Saints' or any Sunday we are joining our voices with those who have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the lamb -- in other words, those baptized who have died in the faith. That means this is the one time and place when my voice again sings antiphonally with my mother's. My father and grandparents, three cousins, two seminary classmates, several more from college and Clara Goggins join me in that song.

On All Saints' Sunday we name those of the congregation who have died since the last All Saints' Sunday. We invite the congregation to add the names of others, friends and relatives who have died in the faith. Here in church our voices join theirs. Once in a while, I think I hear those voices from the midst of the assembly.

Not only that. The meal we share is a foretaste of the meal they have now in its fullness, the marriage feast of Christ and his bride, the church.

"You mean all we get to eat in heaven is bread and wine?" one worried eighth grader asked.

"No," I said. "This is just a little bit to whet our appetite, to make us hungry for more. It is an appetizer from the heavenly banquet table," I explained to her. "There we will have no end to good things.

Here in this Lord's Supper, in this worship, in church, the distance between heaven and earth thins out, the great divide grows porous, the Jordan River narrows.

Faith makes a difference in how we die. We die in hope. Because that is how we die, that is also how we live.

I wouldn't claim to be any more moral than those two in the hospital room, the one flat on her back, the other propped up in his chair. But going to church does make a difference in how I live. In church we gather with the hosts of heaven around the throne of grace. Someone said we live out our lives between the baptismal font and the heavenly banquet table. We travel that distance between font and table every Sunday. It makes a difference.

Why Bother With Reformation? (John 8:31-36)

There was a time when Reformation Sunday provided the occasion for Protestants to get together and say bad things about Catholics. Reformation services were conclaves of smug pronouncements. We had the truth and they did. not. They felt the same way about us.

When my mother was married in 1944, her best friend watched from the doorway of St. Matthew Lutheran Church in St. Louis. A Roman Catholic, she would not participate in the wedding service. Accepting the invitation to be maid of honor was out of the question. Her priest forbade her.

Lutherans returned the favor. I grew up thinking a certain inedible part of the chicken's anatomy was called the pope's nose. The plate of fried chicken was passed around the table. From among the thighs, drum-sticks and breast pieces, my Uncle John speared the back and waved it in my direction. Pointing to the fatty protrusion that stuck out from one end, he asked, "Do you want the pope's nose?"

When our son was born, my mother came back to St. Louis to visit. I took her to the old Roman Catholic Cathedral on the Mississippi River levee, where we attended a Roman Catholic -- Lutheran worship service commemorating the 450th anniversary of the Augsburg Confession. Roman Catholic and Lutheran bishops and clergy led the service. We sang "A Mighty Fortress." My mother was dazed. "Those are Lutheran pastors up there," she said more than once, seeking my confirmation.

We have come a long way in a single generation. It used to be that the main reason we did not do some things was because the Roman Catholics did. Then, sometime after Vatican II, it was as if we (Lutherans at least) stood outside the opened windows of Roman churches, caught whatever they threw out, and carried it home with us. A visitor in the parish I served in Virginia said our service was like the way it used to be in their Roman Catholic church, minus the Latin.

We have come even further since then. On this Reformation Day, Sunday October 31, representatives of the Lutheran World Federation and the Vatican will sign a statement lifting the mutual condemnations of the 16th century. Better than that, the document will include a joint statement on the doctrine of justification.

Since we have come so far, why bother at all with Reformation? Is it not just an anachronism? The fact is, many are not bothering. It is hard to get any kind of crowd out for a special Reformation service.

In addition to indifference, there is ignorance. When an increasing number of people in the pew on any given Sunday don't know much about Jesus, why insert talk about Martin Luther? If they don't know biblical history, why confuse things further with church history?

Maybe the indifference and ignorance are related. Have both come about because the old tribalism has waned? Or do indifference and ignorance about things biblical and churchly arise when everything is true and nothing is? The relativization of truth may have contributed to the waning of our old tribalism. This arguably good development can give us scant comfort, however. New and ever smaller enclaves of people are walling themselves off from one another. The road signs by which we might have navigated the distance from one group to another don't mean anything in particular in the cultural landscape we now traverse.

"What is true for me may not be your truth," is as close to an axiom one is likely to get today. And in matters religious, "We are all working to get to the same place. All religions lead to the same god, just by different paths. It doesn't matter what you believe as long as you are sincere." Such a creed 1eads us to put faith in faith and makes faith a solipsistic exercise. Such a creed robs us of a language with which to engage one another.

I'm not yearning for the bad old days of ill will among denominations. I do yearn for passion and fervency and devotion to a truth larger than myself.

Jesus says, "If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples; and you will know the truth and the truth will make you free." Jesus thinks there is some objective thing that is the truth. He is it. Telling this truth is why we should bother with Reformation. The Reformation principle is that the church is always being reformed. We are always in the process of being formed by the Holy Spirit around Jesus Christ.

A premise of scripture is that we are not free and sovereign. We are servants of one lord or the other. We are by nature sin's servants. Now another Lord has asserted dominion in our lives.

We are formed to Christ at baptism. We taste an appetizer from the heavenly banquet when we come to the Lord's Supper table. We abide in him, according to the language of John's Gospel.

When the bride and groom exchange rings, they say, "With all that I am and all that I have I honor you in the name of God." The old language was, "I plight thee my troth and with all my worldly goods I do thee endow." Everything that the bride has and is now belongs to the groom and vice versa.

Apply this to our relationship with Christ and we see how we are set free. Our smugness, resentment, fear, anger, lack of confidence in God's call and whatever else chains us -- we give all that to Christ our bridegroom. He can have them and experience them. From him we claim his confidence, his love for others, his gentleness, his forgiveness and whatever other attributes we need for the day at hand. That's a message for Reformation Sunday and every other day.

From Wrath to Grace (Zeph. 1: 7,12-18; Ps. 90:1-12;I Thess. 5:1-11; Matt. 25:14-30).

A young seminarian could effectively caricature the preaching of his supervising pastor. "Repent!" he would holler at the top of his lungs. "Too late," he would add sotto voce, his head turned aside, as if walking away.

His supervising pastor, the Zephaniah of the Great Plains, must have been stuck on the texts for the 25th Sunday after Pentecost. His words fit the season. The fallen leaves bear the smell of judgment. The day of the Lord in mid-November smells of death.

The notion of God's wrath has fallen on hard times. It offends our sophisticated sensibilities. But there it is. The prophet Zephaniah says, "I will search Jerusalem with lamps, and I will punish the people who rest complacently on their dregs, those who say in their hearts, 'The Lord will not do good, nor will he do harm'. . . The great day of the Lord is near. . . the sound of the day of the Lord is bitter...That day will be a day of wrath."

The psalm appointed for the day notes, "You sweep us away like a dream. . . We consume away in your displeasure; we are afraid because of your wrathful indignation. . . Who regards the power of your wrath? Who rightly fears your indignation?"

Because Paul is one who regards and fears the wrath of God, he can proclaim the following words to the congregation in Thessalonica: "For God has destined us not for wrath but for obtaining salvation through our Lord Jesus Christ." His words are not only sweet but extravagant, as Jesus' parable makes plain in the Gospel reading.

The man going on the journey entrusts his slaves with five, two and one talent respectively. It is a highly unlikely scenario. A talent was equal to 15 years' worth of wages for the average worker. Jesus' stories are full of extravagant sums. Mary pours a $20,000 bottle of perfume on his head. A slave owes his king 10,000 talents -- equivalent to the national debt of the United States, prior to the days of surplus budgets.

A farmer sows his precious seeds on the pathway, amid the thorns and upon the rocks. What kind of farmer is this? A prodigal farmer is the answer. He is like the prodigal father who runs out to greet his wayward son and to plead with his resentful son. What kind of father does that? What kind of master entrusts the kind of money Jesus is talking about to slaves? God is the kind of master who does such extravagant things.

At the cross God took the wrath of the world into God's self and trumped it by raising Jesus from the grave. God gave him back to us, a crucified and risen Lord. Such extravagance. This Lord entrusts the gospel to our hands. He is going on a journey, back to the Father. As we sing in the Advent hymn,

God the Father is his source

Back to God he runs his course...

He leaves heaven to return;

Trav'ling where dull hellfires burn;

Riding out, returning home

As the Savior who has come.

He is going on a journey to complete the circuit. He will come again. He entrusts the extravagant gospel to us until he comes to judge the living and the dead. He promises that the kingdom is bound to increase. It is like a tiny mustard seed growing to a huge shrub. It is like seed scattered, yielding 30, 60, a hundred fold. The story in -Matthew is tame by comparison. The amount only doubles. The promise is that the gospel entrusted to our hands will produce an increase as we tell others the story and live it out, display it like a lamp set on a lampstand, like salt in the neighborhood stew, like leaven in the workplace.

One fellow was uneasy with the extravagant sum entrusted to him. He went and hid it. He put his light under the bushel basket. He didn't believe the master's promise of increase. He didn't trust the master. He feared the master's wrath. This man had been listening to Zephaniah. He got the wrath of God he had feared, and was thrown into the proverbial outer darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. That is God's judgment on mistrusters, on those who will not take God at God's word. We are judged on the basis of our deeds.

The Zephaniah of the Great Plains had it at least partially right. If our future ends with judgment according to our deeds, then the odors of mid-November are all we have to look forward to. However, that judgment will not be the final word at the parousia. The final word will convey the resolution of the wrath of the cosmos being taken into God's self in Christ.

On the 25th Sunday after Pentecost, I signal that resolution with a small gesture at the altar. Before taking up the bread and cup, I put my left hand on the corporal, the square of cloth on the altar, and then I extend my right hand in blessing. "The peace of the Lord he with you always." The peace of God flows from the act of God in Christ. He is the one who went to the outer darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. He went as far as a person can to be separated from God in order to bring God also there. Here is the transition from wrath to grace.

Christ-haunted Landscape (Lev. 19:1-2,15-18)

When I read Leviticus, I can almost see the mini-blinds being swiveled shut on the everyday world. Leviticus, after all, holds to a God who is Wholly Other. The creation, including humankind, is fashioned by divine hands but not out of divine stuff. This was not the theology of the world surrounding Leviticus, whether you date the book pre- or post-Exile.

The "Enuma Elish," the Babylonian creation epic, for example, has the young god Marduk splitting the rebel Tiamat "like a shellfish" and creating the heavens out of one part and the earth out of the other. He fashions humankind from the blood of Kingu, her vanquished consort. The result is a paradox. The view of creation, especially humankind, is low, for humans are created to be slaves of the gods. Yet humans are made from divine matter, and contain a spark of the divine.

The biblical view of creation presents the paradox in reverse. The view of humankind is high -- humans are the crown of a creation that God calls good every step along the way and, finally, very good. But in this case humans lack even a suspicion of divinity in their DNA. This frees us from the mischief that comes from thinking we are going to bring in the ideal age, whether that is the Thousand Year Reich, the Workers' Paradise or the Age of Aquarius. Rather, we look to God to bring about God's redemptive reign. We give thanks to God for whatever role we might have in God's workings.

The Book of Leviticus wants to draw a clear line between God and God's creation. It is easy, however, to view this line as a boundary between us ("your people," "your kin") and them, those people who look different, act differently and think differently. Witness, for example, what becomes of the Golden Rule when Matthew Hale, leader of the World Church of the Creator, says that whatever is for the white race is good and whatever is against the white race is evil, is sin. "That is the Golden Rule," says Hale.

Leviticus is misread when it is used to set a boundary line between people. Yet the proposition is enticing. God's people are always, it seems, in danger of being overwhelmed by the larger and dominant culture surrounding them. The worship of Yahweh looked pretty boring compared to the Canaanite fertility cult. Returning exiles had all they could do not to be absorbed by the people who had filled the vacuum created by their absence. We have all we can do to maintain our integrity as the people of God, enmeshed as we are in a culture that lives by a debit/credit economy of human relations and an ethic of keeping score and getting even. In many ways it is them against us. However, the purpose of Leviticus is not to swivel the mini-blinds shut, but to throw them open to God.

Although God is Wholly Other, God is not separate and uninvolved. The sacrificial cult detailed in the first 16 chapters of Leviticus sits down to table fellowship with this God. And the moral behavior mandated in the holiness code prepares God's people to become involved as witnesses to God's character and God's rule.

As the people of God, we are commanded to live in such a fashion that the world around us gets a glimpse of what God is like. We witness to the redemptive reign of God, which God promises to effect. Living by the rule of Leviticus 19, we point to a God whose justice is ruled by love, who makes provision for the poor and will not allow the disabled to be disadvantaged. Obeying the commands prohibiting stealing and slander upholds the integrity of others and shows God's high regard for us in giving such commands.

The sacrifices detailed in Leviticus cover a range of purposes and human needs, from thanksgiving to atonement. While I view table fellowship with God as the constant over the whole range, atoning for human failure is at least a part of what God provides for in sacrifice. So, within the sacrificial cult, the people of God reveal God to be merciful.

For me, Leviticus is a Christ-haunted landscape. I see Christ in the wilderness shadows, moving from salt pillar to boulder much like the Christ of Hazel Motes in Flannery O'Conner's novel Wise Blood. In different terrain he sees "Jesus move from tree to tree in the back of his mind, a wild ragged figure motioning him to turn around and come off into the dark, where he was not sure of his footing, where he might be walking on water and not know it." In Leviticus Christ motions from behind the type on the printed page.

Perhaps this way of reading is unavoidable for me, given that my forebears in the faith have drilled it into me always to ask, "So, why do I need a crucified and risen Savior?" And: "What does the text have to do with the text's Lord, who is Jesus Christ?"

Talk about provision for human failure, and I see Jesus stumbling up a wilderness trail with a cross on his back. Talk about sacrifice and a fellowship meal with God, and I smell wine and feel the host crunch in my hands. Talk about the clear line between God and creation, and I think of the one who blurred it, the Son of God, who is virgin born, true God and true human, 100 percent of each.

Leviticus, like the rest of scripture, looks to God to bring in the redemptive reign of God, which will look like a world living out the provisions of Leviticus 19, which looks like the life of Christ. With every splash of baptism water we celebrate the extension of God's jurisdiction and the part we have to play in it.

The Beginning of a Ministry

In his memoir Open Secrets, Richard Lischer tells of his search for a pastoral vocation in "New Cana," a small town in southern Illinois. When he reconnoitered the site of his first call, the bleached November landscape reminded him of an Ingmar Bergman movie -- "Swedish winterlight exposing rot and depression in rural Lutherans." He was fresh from graduate school, a child of the ‘60s who had "skimmed Augustine’s City of God but devoured Harvey Cox’s bestseller The Secular City." Two minutes on the lonely road in New Cana proved to be a "clarifying experience. The spiritual heroics of the secular city had passed me by."

Open Secrets is the story of how, as Lischer puts it, "I apprenticed myself to a community, and this odd little warren of friendships, stories, rivalries and rumors turned out to be my ministry itself"

The first week in my new parish brought a tumble of pastoral duties. Although I had yet to preach my first sermon or celebrate my first public Eucharist, I brought communion to one of my parishioners in the hospital. His name was Alfred Semanns and he was dying of complications resulting from admission to the dingiest American hospital I had ever seen, Prairieview General. Its only ward reminded me of a dorm I had slept in as a boy at summer camp. There were 12 beds, one nurse, and no private or semiprivate rooms.

Alfred and I had the place pretty much to ourselves as I prepared for the momentous event of my first Eucharist. Only the community rightly celebrates communion, and when private distribution is necessary the pastor should bring the consecrated elements from the community’s Sunday meal. But Alfred was sick, dying, and through his daughters and son he had asked for the Eucharist. He apparently didn’t mind that it was a stranger who would bring him the Bread of Life.

I brought my kit, which included a tiny paten and a screw-together chalice, a seminary graduation gift. We made the confession and absolution together and recited Psalm 46, "God is our refuge and strength; a very present help in trouble." His gruff voice betrayed no emotion as he recited the words, which he uttered like a man breaking rocks with a sledge.

We were making Eucharist on a hospital tray on wheels. I poured some wine into my little chalice and set it before him, but when I reached farther into the kit I discovered to my horror that I had forgotten the wafers. "I don’t have any bread," I said. Then, as if he were deaf as well as dying, I repeated myself more loudly, "No bread."

Alfred looked deeply into my face and sighed. His eyes quickly surveyed the ward, as mine had done a split second earlier, in hopes of spotting a stray scrap of bread on a lunch tray. No such luck. He said in his same rough voice, "Well, why don’t you get some bread . . . Pastor." He stressed the last word of the sentence in order to remind me of something about me. "I’ll be here."

The hospital kitchen was closed until 5 P.M., so I drove into town to the nearest Lutheran church where I humiliated myself before one of the old men who had helped install me and borrowed a few communion wafers. I then sped back to the hospital and entered as though nothing had happened.

Take eat. This is my body given in death for you, I said for the first time in my life. Receive this host. Jesus is the host at every sacramental meal, no matter if it is celebrated at the high altar of a great cathedral or in the deserted ward of a country hospital. Jesus hosted our little meal, too, and did not forsake Alfred. I was his stand-in on this bleak occasion, but I had proved less than hospitable. With ten years of theology under my belt, and a passing acquaintance with many mysteries and much knowledge, I had scrambled awkwardly to produce a scrap of God’s body for a dying man.

On Wednesday, one of Billy Semanns’s daughters (75 percent of my parishioners were named Semanns) was waiting for the new pastor. She was ready to have a proper wedding. This word was only relayed to me by telephone, as Billy himself, who was perennially between jobs and wives and lived alone in a camper east of Prairieview, had had nothing to do with the church ever since someone from Cana had asked him for a financial pledge. That had been 14 years ago.

"The church is only interested in my money," he had complained, implying that this church, like all the rest of them, was preying on his vast wealth in order, say, to build a marble campanile in the parking lot or to support the voluptuous lifestyle of a missionary in East St. Louis. According to the grapevine, the previous pastor had offended him by saying, "Billy, you don’t have any money. What would we want with you?"

The daughter and her intended arrived at the parsonage promptly at five, he having taken off a few minutes early from his job as an asphalt man on the county’s roads. Leeta and Shane were 17 and 18 years old respectively. Aside from the family’s trademark smile, she bore no resemblance to my imaginary picture of her oafish father or to anyone I had already met in the family. She was darkly, even beautifully, beetle-browed, a feature that lent determination to her young face from the first hello. Shane was a serious sort of young man with close-set eyes and a curly page boy that was already thinning on top. Thirty seconds into the interview she seemed strong, he seemed weak. Together they were so nervous that they couldn’t even slouch. Teenagers simply do not sit as straight as those two were sitting in front of my desk.

"Shane and I want to get married, and Shane wants to take adult instructions, don’t you, hon? I’d come with him every time. I promise," she said to Shane, and smiled sweetly at both of us. "We want to do everything right. Same goes for Shane’s baptism. We won’t wait forever to have that done, will we, hon? We could start studying up on the baptism anytime soon.

Then, in a move that seemed rehearsed, she opened her pea coat to reveal what I’d known was in there the moment she had entered the room, a little Semanns about six months along. She pulled her coat back the way an amateur stickup man flashes his piece in a 7-Eleven. Leeta was wearing a white polyester shift, awkwardly high on her legs and tight across the midriff. The two of them had come to rehab what little they had of a past and to begin a new future. They wanted to get off on the right foot -- two poor, uneducated teenagers, one of them pregnant, the other unbaptized, both of them scared and excited at the same time. It appeared that I could combine premarital counseling with adult membership instruction along with some lessons in baptism for both of them. These two would be the first beneficiaries of several semesters of training in pastoral care and counseling.

"My practice is to meet at least six times with the couple before the wedding, so that we can go over the service and discuss all the issues pertinent to Christian marriage. We’ll do a modified version of the Meyers-Briggs Personality Inventory. At the rehearsal . . ." Why I said, "My practice" I have no idea, since I had never performed a marriage, had no "practice," and did not understand the futility of trying to prepare anybody for marriage, let alone two teenagers:

You can’t imagine this, Shane and Leeta, but let me tell you a little about your future: at 28, Shane is drinking eight or ten beers a day and already daydreaming about retiring from his job on the second shift at the glassworks. Leeta is so exhausted from caring for a little boy with cystic fibrosis that she is making desperate plans. Your parents are all dead, including Billy, who got drunk and burned up in his camper one night. You two don’t say grace at meals, or kiss each other good morning, good night or good-bye. You do not engage in the ritual tendernesses that make an ordinary day endurable. And did I mention that Leeta thinks she’s pregnant again, and is seriously considering a trip to Chicago where something can be done about it? Yes, let wise Pastor Lischer prepare you for married life.

Leeta stood up in front of the desk, this time in an unrehearsed way, and gave me a distinctly un-Semannslike smile, as if to say, "I have news for you." (She really was determined.) "Honey, give the pastor the license."

Shane and I stood up, as two men will do when they are about to close a business deal or fight a dual. In a voice that a boy might use when asking a girl’s father for her hand, he said, "Could you do it tonight? This here’s the license. We done passed the blood test with fly’n colors, didn’t we, babe? We can’t wait no longer, Pastor. It’s time."

I thought of my own mother and father, she in her best organdy dress, he in his double-breasted olive suit, both of them trembling as they made their vows in the parlor of another Lutheran parsonage. I bet it was like mine, with dark woodwork and lace curtains and the smell of diapers. Still, I felt years of training slipping away from me in a matter of minutes as I agreed to the "wedding." All my pastoral actions were occurring outside the lines and away from the sanctuary -- an unauthorized Eucharist in a hospital, a pickup wedding in my house. I invited them to walk over to the church, but they politely but firmly declined on the tacit grounds of their own unworthiness.

"Witnesses," I said, "we must have witnesses," again, with no earthly idea of the truth or falsity of the statement.

I walked down the short hall to the kitchen where my own pregnant wife was fixing supper with Sarah wrapped around one of her legs.

"I need you," I said.

Soon our little tableau was in place. Leeta and Shane stood before me, Tracy at Leeta’s side, our Sarah gazing in from the doorway, trying not to smile at the strange goings-on.

The bride, six months pregnant, in her white Venture Mart shift, looked dark-eyed and radiant. The matron of honor, eight and a half months pregnant in a Carnaby Street mini-maternity dress, nervously brushed her long blond hair away from her face. The women were smiling and blooming with life; the men were trying not to make a mistake. The groom appeared pale but steady, a little moist beneath the nose. The minister was wearing bell-bottomed corduroys and a wool sweater over which he had draped a white stole. He kept his eyes in his book. To an outsider peering through one of the large windows in the study, the scene might have seemed borrowed from a French farce or a Monty Python skit.

At the book-appointed time, I laid the stole across Leeta and Shane’s clutched hands and onto her belly, read the right words, and the deed was done. Shane and Leeta got themselves married. They left in a rusted El Camino seated well apart from one another like an old married couple. They looked sad beyond knowing.

Two nights later in that same interminable week the telephone rang at about 3 AM. "Pastor," the voice on the other end said, pronouncing it Pestur, "Ed Franco. My Doral is here in St. Joe’s. Gall bladder’s rupturin’. It ain’t good. It ain’t good at all. We’re goin’ to have surgery in 30, 40 minutes. We need you here -- if you can.

"Of course," I said. "St. Joe’s?" Did I understand the difference between the Front Way and the Back Way out of town, he asked. I didn’t, and he explained. He gave me clear directions from the driveway of the parsonage over the Back Way to the hard road, then to 140 directly into Upper Alton and to St. Joseph’s Hospital. I was into my clerical gear and out of the house in five minutes.

The leafless trees along the canopied Back Way were dripping with fog and deep darkness. I caught only glimpses of the Davidson place and the Gunthers’ peeling outbuildings as I flew by. An ancient haying machine was eerily backlit by the Gunthers’ security light; propane tanks stood awkwardly like foals on skinny struts. But in the night and fog everything had become strange to me again. A time for goblins to shriek out of the forest. As I slowed near the Felders’ curve an enormous German shepherd roared out of nowhere and scared the hell out of me. I felt like a spy or an astronaut on a dangerous mission. Of course, if it was dangerous, it was only because I was driving like a maniac on unfamiliar roads, and my mind was racing with yet another adventure in ministry.

At three-thirty in the morning one does not easily walk into a small-town hospital. The doors were locked, and it appeared that everyone had turned in for the night. This was an unassuming place, more like a neighborhood B&B than a full-service, Ramada-type hospital. My clerical collar finally got me into the building, but by the time I arrived at Doral’s room she was nowhere to be found.

I raced down toward the OR, passing through a couple of NO ADMITTANCE doors, and found the Francos strangely alone in a laundry alcove next to the operating room. Through the crack of the OR door the light blazed harshly, but in the alcove the light was mercifully dim. The only decoration on the wall was a picture of Joseph the Carpenter with the boy Jesus, who was lighting his father’s workplace with a candle. A red fire extinguisher was hung in an arrangement beside the picture. Doral and her gurney were parked to one side. Ed hovered above her, nervously petting and patting her.

The Francos were a childless, middle-aged couple who, although she was a Semanns and they never missed a Sunday, were not prominent members of the church, perhaps because Ed not only came from Blaydon but was (according to my Tuesday rundown with the elders and with Leonard Semanns, the president of the congregation) of "foreign extraction." Doral was as thick and bouffant as Ed was skinny and bald. You could feel their love for one another in the shadows of the alcove.

"Are we glad to see you," Ed said, as though I was about to make a difference.

Once I came face to face with them I realized that I hadn’t brought a little book or any other tools for ministry. I wasn’t sure what was expected of me. If there was a ritual for this sort of situation, I didn’t know it. But I did take a good look at Doral, her hair slightly undone, expressive eyes moving from my face to Ed.s and back, her face and arms pasty with sweat. She was the most frightened person I had ever seen.

They looked at me expectantly, but I didn’t know what to say or how to open a conversation. I didn’t know the Francos. They corresponded to a type of parishioner I had in my head, but nothing more. I must have known people like them in my boyhood congregation. Surely, we had a great deal in common, but at the moment what we had was silence. It was very quiet in the alcove.

What came, finally, was a fragment of a shared script. I said,

The Lord be with you.

To which Ed and Doral replied in unison,

And with thy spirit.

I said,

Lift up your hearts.

They said,

We lift them to the Lord.

And suddenly the Lord became as palpable as Ed’s love for Doral. What was disheveled and panicky recomposed itself. The Lord assumed His rightful place as Lord of the Alcove, and the three of us wordlessly acknowledged the presence. It was as if Ed and Doral and I had begun humming the same melody from our separate childhoods.

This was no longer me alone desperately talking toward the treetops in prep school. That night the Spirit moved like a gentle breeze among us and created something ineffable and real. We prayed together, then recited the Lord’s Prayer; and whatever it was that happened came to an end as quickly as it had begun. My little part in the drama was over.

My first week as pastor had been a week of signs.

I took the drive home from the hospital at a more leisurely rate of speed, returning via the Front Way through town. A delicate line of pink neon extended across the eastern horizon. Each pasture gently overlapped its neighbor like a becalmed, gray-green sea until the folded pastures met the sky. The town was silhouetted against this dawn with a narrative sweep. At least one light shone in every home place. The little houses, in which the old folks were stealing an extra hour’s sleep, remained dark.

Soon I entered my own dark house, slipped into my own bed warmed like an oven by my pregnant wife, and stole an extra hour myself.

From Earth to Heaven: Teilhard’s Politics and Eschatology

Twenty years ago, on April 10, 1955, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin died, bequeathing to his friends the critical task of sorting through hundreds of manuscripts on theology, mysticism, philosophy and evolution whose publication the Roman Catholic Church -- and Teilhard’s vow of obedience to it -- had forbidden. As his books and papers continued to find their way into the English language, it became clear that no single category was sufficient to contain his thought. Twenty years after his death, it is still too early to speak of Teilhard’s place in modern thought, for not all the returns are in. However, the conventional and provisionally accurate assessment of Teilhard recognizes him as a master synthesis-builder, one whose vision of the whole included an easy coalition of science, religion and poetic imagination.

But one significant ingredient of Teilhard’s synthesis is often overlooked -- namely, the political organization of humanity as it enters into the last phase of its life on earth. Teilhard was not a political person; yet in describing the ascent of humanity he employed the political categories that he felt were most compatible with the idea of evolutionary progress. Teilhard wandered, absentmindedly and often naïvely, into dialogue with communist socialism and wrote about that perennially favorite subject of both Christianity and Marxism: the future.

Critics have disagreed as to the presence and extent of utopianism in Teilhard’s vision of the future. To some, his eschatology represents a blatant and outdated scientism, a remnant of 9th century optimism; to others, it seems an urgent and timely reinterpretation of the Pauline Christ who will be all in all. My purpose is not to debate two of the major planks in his theological platform -- i.e., evolution and progress -- but to lay to rest the mistaken impression that the whole of his eschatology is utopian. In fact, it can be argued that Teilhard’s is a two-stage eschatology, progressing from a presentation of scientific and socialist principles worthy of any secular millennium to the abandonment of earth in humankind’s union with the Omega-God.

The Penultimate Noosphere

In Teilhard’s view of evolution, the particular consciousness or mind proper to each organism develops in a purposeful and progressive way until a multiplicity of factors, all included in the creative action of God, causes it to "boil over" into the self-conscious reflection which is humanity. This is the first threshold of consciousness: the human creature not only knows; he knows that he knows. Human rationality gradually creates a web of thought, symbolized by the vast communications network that covers the earth, which Teilhard called the noosphere. It is the earth’s mental crust.

The penultimate phase of the noosphere, as predicted by Teilhard, corresponds in principle and in many details with Karl Marx’s predicted communist society of the future. Primary among these is the socialization of consciousness, which in Teilhard’s words facilitates "the direct intercommunication of brains through the mysterious power of telepathy." The crossing of this threshold, as in Marxism, occurs only when the pattern of necessity is first recognized and then rationally organized by human freedom. With this in mind Teilhard set great store in the liberating powers of telecommunications, mechanization and computer technology -- all of which he saw as the anticipation of a humanized world.

According to Marx and Teilhard, the socialization of consciousness will dissolve the barriers that separate physical and mental labor, allowing the Marxian individual of the future to hunt in the morning and philosophize after dinner, and enabling the Teilhardian "man in the street" to do research in physics or biology. Such freedom of diversification for the sake of the community leads to the confluence of all sciences into a single natural science of man the knower and man the object of knowledge. In the new community the profit motive and the quest for security will have been forgotten, as the Marxist and Teilhardian individual strides toward fuller being rather than well-being. Only when humanity has emerged from its adolescent prehistory and reached the maturity of socialization, writes Teilhard, will "this consciousness be truly adult and of age" (Science and Christ [London: Collins, 1968], p. 83).

The political expression of this social consciousness bears a poverty of definition in comparison with Marxist and socialist programs for the future. Though Teilhard offered no political blueprint, his entire philosophy of convergence and his aversion to bourgeois individualism undoubtedly favored some form of socialism. Throughout his life, his confidence in the principle of socialization or, as he called it, "totalization" continued in tension with an equally firm distrust of empirical communism. When he was not discoursing on "the only means of overcoming communism," he was, paradoxically enough, praising socialization and proposing the superficial outline of a Christian-Marxist synthesis.

The tension between political reality and universal ideal was heightened in Teilhard’s lifetime by the appearance of phenomena with which Karl Marx never had to come to terms: regimes claiming to be proletarian dictatorships. In the face of these, Teilhard’s enduring confidence in the principle of human collectivization represented a victory for the ideal and led him away from sociopolitical analysis toward geopolitical prediction. The prophet in him held to many socialist principles -- the supranational unity of all humanity, a world language, racial synthesis and eugenics, and the abolition of war. This "pan-organized world," moreover, would hold to the same morality and ideology, so that humankind might one day find itself thinking the same thoughts and unanimously ratifying a single set of values. But what would the common denominator be: scientific law or Christian principles?

The Totalitarian Detour

Teilhard, like Marx before him, entrusted the leadership of socialization to an elite. As a young man Teilhard doubted the feasibility of a philosophy of collectivism. "It seems to me," he wrote in 1915, "that once you pass from individual consciousness to collective phenomena you fall back into the inevitable, into blindness" (The Making of a Mind: Letters from a Soldier-Priest 1914-1919 [Collins, 1965], p. 64). To avert the onset of blindness, Teilhard envisioned an elite of seers, composed of all races, classes and nationalities, whose mission it would be to consolidate universal belief in the grandeur of humanity’s future. Two Teilhardian assumptions made these vanguards necessary: his belief in the inferiority of a disorganized and socially unaware humanity and his assumption of functional and possibly biological inequality of the races. The former led him to disparage the "mass of humanity" as "profoundly inferior and repulsive," needing "to be kept on leading strings." The organic relation of all people does not, Teilhard claimed, dissolve the hierarchic structure of nature.

The latter belief in the inferiority of certain peoples led him to advocate some form of eugenics to deal with "unprogressive ethnical groups. Teilhard concluded that the mandates of progress and Christian charity would require society to give priority to those who demonstrate a capacity for development rather than to "life’s rejects" (Human Energy [Collins, 1969], pp. 132-133). It is difficult to reconcile this presumably rhetorical commendation of progress-at-any-price with either the gospel or his own prediction of a loving "conspiration" of humankind. It should go without saying that Christian love finds its most significant vocation among life’s outsiders -- the poor, the brokenhearted, the captive and the blind. Similarly, any great civil society, and especially one claiming a basis in Christian love, can measure its greatness only by its willingness and ability to care for its least productive members. Otherwise it will be neither civilized nor Christian, and it will surely be less than great.

Although Teilhard believed that a society based on love rather than compulsion could evolve from the totalitarian excesses of Nazism, communism and fascism, he did not offer by way of explanation anything more than biological principles, which he transferred to psychic and social planes. For example, his theory of the round earth’s compression of people as a leading factor in socialization appears to be more a poetic conceit than a serious scientific explanation. Just as the individual’s reflection leads naturally to self-centeredness, the curve of the earth might just as well lead to pulverization and a new multiplicity. Indeed, the earth’s compressive force is leading to just that -- in the forms of overpopulation and dehumanization through overcrowded living and working conditions. Moreover, people flee to the cities and arrange themselves in great clusters of physical complexity, called high-rise apartment buildings, in order to escape the unguarded mutuality of old-style relationships.

Or let us consider a biological "law" laid down by Teilhard. By insisting on the moral value of increasing natural and social complexity, he overlooks a historical trend which has been identified by many, most notably Reinhold Niebuhr: the more organized and highly structured the group or state, the greater is its hypocrisy and abuse’ of power. But Teilhard’s long-range optimism with regard to totalitarian arrangements -- that is, that they are only transitory biological heresies -- does not do justice to this dark side of socialization (although it does help explain his popularity among Marxist intellectuals). His optimistic stance carries with it the danger of a quietistic indulgence of repressive regimes, a quietism which assumes the apparently natural inexorability of human liberation through the lengthy process of humanity’s coming of age.

In The Phenomenon of Man Teilhard wrote.

It is, in point of fact, only by following the ascension and spread of the whole in its main lines that we are able, after a long detour, to determine the part reserved for individual hopes in the total success. We thus reach the personalization of the individual by the "hominization" of the whole group [Collins, 1959, p. 174].

Considering the communist means of "hominization," many have concluded that the detour is too long. No butterfly will emerge from the cocoon of violence and repression. Can Teilhard’s belief in one’s right to develop one’s personal qualities via democracy be reconciled with his equally firm belief in the principles of totalization? Or does the totalitarian detour bypass humanity’s destination of personal freedom?

The answer may lie in the strength of Teilhard’s Christian presuppositions. He begins his theology with a trinitarian model of the interrelationship of persons and, only on that basis, proceeds to apply his dictum "union differentiates" to the whole spectrum of organic life. Using the example of two lovers, Teilhard shows how each discovers a heightened sense of identity and personhood through self-forgetting love for the other.

On the social plane this concept suggests that organized human unification, while doing away with selfish individualism, will eventually set free higher forms of personal expression. While Teilhard’s later naturalistic definition of humanity (as a function of evolution) threatened human freedom and responsibility, his fundamental concern for persons never allowed him to acquiesce in the violence which necessarily accompanies any process of totalization. Because he did not realize that only coercion causes all people to think and act in uniformity, he believed that the "bourgeois spirit" of comfort and security could be abolished without hatred or violence.

This trust in the power of collectivism to protect the interests of the person sounds as naive in Teilhard’s writings as it does in Marx’s. But theologically Teilhard prepared for personalization and did not allow the neutral idea of evolutionary success, which is admittedly strong in his thought, to override the specifically Christian idea of personal union in love. Teilhard’s belief in totalization without coercion may have been naïve, but his understanding of the bankruptcy of violence (as a means of personalization) made him, in this respect, wiser than all the Marxists.

The Future of Religion

Teilhard’s renunciation of the traditional means of socialization led him to a theological vision of the future in which the noosphere does not succumb to a Marxian process of atrophy and dehistoricization. The communist future will appear as the denouement of history and historical dialectics, but the development of the noosphere, because it is essentially Christian, retains its motive principle; for even in its extreme phase, the noosphere’s perfection lies ahead of it.

According to Teilhard, the true religion, which is Christianity, emerges by means of evolution and reveals itself not as the final stage, but as the only religion capable of continuing development. While Engels in both Anti-Dühring and Dialectics of Nature viewed the evolution of religion from local gods to monotheism as a preparation for the scientific abolition of God, Teilhard adhered to the same sequence and to the same supercession of the anthropomorphic residue of earlier times, but with a difference. Far from being a stags through which humanity passes in adolescence, the adoration of a Savior God is essential to the maturation of human nature. Primitive needs are not outgrown but refined in the Catholic Church until, by its guidance, they are satisfied in the ultimate monotheism, in worship of the Omega-God of evolution.

The revelation of Omega’s grace instills in humanity the appetite for more-being and thus draws the race ever forward. Awareness of this divine action will increase until the noosphere, without being consummated, will have evolved into what Teilhard called the theosphere. In that time "there will be little to separate life in the cloister from the life of the world. And only then will the action of the children of heaven (at the same time as the action of the children of the world) have attained the intended plenitude of its humanity" (Le Milieu Divin [Collins, 1960], p. 40).

The supercession of religion which Teilhard envisioned bears a close resemblance to communist notions of secularization. In both conceptions the inclination to worship an Other is absorbed by the noblest and most religious aspirations of humanity, with the result that the imposition of religion as a "third thing" between the individual and the possibilities of his self-perfection is abolished. Just as Hegel predicted the supercession of religion by philosophy, and Marx by a new society, so Teilhard absorbed Christianity into a new science of humanity and a new religion of science. Such a synthesis will spell not the end of religion but, as Tillich envisioned it, the end of religious alienation: "There will be no secular realm, and for this very reason there will be no religious realm. Religion will be again what it is essentially, the all-determining ground and substance of man’s spiritual life" (from Theology of Culture, edited by Robert C. Kimball [Oxford University Press, 1959] p. 8).

Hence Marx and Teilhard agree in their prediction of the absolute totality of the future society but differ in their attitudes toward the role of Christianity in its ultimate achievement. The totality in Marxism is achieved by society’s reconstitution of Christianity; in Teilhard the same alienation of the secular from the sacred is overcome, and the same totality is erected -- but by extending the influence of Christianity into all sciences, social movements (including communism) and other agencies of human perfection. If there is no provision for the church’s opposition to technological excess, it is because, in Teilhard’s vision, humankind’s advanced psychic sympathy will have made such abuses impossible.

Nor will it any longer be incumbent upon the church to guard against becoming an ideological spokesman for science; for science, as the agent of humanization, will have entered into a synthesis with all else that contributes to human spirituality. In a world in which uniformity will reign in all areas of life and thought, the church, as mediator between science and belief, history and revelation, and ultimately between humanity and God, will no longer be necessary. For having developed the "plenitude of its humanity" (omega with a small "o"), humankind will have come to the brink of Omega and the end of history.

Before exploring the Omega, it is necessary to question Teilhard’s critique of the church and his unqualified advocacy of science. Whenever he criticized the church, it was the church’s retardation of scientific progress which came under heaviest attack. Teilhard seems never to have considered the terrifying implications of his alternative. He seems never to have asked whether the church’s support of all that is thought to be progress, including weapons research, always and in all spheres leads to a more complete realization of humanity. Many would suggest that whenever Christianity provides an uncritical imprimatur for any secular endeavor or world view (e.g., capitalism or socialism), it risks degeneration into ideology.

Teilhard’s view of religion, with its requisite cosmology (evolution) and belief in progress, threatens to render Christianity as unintelligible to the non-Western mind as Teilhard says the medieval faith is to the modern scientific mind. Such a judgment is borne out by a new generation’s rejection of the myth of progress. There is a close relationship between this rejection and the growing infatuation with unhistorical forms of religion, whether Christian biblicism or Oriental mysticism. Teilhard’s new version of the old interdependence of faith and cosmology brings with it an ideological exclusiveness which is foreign to the essence of Christianity.

Even if an uncritical relationship between the church and science does not totally ideologize Christianity, we still have history’s word that the ambiguous nature of many scientific achievements argues against the church’s unqualified sponsorship of them. The answer to the historic problem of the church’s intransigence toward scientific progress ‘does not lie in a Teilhardian religion of science.

Point Omega

The rubble of man’s exhausted powers of self-transcendence, including his ability to plan his own future, must eventually form the walls of his new prison. No amount of bravado concerning humanity’s absolute future -- e.g., the Marxist "kingdom of freedom" -- can satisfy the individual’s and the race’s desire to escape total death. The appetizing prospect of an open future may leave a bitter aftertaste unless it is understood as God’s absolute future, whose perfection cannot be identified with or transcended by another social, political or scientific project.

Unlike the Marxian future, as represented by the vacuous "Noch-Nicht-Sein" of Ernst Bloch, the absolute future of Teilhard de Chardin possesses an already existing reality whose personal character influences every phase of human development. The Teilhardian man neither strives toward the absolute future (God) as an unknown form of human transcendence nor builds it in the way the communist "makes history." He is united with it in love.

Teilhard’s principle of creative union demands an I-Thou relationship at all levels of existence. Although Marx and his followers use this principle as a basis for social and economic interdependence, they reject its applicability to the ultimate question of humanity’s relationship to God. The Marxian man suddenly finds himself called by a mysterious vacuum or related to the exigency of his own needs and possibilities’ rather than to another Person. Teilhard, on the other hand, was consistent in applying the concept of creative union -- i.e., his idea that the union of any two entities produces greater differentiation of the parties united enabled him to speak of the completion of personality in union with a supremely personal God.

Just as creative union has produced a greater definition of the terms united, so the final involution of human consciousness will have brought humankind to its natural acme of personalization. Teilhard made it clear, however, that without the presence of another personal being -- God -- this human perfection would not endure as a utopian realm of freedom but would yield to the psychophysical compression that formed it and disintegrate "in self-disgust."

Even the attraction of Omega does not override human freedom to reject the ultra-personal. Teilhard sounds one of his rare biblical notes when he admits the possibility of a gigantic rift in the noosphere between believers in Omega and unbelievers. Those who-refuse to cross the threshold will presumably join those who in their lifetimes rejected life and death in communion with Christ. In general, however, Teilhard depreciated the crises and the lack of human sympathy which, according to apocalyptic literature, will characterize the end, in order to integrate convergent evolution into the gracious salvation of God. Man’s inability to sustain his own transcendence and the possibility, at least, of eschatological dissidence, indicate that Teilhard did not share Marxism’s ultimate reliance upon the goodwill and cooperation of humanity. Hence at no stage in his system did Teilhard have hope in a nontheistic golden age to which the Christian might add, as icing on the cake, the eternal governance of God.

Theologically, the development of human potential will prove rather to be a massive cooperation in divine grace. It prepares for the gift of absolute grace, without which the earth, even at the apex of its self-illumination, would die, never to rise again. Just as each individual must arrive at his nadir of exhausted possibilities, at which point of death he is united to God, so also that portion of the human race which has achieved its historical limit must now find death and life in an ecstatic moment of self-forgetfulness. This Teilhard subsumes under the great signs of the end of history: Parousia, resurrection, judgment. As Parousia, the end-point of history uncovers him who has been present throughout its course of convergence. At the Parousia, Teilhard says, "the universal Christ will blaze out like a flash of lightning" to establish the organic complex of God and the world, the pleroma.

While using little of the traditional language of resurrection and judgment, Teilhard’s figure of an ecstasy in the noosphere retains two essential elements in the doctrine of the resurrection of the body. The first is the emphasis on the indestructible individuality of each member of the pleroma. The second is the physical interdependence of all flesh, which enables Teilhard to dwell upon the organic significance of salvation (and damnation) in him who will have manifestly filled all things: "Within a now tranquil ocean, each drop of which, nevertheless, will be conscious of remaining itself, the astonishing adventure of the world will have ended," and God-Omega will be all in all.

An Open Future?

The end of humankind, according to Marx and Teilhard, will be revealed both as a protraction and a reversal of the whole pattern of historical development. The former emphasis on continuity accords with that biblical tradition which stresses the eschatological judgment and transfiguration of historical persons, rather than the creation ex nihilo of demigods fit for paradise. It is a safe assumption that both Marx and Teilhard would therefore criticize any last-minute reversal of the universal laws which have paved the way toward the realization of humanity. Yet each in his ‘own way tolerates such a reversal. In Marxism the law of dialectical conflict atrophies in an unintroduced period of static harmony; and in Teilhard, cooperation in grace turns to absolute reliance upon God’s power to sustain and perfect that which has been germinating in the noosphere.

In both cases, whether by the gradual withering of the law or by the resurrection of the body, the reversals claim to have set free the highest quality of personal life. Only Teilhard’s claim is justified, however, because he has, first of all, recognized man’s need for an absolute and, second, understood why man cannot be an absolute for himself. It is in the nature of an absolute, says Teilhard, to perfect in man that which he is unable to accomplish for himself.

Equipped with a belief in God as humanity’s absolute future, Teilhard need not maintain a nervous silence with respect to the bogey of all finite, historical, and therefore false absolutes: death. An open future leaves personal death and natural entropy untouched and fails to protect humanity from the tedium as well as the possible terror of history. In a future which closes upon God, death is the last historical act of the individual and the noosphere. As such it will take its place alongside the rest of historical experience and await its transfiguration in One who has put all things, including death, under his feet.

When we question the validity of all utopias, and especially the Marxist "kingdom of freedom," we do so not in order to celebrate original sin or to revel in the "human condition." For, as Teilhard’s work proves, just as integral to the Christian human condition is the believer’s hope in an absolute future. By criticizing a premature absolute, such as communism, the Christian intends not to dampen human aspiration, but rather to avoid the petrifaction which hinders further development of love, justice and personal expression. A Christian witness to God, then, is vital to every utopia, for it must shatter the complacent self-deception of those who would erect upon some preconceived human possibility an absolute system of values.

Stick with the Story

Every day, Christians are sorting through their five options and claiming an identity as followers of Jesus Christ. On Sunday the preacher helps them in this task by means of a poetic activity. The preacher makes (poiein) words, approximately 1,500 of them on a Sunday morning, 3 million in a career, and over the long haul of ministry speaks into existence an alternative world.

Theologian John Snow says the pastoral counselor helps fashion a world in which Christian symbols make sense. This is also true of the preacher, who Sunday after Sunday patiently and often unspectacularly crafts a world in which the personages, events and radical claims of the gospel ring true, a world in which the risen Christ is a genuine factor in the daily lives of his followers. The sermon’s narrative runs continuously like the old serial matinees at the movies, but the preacher experiences the sermon as an artistic and religious endeavor that must be repeated every week.

Generations ago, G. K. Chesterton was promoting the gospel to an industrial age that conceived of the world as a self-sustaining machine. In a delightful passage in Orthodoxy Chesterton insists that even if life does proceed with a predictable pattern, that does not mean that God is not active as a creator:

It might be true that the sun rises regularly because he never gets tired of rising. His routine might be due, not to a lifelessness, but to a rush of life. The thing I mean can be seen . . . in children, when they find some game or joke that they specially enjoy. A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, "Do it again"; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grownup people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy.

Preaching is one of God’s "do it again" activities. The sermon is a repetitive practice that has changed little in 20 centuries, but it is also a new creation that no one could produce on a weekly basis were it not for the Almighty’s "eternal appetite of infancy."

When the adopted child repeatedly asks her parents to recount the events surrounding her adoption, the story must remain the same. And woe to the one who introduces omissions or changes in the sacred formula. "And then of all the babies in the orphanage, you chose me, right?"

Could parents ever tire of telling that story? Would they ever dare substitute another for it? If telling God’s story strikes us as repetitious, that is because it is. It is repetitious the way the Eucharist is repetitious, the way a favorite melody or gestures of love are repetitious, the way the mercies of God that come unbidden every day are repetitious.

When the community gathers around its table, one of its representatives narrates a particular story, either of deliverance from Egypt or of a Passover meal laden with the solemn promise of a new covenant. The community does not substitute a new formula or a better story for the sake of innovation but recites this story as faithfully as possible. "Then of all the peoples on earth," say the Jews every Sabbath, "you chose us, right?"

Such stories do not entertain, they do something far better. They sustain. They do not inform, they form those who hear and share them for a life of faithfulness.

Preaching participates in this age-old chain of repetition, sustenance and formation. How is it then that we claim the sermon as a work of art, given the unoriginality of its basic components and the conventionality of its expression? If one’s notion of art is limited to what is new, preaching the old story is not art. If the idea of art is restricted to poetic self-expression, then preaching the church’s gospel in public does not qualify. If art means inspirational stories and pretty metaphors, there is so much in the Bible that is neither inspirational nor pretty that biblical preaching, at least, will probably not be mistaken for art.

But if your idea of art is something the creature, who knows she is a creature, sings back to the Creator with something of the Creator’s own pizzazz (as Annie Dillard put it), then preaching has the potential, at least, to be more like art and less like an endowed lecture series. The preacher makes a small, shaped offering of truth back to the Truth itself. If you think of art as part discipline, part craft and part mystery we may be on to something.

For the Presbyterian minister in Norman Maclean’s A River Runs Through It, preaching the gospel is something like another highly repetitive activity, fly fishing. Both entail elements of art, beauty, patience and mystery. The narrator remembers, "My father was very sure about certain matters pertaining to the universe. To him, all good things -- trout as well as eternal salvation -- come by grace and grace comes by art and art does not come easy.

Grace comes by art and art does not come easy because God is not clumsy. God never blunders onto the scene with obviousness but is always draped by a story, an ordinary experience or a metaphor. As Barth says, "God is so unassuming in the world."

Many preachers, however, tell stories (note the plural) as if they served the purpose of making the Bible more interesting. Preachers have a sixth sense for what makes for a good story. A good story is touching, funny, marked by conflict (but not too much conflict) and satisfying in its resolution. Some preachers then repackage the gospel into stories that satisfy these criteria. Sermon stories "illustrate" the truth or substitute for those dusty old tales in the Bible that no one understands anyway.

Sermon illustrations often live a life separate from the theological truth they are meant to illumine. They enjoy a timeless and disembodied existence on the Internet, where we encounter them as fileable nuggets of other people’s experience. You can borrow or buy other preachers’ illustrations without even bothering with text, context or personal involvement in the hard work of discovery. The stories are usually about famous people or the enduring stuff of universal experience, but they cannot satisfy the congregation’s deepest longing, which is to explore its own life before God in as concrete a fashion as possible.

As everyone knows but few admit, the tacit purpose of sermon illustrations is emotional gratification -- pleasure. Since Aristotle, we’ve known there is something pleasurable about mimesis, the imitation of life as it is portrayed in drama, literature and even sermons, especially when the mimetic activity accurately portrays our most cherished or fearful experiences. Its pleasure is enhanced when the illustration is skillfully yoked to a familiar theme and yields an easily digested moral lesson. That story performs this function is a judgment not on mimesis or pleasure in itself, but on our understanding of the gospel as inherently abstract when, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer reminds us, the most concrete of all realities is that of the person before the cross.

Some narrative preachers treat the gospel as though it were one of several species under the genus "story," when in fact the Bible’s narrative of salvation sets the standard for what a story should be. Only by light of the gospel do we discover our true beginning, middle and end.

How far we preachers have traveled from the true ground of narrative preaching. We tell stories by reason of our humanity. In the pulpit, however, preachers tell the story because God got involved with a particular people in a specific time and place, and that involvement generated a history in which we are privileged to participate by faith, baptism and the common life. We are not generic storytellers. We are nailed to a particular plot. The preacher’s task is not to tell bunches of substitute stories, which in the end only deflect our attention from the searing reality of the person before God, but to tell that one story, the one that precedes the general category of "story," and to tell it in such a way that it makes our stories permeable to it.

Secret Gift of Ministry

According to new findings in the Pulpit & Pew National Clergy Survey, a solid majority of clergy is deeply satisfied with the pastoral ministry. Seven out of ten of those surveyed report they have never considered abandoning their vocation. In other words, most pastors claim to have found happiness in the ministry.

Why is this disturbing? Some of us in academia have made a decent living chronicling the malaise of our fellow clergy. For years we’ve had our students read the appropriate literature -- from Elmer Gantry to Wise Blood -- on the implicit assumption that these and other portraits of slightly out-of-whack ministers accurately represent the norm of vocational misery among Protestant clergy. Indeed, the tormented Hazel Motes in Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood appears to have more in common with the tormented apostle Paul than those, like us, who have found happiness in ministry.

In 2 Corinthians Paul narrates his ministry as a continuous near-death experience, as if ministry consists of thousands of mini-funerals and mini-Easters -- moments of truth when this heartbreak or that betrayal, this breakthrough or that triumph puts the crucified and risen Lord right there with him on the razor’s edge of ministry.

"For while we live, we are always being given up to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus may be manifested in our mortal flesh [the flesh of ministry]. So death is at work in us, but life in you." Later, in a typical 110-word sentence, Paul pushes the envelope of language as he throws out image after ecstatic image of hard times on the mission circuit -- of calamities, beatings and imprisonments, of being treated "as unknown and yet are well known" -- when he blurts out, "As dying -- and look! -- we live."

This is all very dramatic, but many ministers are weary with the overwork and emotional fatigue of the office. They have significant reservations about this cruciform metaphor for ministry. Paul’s theology appears to provide a rationale for the victimization of the clergy, what Joseph Sittler called the maceration of the minister.

And yet, what Paul really offers is an escape from the macerating criteria for evaluating the effectiveness of a ministry. He offers a conception of ministry that focuses on the work itself and not on the conditions or the outcomes of the work. His dialectic of death and resurrection suggests a realism that transcends our language of happiness and unhappiness in ministry. Indeed, it forges a tool for critiquing our best notions of happy and unhappy, satisfied and dissatisfied, successful and unsuccessful.

"Having this ministry," he says, "by the mercy of God, we do not lose heart." The phrase reminds us that this thing we are accustomed to acquire, analyze and discuss at conferences is a blazing fire that cannot be touched. It is holy. It is a gift, as Paul says in Ephesians, a grace "given to me for you."

The question is, what kind of gift is ministry? It is the kind of gift that requires hours and hours of assembly, the sort of gift that you know, even as you take it out of the box, you will one day be very sorry to have received. You know exactly what kind of gift is coming when the giver says, "Here, this gift is for you. Try not to let it discourage you."

"Oh, all this heartache for little me -- you really shouldn’t have." It’s as if Paul understands that our truest heartaches, like his, derive not from the culture, the economy or the political climate, but from the ministry. The heartaches are not cured by ministry they are caused by ministry. Having this ministry is like having children. Yes, in some respects they are an answer to prayer, but they also stimulate a lot of desperate prayers. And all the by they bring into your life is sharpened by the possibilities of new pain.

One Sunday in our congregation we baptized a baby the day after its mother’s funeral. It fell to our minister to "make sense of these two events in words. I can still see him pacing up and down the center aisle with the baby in the crook of his arm. Through his tears he spoke of the promises of God, as if to say, "This is the ministry we have. It’s a hard gift. Let’s not lose heart."

This ministry is like love it never ends. It never comes to the end of its rope. It never wrings its hands and says, "There’s nothing more to be done." By its very nature it can never run out of material, because the very conditions of its defeat only create the possibilities for its rebirth.

Can a war defeat ministry? No. War produces an occasion for the ministry of comfort and justice. Can conflicts over sexuality destroy ministry? We are tempted to say yes, but even Paul would say they elicit the ministry of reconciliation. Can death bring ministry to an end? No, as one of Georges Bernanos’s characters in The Diary of a Country Priest says to the new pastor. "Love is stronger than death -- that stands within your books."

There is something about this ministry that cannot be captured even by professionals, which is why, I suspect, Paul refers to it elsewhere as a "secret." I rejoice with the seven in ten who will not renounce their vocation. I rejoice with any who are foolish enough to admit they are satisfied, even happy, in ministry, because they are obviously in on the secret. They must be. If you live in a world like ours whose attitude toward ministry runs the gamut from condescension to contempt, you would have to he crazy to say, "I love the ministry!" -- unless, of course, you are in on the secret and have what Paul had. Unless you have glimpsed its holiness and apprehended it for the gift that it is. Unless you too have experienced its hard-won joy.

An Old/New Theology of History

Over a decade ago Wolfhart Pannenberg surprised the theological world with what appeared to be a new theology of history. In his contribution to the volume translated under the title Revelation as History and published here (by Macmillan) only in 1968, he insisted that the true revelation of God, as distinguished from mere theophany or verbal commandment, is grasped indirectly via reportage and analysis of history. But Pannenberg did not limit the self-revelation of God to the history of Israel. In his view all history becomes, at least in principle, the bearer of God; he who has eyes to see, let him see. The corollary (or the presupposition?) of this program he enunciated several years later in his book on Christology, translated as Jesus -- God and Man (Westminster, 1968): The resurrection of Jesus not only provides a preview of mankind’s apotheosis and, as such, a mini-model of world history; it is also verifiable according to the usual canons of historical research.

What is new in Pannenberg? New -- and refreshing -- is his awareness of the historiographical revolution that has taken place. In face of the many dialectical attempts to avoid the spotlight of history (by dividing it into Historie, Geschichte, Heilsgeschichte, Urgeschichte, Geschichtlichkeit, etc., etc.), Pannenberg takes the unity of history seriously. Buried in his dry-as-dust erudition is the common-sense observation that what has not happened in history cannot legitimately be said to affect my history.

And what is old in Pannenberg? Old -- and ultimately damaging -- is his revival of Hegel’s philosophy of history. It is Hegel’s influence on Pannenberg I want to explore here.

I

Hegel read history as a vast philosophical exercise, an exhibition of Spirit’s war with itself for absolute consciousness, and ultimately as the autobiography of God. Today he has found his second wind in a new German theology of God’s developing essence in time. In chiding the historical critics and the subjectivists of his own day (e.g., D. F. Strauss on the one hand and Schleiermacher, his colleague at the University of Berlin, on the other), Hegel assumed responsibility for proving the existence of God and justifying divine providence. His rationalistic approach issued in his caricature of world history in which select civilizations were made regularly to appear and disappear like performers in a variety show. Pannenberg shares both Hegel’s rationalistic approach and his desire to see providence in history and in so doing to prove the deity of the God of Israel. But in him that desire has not been fleshed out by any kind of world-historical demonstration of providence. Hence, when it comes to examining the actual texture of past occurrences, the historical cliches of Hegel have resulted only in the theological truisms of Pannenberg. The program of Pannenberg’s "Dogmatic Theses on the Doctrine of Revelation" can never fully be realized, for Christians trust but do not see God’s authority in history.

At the beginning of The Philosophy of History, Hegel says that the rationality of history "is not a presupposition of study; it is a result which [he adds without apology] happens to be known to myself because I already know the whole." According to Hegel and Pannenberg, the whole of history is to be interpreted only in terms of its end. Hegel’s famous "The owl of Minerva spreads its wings only with the falling of dusk" is more prosaically rendered in Pannenberg’s Thesis No. II: "Revelation is not comprehended completely in the beginning but at the end of the revealing history." In both thinkers the "end of history" appears within history as the model for the interpretation of all history. Hegelian history progresses dialectically as nation after nation identifies itself and emerges into fuller self-consciousness via self-differentiation and conflict -- processes we know as racism, nationalism and war. Remembering that such flesh-and-bloody realities are but Hegelian explications of Spirit, we agree with what the language-analyst Sir Karl Popper once said: "It was child’s play for [Hegel’s] powerful dialectical methods to draw real physical rabbits out of purely metaphysical silk hats."

The Hegelian dialectic derives ultimately from the Christian dialectic of death and resurrection. For Pannenberg, Jesus’ resurrection provides an equally comprehensive but less explicit clue to universal history. Pannenberg’s affirmation of the reality of Jesus’ resurrection has about it the earthiness of John Updike’s "Seven Stanzas at Easter" (first published in The Christian Century, February 22, 1961, p. 236; later included in Telephone Poles and Other Poems [Knopf, 1963]):

Make no mistake: if He rose at all

it was as His body;

if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse.

the molecules reknit, the amino acids

rekindle,

the Church will fall. . . .

Let us not mock God with metaphor,

analogy, sidestepping, transcendence;

making of the event a parable, a sign

painted in the faded credulity of earlier ages:

let us walk through the door.

For Pannenberg, resurrection does not represent a miraculous interruption of nature and history. Only those for whom history is blandly homogenized will say that because resurrections do not happen now, the resurrection of Jesus was a miracle or an intersubjective experience, or else a hoax. Pannenberg rejects all three alternatives. He prefers to call Jesus’ resurrection a unique historical event which, investigated by the usual historical methods, must be accepted like any other event of history: reason sees the fact. Faith, in Pannenberg’s use, awaits the future. Resurrection makes history in the sense that it establishes a goal and an overall meaning for everything that happens. And it answers man’s universal longing for life after death.

Insofar as it is a theology of history, Pannenberg’s theology is burdened with the old Hegelian liabilities. Jürgen Moltmann in his Theology of Hope (Harper & Row, 1967) makes a fine distinction between awaiting the resurrected Christ and awaiting a resurrection like his. In opting for the latter Pannenberg reveals his own tendency to subsume the incarnation, death and resurrection of Jesus under a more comprehensive reality; namely, revelation. But when an event becomes a model for all reality, its radical uniqueness is endangered. If all history is revelatory, none of it is. The faith which participates in the resurrected Jesus and clings to the promise of his return does no research and creates no philosophy. It is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.

II

In Hegel’s system the need to see rather than trust, to justify rather than be justified, destroys the uniqueness of creation, fall and redemption. From the simple dialectic of death and resurrection issues a monstrous system which denies the absolute validity of Christ’s death and resurrection and, in the final analysis, cannot explain the absolute authority of Jesus in history. For Hegel, the incarnation effects a speculative unification of Spirit and world, rational and real, theory and practice, while the death of Christ provides the universal expression of Spirit’s self-alienation and, at a different level, makes us conscious of the power of negation in all reality, including God. Thus only the dynamic of his system is absolute; the dialectic of Christ is but an illustrative stage of a greater and more comprehensive truth known only to Hegel.

But when history is understood (after Hegel’s fashion) as the self-revelation of God, the result is a kind of aestheticism which in benign comprehension largely disregards the contours of history -- nations, races, people, even the sufferings of individuals. In the light of the Great Plan, these are of little importance, and in any case "they too will pass." For, in Hegel’s system, evil arises as a metaphysical necessity and is judged not according to its causes and effects in persons but in view of the whole, be it state or world history. "Die Weltgeschichte ist die Weltgericht" -- ‘The history of the world is the judgment of the world."

Even the concept of "God" is secondary in Hegel’s philosophy of history, for behind the term "God" Hegel discerns a larger metaphysical truth: a Spirit that does not create ex nihilo but alienates its own being into nature and thence into history; a Spirit that, strictly speaking, loves only itself. The Hegelian Spirit that reveals itself through history is not the Christian God; rather, God serves that Spirit.

III

"The greatness of Hegel," said Paul Tillich, "is that he created the categories in terms of which others could attack him." In his later life Hegel embodied the Protestant and Prussian establishment. But his dialectical method of antagonism and supersession could not logically be laid to rest with Germany’s Prussianism and state church. The leftist Hegelians and, later, the Marxists effectively exploited Hegel’s own method to prove that the old religion and the old politics must go. Pannenberg has shown little sensitivity to the political uses of Hegel. He has separated content, from method and consistently ignored the, revolutionary and ultimately atheistic implications of Hegel’s dialectical method. Indeed, in his Revelation as History piece he explicitly rejects as un-Hegelian that openness to the future which is integral to the dialectical method.

Theology usually draws on philosophy to clarify itself, and sometimes -- as in the case of Pannenberg’s proof of God from history -- to introduce the unbeliever to the true God. This means that the philosophical trappings of the gospel must carry some contemporary meaning. But Hegel as Hegel has always been unintelligible, and in Pannenberg’s use of him -- as a kind of philosophical backdrop -- he is even more incoherent. Outside college and university philosophy departments, the only currency Hegel enjoys today is among Marxists (e.g., Herbert Marcuse) and others who use his system to destroy the same truths that Pannenberg would defend. No one seems to have noticed the irony of dialoguing with Marxists on the basis of a God whose essence can be known only in the future. It was that very notion of revelation that Marx condemned as religious alienation.

IV

William Hamilton has called Pannenberg’s assumption that Everyman thirsts for immortality a "religious a priori" which no longer applies to secular man, and has accused Pannenberg of creating a neat theology that bypasses real life and ignores real unbelief (metaphysical rabbits from real silk hats). Taking Hamilton’s criticism a step further, I would say that the form and presentation of Pannenberg’s theology rely too heavily on a philosophy from which anything can be and has been proved. The old but astonishingly new proclamation of Christ’s resurrection will make its way in the world without benefit of a Hegelian entourage. The extreme relevance of Pannenberg’s irrelevant Hegelianism lies in its timely recognition of theology’s perennial problem: God’s relationship to history.

Altar or Table

He was the Word that spake it,

He took the bread and brake it;

And what that Word did make it,

I do believe and take it.

 



The simplicity of this anonymous 16th century poem (included in The Christian Calendar [Merriam, 1975], p. 76) belies the centuries of theological warfare over the divine-human composition of the ordinary staples of life -- bread and wine. Likewise, the invitation that many Christians will hear this Maundy Thursday, “Come, the table of the Lord is prepared,” conceals in its unselfconscious openness another, even older theological division over the cultus’s central piece of furniture: the altar, or the table. From the three-legged dining table on which St. Peter was supposed to have celebrated his first mass in Rome, to the monolithic high altar of St. Peter’s Basilica, to the “convenient wooden communion table” prescribed by Archbishop William Laud, the church has wrestled with the alternatives: altar or table?

Clearly the table is in the ascendancy. Edward Sövik’s remarks in Architecture for Worship are representative: “[The eucharistic table] ought to be distinguished (as it was by the early Christians) from the sacrificial altars of other religions. Its genus is rather the genus of the dining table” (Augsburg, 1973, p. 83).

Our congregation had just begun to plan for a new sanctuary when it was forced to deal with the design of the building’s central appointment. The Methodist architect put it to the Lutherans: tell me about your theology of the sacrament. At the end of pages and pages of mimeographed theological reflection, we made our weasel-worded reply. Make it a table -- but a very substantial one. Our theological instincts told us that there is something big and powerful behind the table, and we were unwilling to let it go -- or name it. What’s behind the table?

As an experiment, perhaps when you are home sitting at table, ask a child this question: “Where does that slice of bread on your sandwich come from?”

“From this cellophane package.”

“No, where, really?’

“Well, from the A & P, I guess.”

“No, I mean where does it come from?”

 

When pressed, the child will admit that she thinks the bread comes off a truck. If you probe any deeper, you come to what the paleontologist terms “the inaccessibility of origins” or what the frustrated parent calls a brick wall. And what is true of bread is also true of electricity, water, Fritos, lunch money, good books, calculators and roller skates. Things just are; we are given our world.

To see how removed we are from the origins of things, wander through the streets of a Spanish village until, toward dusk, you hear the sound of an unearthly scream. A child in pain? A dog in heat? No, on the back stoop of a simple stucco house, an old woman is calmly wringing a chicken’s neck. Suppertime. She is preparing a meal which, from its source on the back stoop, will reach table-ready completion in a matter of hours. Now, compare her children or grandchildren, who are standing in the doorway watching, with my children, who think that chicken comes from a kindly old Kentuckian with a white goatee, and one arrives at an observation and then a question of wider than cultural significance.

Our culture shields us from origins, for often at the source of any commodity there is misery. Adults know this. Children do not. So they ask, “Why do some Indians live on reservations?” “Why is Japan our special friend?” “Why are poor people poor?” The greatest thinkers have always gone ad fontes, to the sources. It was not Karl Marx but St. Augustine who said of the government of his day, “What else are the great kingdoms but great robberies?” Upton Sinclair wrote a book called The Jungle, whose real impact lay not in its revelation of human greed but in its portrayal of the inhuman conditions in which sausages are made.



Now the question: Does one appreciate the product more if one understands the toil and pain that lay behind it? We must give an answer if we are to understand the relationship between the altar and the table.

It is understandable, I think, that many modern churches are shying away from the altar as a monolithic place of sacrifice in favor of a table. At table there is harmony, unity and good etiquette; the only sounds are of polite conversation and the clink of sterling on china, or at least the reassuring solidity of plastic against styrofoam. At the altar there is the braying and screeching of beasts being slaughtered; it is not conversation one hears, but a cry of dereliction. At table there is the coziness of family relationships. One belongs at the table. Only for the most heinous of crimes is the child sent from the table. There, at table, one has direct access to the parent. At the altar is the alien and austere presence of the priest, the intermediary, who is neither father nor friend. One approaches the altar as one treads on holy ground, with trembling and awe. At table there is bread, wine and conviviality. At the altar, there is body, blood carnage and death.

Most churches have adopted the table, fittingly, as the setting for the sacramental meal without, however, remembering all that lay behind it. The table from which we receive the bread and wine is possible only because once, for all peoples, there was an altar on which God’s son was sacrificed. Early Christians who were accused of having no locus of sacrifice responded, “We have an altar” (Heb. 13:10), meaning by it Christ’s entire act of self-oblation. John Mason Neale’s translation of the ancient eucharistic hymn exposes the connection between altar and table, perhaps more vividly than modern Christians can tolerate:

The Lamb’s high banquet we await

In snow white robes of royal state;

And now, the Red Sea’s channel past,

To Christ our King we sing at last.

 

Upon the altar of the Cross

His body bath redeemed our loss;.

And tasting of His roseate blood,

Our life is hid with Him in God.

[Early Christian Latin Poets, (Loyola University Press, 1929), p. 126]

Our table-oriented family relationships in the church are possible because behind the table, visible to the eyes of faith, is the outline of something more substantial and more terrible. The table does not create the altar; the altar creates. the table. On Maundy Thursday, while sitting at table, Jesus considered himself a dead man and spoke of blood poured out and other subjects conventionally regarded as indelicate to table talk.

Yet with its horror and carnage, the altar can be a place of refuge. For it symbolizes the place of God’s own sacrifice. This is the Book of Hebrews’ theology of the altar: “For when Christ appeared as a high priest of the good things that have come . . . he entered once for all into the Holy Place, taking not the blood of goats and calves but his own blood, thus securing an eternal redemption” (Heb. 9:11-12). In Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Slaughterhouse Five a group of Allied soldiers is captured and herded into a defunct meatpacking plant near Dresden, a slaughterhouse in which they are to be incarcerated. How the prisoners dread going into the dank basements of that place! But when the firebombing of Dresden begins, the slaughterhouse no longer seems cold and inhospitable. Slaughterhouse No. 5 becomes a place of refuge.

We are drawn to this place of slaughter, this symbol around which our churches are built, and at the same time we are repelled by it. The altar is both the place of death and our shelter from it. It may be possible to demythologize, existentialize, structuralize or moralize the biblical picture of sacrifice, but not without a substantial loss -- the loss of the substance of sacrifice itself and all that it has meant to Christian theology and ethics. So for now, this Maundy Thursday, as our congregation gathers around its little table the altar of God still stands: it is a place of sacrifice but also a place of refuge for all, and the origin of our table-communion with one another.