Hi everyone,
The link to our latest newsletter is below.
We had a scare that may not be over. Suddenly 2000 Russian trolls showed up in our newsletter list. We had blocked it so each subscriber needs to be confirmed, and I deleted all these, but they will try again. If you tried to subscribe and were denied, please write us directly.
Trolls work by inserting conflict and negativity into conversations, so people drift away or get misinformation. If you find yourself on a Companions link where nasty stuff is being said, please let me know. And ignore it, it isn't us! We may be challenging at times, but our goal is to build up the Body of Christ, not tear it up.
Blessings to you all in this season of equinoxes (whichever hemisphere you find yourself in).
Shane
https://conta.cc/2Oqiyrp
Thursday, September 20, 2018
Thursday, September 13, 2018
How Great Thou Art
(Warning: This post could get somewhat obscure.)
This morning on my walk I was awed, as always, by the wonder of creation. There's always something to see or hear or touch or smell (taste only with caution!). Sunrise, clouds, bushes, trees, rabbits . . . the usual cast of wondrous creatures. And I, in the midst of it, praise God.
And I think about the distinction between creation and creator. I was taught that this distinction is essential to proper theology and worship. "Worship the creator, not the creation/creature." But if God is in the creation, as I believe and sense, this distinction is problematic. Here are some of the problems that came to me:
What is gained by separating creator from creation, positing a creator "behind" the creation? This seems to me a hangover from Platonism. At the limit it curbs idolatry, so that I don't start worshipping particular creatures or artifacts, but I don't think I have to go all the way to a creator that is separate from the creation. I need the distinction between them, but I don't need to separate them.
Who is the "I" that worships? I too am part of this creation. If God is not behind or separate from creation, neither am I. My ego consciousness approaches the world as separate, but my deepest awareness is that we are all one. The "I" that worships is a tiny ship bobbing on the sea of Self that is one with God and with creation.
And what is this "worship"? I think worship is the I approaching the creation as Thou, as separate. In the land where all is one, worship doesn't make sense to me: there is no I to worship, no Thou to be worshipped. But in the land of I and Thou, of ego and object, worship is the closest I can get to union.
So I walk. I see the sky and I say, "Thank you. Thank you for letting me be part of this, and letting me be aware of it as a creature. Thank you for letting me be the sort of creature who can be aware on this level." I address the creator, because that's what my language allows and my ego consciousness needs. But on another level, I say nothing. There is nothing to say, no one to say it, no one to receive it. It's said, it's done, it is. And that feels to me like worship.
Now I go inside, to our chapel. I will say Morning Prayer, with its psalms and readings and hymns and prayers. I will address God as the one who creates, and the one who receives us when we return to dust. I will do my best, with my feeble "I," to remember my essential unity with this immanent, omnipresent God - including the faces of those I will serve today.
May you worship today, in whatever way brings you closest to the God who is closer than your own breath. May you know the wonder that is bigger than any words, any worship. God be with you.
Tuesday, September 11, 2018
Effing the Ineffable
Last weekend we led a retreat on Christ Sophia, the feminine face of God. The participants were challenged and stimulated, and so were we. We kept noting that God is in fact beyond categories, beyond masculine and feminine, encompassing all. We are the ones who assign markers and boundaries and shapes to God. It's important to see images of God beyond patriarchal ones, and to hear language of God in her wisdom, but it's a way station to the real mystery of God.
As we prepared for the retreat, I was deeply challenged to encounter this God beyond images and words. I've always had an icon on my prayer desk. Usually it's been Jesus, but sometimes Mary Mother or Mary Magdalene has been there. But there's always been an image, a person for me to address. But lately I just can't do it. Or, I won't. I don't know who I'm addressing in my prayer, and I don't want to pre-form the encounter by imposing my images. I thought of getting an icon of one of the wonderful Christ Sophia images available now, but I don't want that either. I need to let God be.
Elizabeth felt the same way. Perhaps it's from spending the summer outside, encountering the powerful forces of nature. Perhaps it's simply the reading and prayer that come with retreat preparation. Anyway, we agreed. So, in time for creation season, we each cleared out the icons. Our chapel is centered on rocks and sea creatures we found this summer, and on the world outside our windows. This doesn't substitute the rocks for the icons as images of God (I hope!), but gives us a focal point that can't be turned into a person.
We did keep the tabernacle. We talked about this: who are we to keep God in a box? Did God tell us to build Her a house? But we agreed that we, embodied humans, need that reminder of God's presence. The fact that it is closed confirms that it is not for us to see casually, that the contents of the box exceed our comprehension. But we need the sign of the presence, even as we know the presence cannot be contained in one location.
So, we are walking this strange land, wondering who we will be if our God images change. Maybe you've wondered the same thing. I don't know the answer. I'm uneasy with the quest, one I've not sought exactly but which I find myself on. I like to think that others are on that road with me. I like to think that you are. God be with you, wherever you are.
Thursday, September 6, 2018
Quotes and Jottings
I'm finishing Metz' book A Passion for God, and I was reviewing the places where I put markers. As I did, I knew I wanted to share them with you. Herewith is my selective introduction to his work.
"If . . . the community is the locus for a guilt that has been recognized and acknowledged, then it must also prove itself to be the locus for taking on an undivided historical responsibility, a locus for the interest in universal justice and liberation." (p. 39)
"It is dangerous to be close to Jesus, it threatens to set us afire, to consume us. And only in the face of this danger does the vision of the Kingdom of God that has come near in him light up. Danger is clearly a fundamental category for understanding his life and message, and for defining Christian identity." (p. 48)
"Whoever hears the message of the resurrection of Christ in such a way that the cry of the crucified has become inaudible in it, hears not the Gospel but rather a myth. Whoever hears the message of the resurrection in such [a] way that in it nothing more need be awaited, but only something confirmed, hears falsely." (p. 56)
"Could it be that there is too much singing and not enough crying out in our Christianity?" (p. 125)
"The traditions to which theology is accountable know a universal responsibility both of the memory of suffering. . . it always takes into account the suffering of others, the suffering of strangers. Furthermore, this memoir . . . considers even the suffering of enemies and does not forget about their suffering in assessing its own history of suffering. . . . Respecting the suffering of strangers is a precondition for every culture; articulating others' suffering is the presupposition of all claims to truth. Even those made by theology." (p. 134)
"What is really at stake is a fundamental theme of Christianity: a passion for God that encompasses the suffering and passion of those who will not let themselves be dissuaded from God, even when the rest of the world already believes that religion does not need God anymore." (p. 151)
"One could almost say that Israel's election, its capacity for God, showed itself in a particular kind of incapacity: the incapacity to let itself be consoled by myths or ideas that are remote from history. This is precisely what I would call Israel's poverty before God, or poverty of spirit, that Jesus blessed." (p. 158)
Want more? I'd start with his little early book, Poverty of Spirit. It's all there. If anything, his message is more timely now than ever; like climate change, we might have listened 50 years ago but chose to stop our ears. Unlike climate change, we can turn now without government action (or action by churches, for that matter).
Today, if you would hear God's voice, harden not your heart!
"If . . . the community is the locus for a guilt that has been recognized and acknowledged, then it must also prove itself to be the locus for taking on an undivided historical responsibility, a locus for the interest in universal justice and liberation." (p. 39)
"It is dangerous to be close to Jesus, it threatens to set us afire, to consume us. And only in the face of this danger does the vision of the Kingdom of God that has come near in him light up. Danger is clearly a fundamental category for understanding his life and message, and for defining Christian identity." (p. 48)
"Whoever hears the message of the resurrection of Christ in such a way that the cry of the crucified has become inaudible in it, hears not the Gospel but rather a myth. Whoever hears the message of the resurrection in such [a] way that in it nothing more need be awaited, but only something confirmed, hears falsely." (p. 56)
"Could it be that there is too much singing and not enough crying out in our Christianity?" (p. 125)
"The traditions to which theology is accountable know a universal responsibility both of the memory of suffering. . . it always takes into account the suffering of others, the suffering of strangers. Furthermore, this memoir . . . considers even the suffering of enemies and does not forget about their suffering in assessing its own history of suffering. . . . Respecting the suffering of strangers is a precondition for every culture; articulating others' suffering is the presupposition of all claims to truth. Even those made by theology." (p. 134)
"What is really at stake is a fundamental theme of Christianity: a passion for God that encompasses the suffering and passion of those who will not let themselves be dissuaded from God, even when the rest of the world already believes that religion does not need God anymore." (p. 151)
"One could almost say that Israel's election, its capacity for God, showed itself in a particular kind of incapacity: the incapacity to let itself be consoled by myths or ideas that are remote from history. This is precisely what I would call Israel's poverty before God, or poverty of spirit, that Jesus blessed." (p. 158)
Want more? I'd start with his little early book, Poverty of Spirit. It's all there. If anything, his message is more timely now than ever; like climate change, we might have listened 50 years ago but chose to stop our ears. Unlike climate change, we can turn now without government action (or action by churches, for that matter).
Today, if you would hear God's voice, harden not your heart!
Wednesday, September 5, 2018
What's on My Mind
Phew! We're back from vacation, back from the slowness of summer. It was a fruitful time, full of reading and reflecting, and it is bearing fruit for how we work and serve this year. I know for me that part of that will be a return to more regular writing here, as I miss this chance to reflect and share.
What's been up for me this summer is dis-ease. I've been reading Johannes Baptist Metz' collection, A Passion for God. Metz was a founder of "political theology," indebted to the Frankfurt School of social theorists and to Karl Rahner. He continually calls the Church to face the hard questions about God and justice and suffering. He sees the danger to the Gospel and the Church in a facile happiness, and the subtle ways we abandon eschatology for a focus on our present satisfaction and personal afterlife.
Reading him makes me ask, What do I mean by proclaiming resurrection? I don't mean to avoid the hard places and the pain, but do I end up doing that? Am I just purveying my own "good news" instead of the Gospel's call to seek God in the midst of the monumental injustice and destruction of our time? Where have I substituted my personal "salvation" for the health and wholeness of the world? Where have I in fact abandoned hope in favor of optimism?
Metz' general challenge takes on specificity when I read it with Jennifer Harvey's book, Dear White Christians. The Companions are reading it for our September group reading, and it's painful. Harvey makes the case that no racial reconciliation is possible until white Americans face their own racial specificity and privilege, and work actively for reparations to overcome the legacy of slavery and colonialism. She documents the failures of the American churches to respond to this challenge. It is painful reading.
Now, let me say that I used to teach political theory, including the Frankfurt School. I used to teach women studies, and lgbt studies, and I wrote about white women's need to face their whiteness and privilege. That makes me more horrified to realize that I have just dropped the ball for 18 years (if I had the ball before!). Since I entered religious life I entered an all-white world full of "nice" people bringing comfort to those who are weary. The churches I've served have been shaped by the optimistic, happiness theology that Metz decries, even as their leaders worked to intervene in injustice. I've insulated myself from the pain of the world, even as I pray daily for those in pain.
So what will I do? I don't know, honestly. I know I can start by just naming this, by writing. I can start by asking questions and noticing where I'm settling for easy answers. I can start by facing the painful truth that alone I can't do much. I can at least stop letting it be OK.
I know this is a long post. If you're still reading, please join me in praying to know what to do, from where we each are. Pray that the Companions will begin a conversation that invites our transformation and really opens us to serve God in others. And pray for our world as it groans under the weight of growing tyranny and oppression. God, make speed to save us!
What's been up for me this summer is dis-ease. I've been reading Johannes Baptist Metz' collection, A Passion for God. Metz was a founder of "political theology," indebted to the Frankfurt School of social theorists and to Karl Rahner. He continually calls the Church to face the hard questions about God and justice and suffering. He sees the danger to the Gospel and the Church in a facile happiness, and the subtle ways we abandon eschatology for a focus on our present satisfaction and personal afterlife.
Reading him makes me ask, What do I mean by proclaiming resurrection? I don't mean to avoid the hard places and the pain, but do I end up doing that? Am I just purveying my own "good news" instead of the Gospel's call to seek God in the midst of the monumental injustice and destruction of our time? Where have I substituted my personal "salvation" for the health and wholeness of the world? Where have I in fact abandoned hope in favor of optimism?
Metz' general challenge takes on specificity when I read it with Jennifer Harvey's book, Dear White Christians. The Companions are reading it for our September group reading, and it's painful. Harvey makes the case that no racial reconciliation is possible until white Americans face their own racial specificity and privilege, and work actively for reparations to overcome the legacy of slavery and colonialism. She documents the failures of the American churches to respond to this challenge. It is painful reading.
Now, let me say that I used to teach political theory, including the Frankfurt School. I used to teach women studies, and lgbt studies, and I wrote about white women's need to face their whiteness and privilege. That makes me more horrified to realize that I have just dropped the ball for 18 years (if I had the ball before!). Since I entered religious life I entered an all-white world full of "nice" people bringing comfort to those who are weary. The churches I've served have been shaped by the optimistic, happiness theology that Metz decries, even as their leaders worked to intervene in injustice. I've insulated myself from the pain of the world, even as I pray daily for those in pain.
So what will I do? I don't know, honestly. I know I can start by just naming this, by writing. I can start by asking questions and noticing where I'm settling for easy answers. I can start by facing the painful truth that alone I can't do much. I can at least stop letting it be OK.
I know this is a long post. If you're still reading, please join me in praying to know what to do, from where we each are. Pray that the Companions will begin a conversation that invites our transformation and really opens us to serve God in others. And pray for our world as it groans under the weight of growing tyranny and oppression. God, make speed to save us!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)