Category Archives: faith

A Jesuit Frame of Mind

Francis JesuitThe recently concluded visit of Pope Francis to the United States has put me in a Jesuit frame of mind. The Jesuits are the first Catholics I ever spent extended time with, and they ruined me for the rest of them. I have spent the past twenty-seven years of my life, first as a student then as a professor, in Catholic higher education—and it all started with the Jesuits.

So how did an Episcopalian with deep roots in hard-core conservative Protestantism end up earning his PhD at Jesuit-run Marquette University in Milwaukee, WI? Because with my philosophy MA in hand, I wanted (against the strong advice of the professors in my analytic MA program) to do my terminal degree at a place known for its excellence in the history of philosophy. I applied to four, was accepted at three, and Marquette offered me the best financial deal. So Jeanne and I (we had met just eight months earlier) arrived with my two sons in tow for fun and games in Milwaukee in August of 1988. marquetteI swear that its being a Catholic, Jesuit university had exactly zero influence on our choice of Marquette.

During my years at Marquette there were significantly more lay professors than Jesuits on the philosophy faculty, but since at the time the philosophy department was the largest in the United States (I don’t think it is any more), there were plenty of Jesuits. Father Treloar, the head of the department’s graduate program, quickly became one of my two most influential mentors and over the months a strong friendship developed. Father Teske, an internationally renowned Augustine scholar, had a quiet intensity and power beneath his favorite uncle sort of exterior and persona. Father Naus, who among other things taught courses in the philosophy of humor, proved his bona fides by displaying a certificate from clown school on his wall.

Rev. John Naus, S.J., dressed as Tumbleweed the clown.

Rev. John Naus, S.J., dressed as Tumbleweed the clown.

Each of the half dozen or so priests I came to know impressed me as committed to their vocation, but equally (if not more) committed to the life of the mind and excellence in teaching and scholarship. I learned over time thatloyola Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Jesuit order, envisioned a different kind of monastic order, monks who did not have cells in a monastery but whose cell is to be where they are—in the classroom, in a laboratory, at a nursing home helping people. A Jesuit’s cell is to be where he is working. The Jesuits in the philosophy department lived this charism to the fullest.

Because I was five years or so older than the other new PhD candidates, I was able to avoid being placed in the large room with cubicles for the multitude of graduate students. Instead, for the three years I was at Marquette I was placed in the unoccupied office of a professor on sabbatical, a different one each year. philosophy departmentOne year I was directly across the hall from Dr. McNulty, a professor I never had in class because his area—contemporary political philosophy—was significantly different than my developing focus on early modern philosophy and ethics. He was an introvert, so am I, so during the year I was his across the hall neighbor we did a lot of nodding to each other and “good mornings” as we entered and exited our offices, and not much more.

During my last semester at Marquette—I had successfully defended my dissertation and was simply waiting for May to receive my diploma at commencement—joan of arc chapelI wandered one late afternoon into my favorite place on campus, beautiful little stone St. Joan of Arc Chapel. This tiny chapel built in 15th century France was gifted to Marquette by way of Long Island in the 1960s (it’s a crazy story—you can look it up); a particular stone in the floor at the front of the chapel was supposedly stood upon by Joan of Arc as she prayed before going into battle. The stone reportedly is always cooler than the stones surrounding it, I guess because Joan was cooler than everyone else. I never could detect a temperature difference.

A daily mass attended by a few students was in progress as I poked my head in the door, and I had a classic WTF moment. “Holy shit, that’s McNulty celebrating the mass up front! McNulty’s a priest???” And he certainly appeared to be, wearing priestly stuff and acting in priestly ways—but this was news to me. I had seen this guy once or twice a day every weekday for an academic year, and he had been on my radar screen for my two and a half years at Marquette. He never wore a collar, he never acted like a priest (my Protestantism is showing), preferring the baggy sweaters and threadbare trousers that most male academics love to wear. Suffice it to say that Jesuits, at least many of those I spent three years with, do not wear their ordination on their sleeve in the way that the members of the other three Catholic orders 140401JesuitDomincanI have taught and hung out with in the years since do. I like that.

I’ve learned a number of additional things about the Jesuits over the years since leaving Marquette in 1991, including that there is an intense rivalry bordering on serious dislike between the Jesuits and the Dominican Order—it’s an in-house family issue that non-Catholic outsiders such as I don’t entirely get. The Dominican Fathers run the college at which I have taught happily and successfully for the past twenty-one years; I learned early on never to talk about my bromance with the Jesuits within earshot of a Dominican. Once my first or second year into my current position, I was having a conversation in the philosophy department hall with a handful of colleagues, including a young Dominican priest. I mentioned tongue-in-cheek that I had the impression that for the uber-Catholics, including the Dominicans, on campus my being Protestant was far less of a problem than my having been educated by the Jesuits (ha, ha, ha). Without missing a beat, my Dominican colleague said “You’re right.” He wasn’t kidding.George Coyne

I recently heard an interview with Father George Coyne, the recently retired head of the Vatican Observatory, in which he tells a story that for me perfectly captures why I love Jesuits.

I gave a paper at a scientific meeting on the uncertainties in our determination of the age of the universe. There’s several methods we use for determining the age of the universe and a degree of uncertainty is involved with each of them. Well, whenever I’m at a scientific conference, I’m not dressed as a priest because it just — why? You know, it just confuses things.

But I had just given a talk in a church or something, so I gave this talk and I was wearing my Roman collar. So a gentleman stood up — the discussion period, question period, and the first thing he said was “Father.” And I trembled at the thought that he had, first of all, called me Father, but then he proceeded to build upon that and he said, vatican observatory“Father, it must be wonderful that, you know, with all the uncertainties we have in our scientific pursuits that you have this faith, this rock of faith to stand upon.” So what I did is I took off my Roman collar and faced him down and said, “Who told you that my faith was kind of a rock?” I said, “Every morning I wake up I have my doubts. I have my uncertainties. I have to struggle to help my faith grow.” Because faith is love. Love in marriage, love with friends, love of brothers and sisters, is not something that’s there once and for all and always kind of a rock that gives us support.

On Being: Asteroids, Stars, and the Love of God

Amen, Father George. In a different world, a parallel universe, in which rather than meeting my first Catholic when I was in my twenties I was instead raised Catholic, I have no doubt the Jesuits would have gotten me. Big time.

gentle drizzle

Gentle Drizzle

IOresteian the interdisciplinary program I teach in and used to direct, the first semester faculty have to make many tough choices. Iliad or Odyssey? What texts from the Hebrew Scriptures? The New Testament? What to use from Plato and Aristotle–or, God forbid, Plato or Aristotle? And no less challenging—which of the triumvirate of great Greek tragedians? Usually it is a toss-up between the profundity of Sophocles and the brilliance of Euripides, but last fall my teammate and I opted for the first of the trio, Aeschylus. We spent a week with sixty-five freshmen in The Oresteia, a trilogy with enough violence and dysfunctional family intrigue to hopefully satisfy the most scandal-hungry eighteen year old. Perhaps some of the playwright’s profound insights into the human condition seeped in as well.

RFKAlmost twenty-five years ago, early lines from Agamemnon, the first play of Aeschylus’ trilogy, were quoted by Robert F. Kennedy in Indianapolis toward the end of a brief, impromptu eulogy of Martin Luther King, Jr. who had been assassinated in Memphis earlier in the day. Kennedy, who would himself be killed by an assassin’s bullet just two short months later, included these lines from the Chorus’ first speech in the play as a sobering piece of one of the great speeches in American history:

Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget
falls drop by drop upon the heart until,
in our despair, against our will,
comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.

I was reminded of both Bobby Kennedy and these lines from Aeschylus as I was listening to “The Moth Radio Hour” on NPR the other day.

Sala Udin on “The Moth”

Sala UdinOne of the story-tellers at the Moth event was Sala Udin who told of how as a Freedom Rider in Mississippi fifty years ago he came within an inch of losing his life after being stopped and then viciously beaten by the Mississippi State Police. In his jail cell, as he looked at his battered and disfigured face in the mirror, he thought “I don’t know why they didn’t kill me, but they should have. Now I’m committed. I’m clear. I will never stop fighting racism and injustice.Kasisi-Sala-Udin-copy I’m going to be a Freedom Rider for the rest of my life.” Udin and thousands like him were some of those drops upon the heart that Aeschylus wrote of over two millennia ago. Because of persons like Udin, change in the direction of wisdom incrementally but inexorably comes “against our will,” a change that although real is nowhere near complete.

I was born in 1956 and was too young to be directly involved in the early days of the Civil Rights movement, but have often wondered whether I would have wanted to be a Freedom Rider if I had been old enough and had been given the opportunity. I have no reason to believe that I would have, but take a small amount of comfort in the belief that once the habit is developed, courage tends to be available in the amounts needed by present circumstances. I have never been faced directly with the question of what I would be willing to stake my life on and possibly die for, amazing gracebut can at least hope that faced with the decision to act on what things are worth risking or even losing my life for, I would not immediately run away.

Jeanne and I recently watched one of our favorite movies—”Amazing Grace”—with a good friend who had not seen it before. The 2007 movie includes fine acting performances from various rising young actors who now are the hottest performers going—Ioan Gruffudd, Benedict Cumberbatch, Rufus Sewell, Romola Garai—the wonderful Ciaran Hinds (who knew that Julius Caesar was in the House of Commons?), and two of my favorite older actors, Michael Gambon and Albert Finney. images3FS0ITV3“Amazing Grace” is the story of William Wilberforce’s twenty year campaign to end the slave trade in England, finally accomplished in 1807 (the movie is a celebration of the bicentennial of that legislation). I have no idea how historically accurate the movie is, but as my good friend and colleague Rodney used to say, if it isn’t true it should be. It’s a great story.

Although there are certainly “good guys” and “bad guys” in the movie, no one is close to saintly or perfect. Wilberforce’s (played by Gruffudd) dogged attempts to end slavery meet with resistance for reasons that sound unfortunately familiar. Ending the slave trade will be devastating economically, there is “evidence” that the slaves in the colonies live better than the poor in Engwilberforce and newtonland, non-whites in the colonies are “the white man’s burden,” as Rudyard Kipling will write decades later, and so on. As he encounters multiple defeats and disappointments, Wilberforce is on the brink of despair when he has a conversation with his childhood minister, John Newton (played by Finney). Before becoming a member of the clergy years earlier, Newton had been a successful captain of a slave ship; through various powerful and transformative experiences, he recognized the evil underlying his profession, and famously wrote a poem that he set to a familiar and popular tune. The result was “Amazing Grace,” perhaps the most beloved song in the hymnal, in which the now-blind Newton wrote “I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see.”

In the middle of their conversation, Newton mentions he has heard that Wilberforce is returning to the faith of his youth; Wilberforce confirms the rumor, but says that while he badly needs divine inspiration and help, there have been no inspirational lightning bolts thus far. newton“Ah,” replies Newton, “but God sometimes does his work through gentle drizzle rather than storms.” It is many more years before Wilberforce and his supporting cohorts from all walks of life land on a strategy that finally works, confirming Newton’s insight. The frontal attacks of previous years, energized by righteous anger, eloquent statesmanship, and the best of moral intentions have failed again and again. It is not until an obscure lawyer in Wilberforce’s entourage of like-minded persons suggests a new strategy—essentially “we cheat”—that success is finally won. Through behind the scenes manipulation and the use of a long neglected, virtually unknown set of maritime regulations, Wilberforce does a brilliant end run on his political opponents and slavery in Great Britain soon crumbles under its own weight. It will take more than another half century and a brutal Civil War for the same to happen in the United States.

gentle drizzleGod sometimes does his work through gentle drizzle rather than storms. Ain’t it the truth? That certainly has been my experience, both in my own life and as I have observed the world around me for close to six decades. In its Latin roots, to “convert” means to “turn around,” but this turning is more often like a sunflowersunflower following the sun in its slow course across the sky than a dynamic and once-for-all event. I am an optimist at heart, something that is often difficult to sustain when I think about how much there is to be accomplished in my own life and in the world around me. But a steady rain, even a gentle drizzle, is better for my plants and grass than an inch-in-a-half-hour downpour. Beneath the layers of violence, hatred, ignorance and despair, something holy is lurking. Let the gentle drizzle and drops upon the heart release it.

It’s the Message, Stupid!

As he shepherded Bill Clinton’s successful run for the Presidency in the early 90s, James Carville famously used to keep the candidate and all campaign spokespersons on task bycarville reminding them frequently that “It’s the economy, stupid!” Don’t let yourselves get sidetracked by shiny objects along the way—keep focused and on message. If we keep reminding people about the state the economy is in and what a Clinton presidency will do about it, we’ll win. And they did. In politics, the message is everything, something that the dozen and a half or so persons seeking to win the 2016 Presidential election had better not forget. The person who best crafts a convincing message and sticks to it is likely to be our next President.

I was reminded of James Carville the other day when I received an email asking me to contribute a 500-1000 word essay to a national publication reflecting on the following question: At what point does political advocacy on the part of Christians distort or compromise the Christian message? A timely question, to be sure—my essay (which I have yet to finish) will be one of four commissioned essays the magazine will be publishing in consecutive weekly editions this fall. A sure sign that I am inexorably being drawn into the social media orbit is what I did shortly after I agreed to write the essay—practical christiansI sent the question out to a couple of Facebook groups I am a member of and simply asked for ideas and opinions. And I got some.

Mind you, these Facebook groups were carefully selected; both are loose collections of persons similar to me. Members are self-identified persons of faith, politically liberal, and willing to press the traditional boundaries of Christian religious orthodoxy regardless of where the orthodoxy comes from. At what point does political advocacy on the part of Christians distort or compromise the Christian message? Here are selected unedited comments and ideas:

  • When the advocacy stops helping others or putting others first. When the message is in conflict with the words of Jesus. church and stateWhen people feel excluded. When the message lacks love.
  • Honestly, to me, the message is compromised any time the focus is on the “letter” of the law – rather than the “spirit” of the law. And, (to me) one of Jesus’ main messages was to love God – it wasn’t to fear God – so, whenever fear (or control) is the foundation, it’s distorted. And, whenever a faith-path is used to deny people rights, suppress, etc. it’s a distortion. I had to really think about your question – because I don’t think Christianity or any other religion/faith path has a place in politics. People are free to believe & practice whatever works for them – but, I don’t like seeing or hearing it talked about – and, believe that laws should not be proposed or based on someone’s (or a particular groups) beliefs…
  • When the use of cherry picked scriptures are used to govern others and make them feel “less than” in any way.
  • Where it seeks to limit the liberty of others.

These suggestions seem eminently reasonable to me. We live in a society where church and state are deliberately and constitutionally kept separate, for the mutual protection of both. Religiously motivated advocacy runs afoul of theconstitution Constitution when it seeks to limit the freedoms of those who do not share the advocator’s religious principles. More specific to the question asked, most Christians would agree, I think, that at the heart of their faith is a spirit of love, of focusing on others rather than oneself, of concern for the least among us, and of inclusion. Policies advocated in the name of Christianity that violate this foundational spirit are a distortion of the Christian message.

Yet I have no doubt that I would have received radically different answers had I posed the question to a group of persons of faith who do not share myliberal progressive liberal/progressive convictions and commitments. Anyone with the slightest awareness of what is going on in the public sphere knows that political advocacy in the name of Christian principles happens on a daily basis that at least on the surface seeks to infringe on the freedoms of others, to draw lines of exclusion rather than blurring or erasing them, as well as ignoring or underemphasizing the needs of the poor and disenfranchised. In seeking for possible explanations for these apparent contradictions, I found the following observation from a Facebook friend to be particularly helpful.

  • People who disagree on “what is the Christian message” may also disagree whether it is compromised by political advocacy.

The philosopher in me resonates with this. The question as presented to me (and presented by me to my Facebook acquaintances) is misleading because it refers to “the Christian message” as if this message is something agreed upon by all person who profess the Christian faith. This obviously is not the case. christian messageSo before we start asking about how far political advocacy can go before it distorts the Christian message, we need first to figure out what that message is. Good luck.

I honestly despair of agreement between Christians concerning what the Christian message is. The message I was taught as a child is very different than the message with which I resonate now—yet I was just as much “Christian” then as I am now. What I was taught then is extraordinarily different from what I believe now. The bridge across this disconnect, and across the disconnect between Christians now, cannot be constructed from dogmas, principles, rules, or political action. My Christian faith prompts me to endorse policies and perspectives that directly conflict with the very policies and perspectives endorsed by fellow Christians whose understanding of the implications of their faith is entirely different from mine. So what is to be done?

On one level of understanding, I don’t know. But I am reminded of the story in the gospels of the Publican and the Pharisee. publican and phariseeThe Pharisee’s prayer was public, self-righteous, and confident in his conviction that he understood the mind of God. The Publican’s prayer was unobserved, private, and repentant. And guess whose prayer Jesus endorsed? Samuel Coleridge once wrote that Christianity is a life, not a doctrine. The Christian who advocates politically should not be promoting a rule of law but rather exemplifying a way of life. I wonder whether Christian political advocacy might not be an oxymoron. Who I am, what I advocate and fight for in the public square, should not be a matter of principles and doctrines. It should rather be a natural reflection of the person my faith has caused me to become. And since faith works in radically individual ways, the expressions of lived Christian faith will be as various and unique as the persons within whom that faith has made a difference.

giraffe mother

Her Children Rise Up

Last Sunday I was lector at church for the first time in many weeks. The first reading from the Jewish Scriptures was from Proverbs and included a passage that brought tears to my eyes: “She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue . . . Her children rise up and call her blessed.” These are the verses I used when dedicating my first book to my mother over twenty years ago, just a few years after she died far too young. I wrote about her about a year ago on this blog . . .

I learned something interesting about giraffes from one of my colleagues the other day. He was lecturing on Roman art and architecture; when discussing the Coliseum, he mentioned that Roman audiences loved to watch novelty battles—between a woman and a dwarf, or a dog and a porcupine for instance. The voracious Roman appetite for more and more exotic beasts and contests produced a variety of combatants from all corners of the empire, including elephants, apes, the great cats, and rhinoceroses. fighting giraffeAnd giraffes.

Imagine the scene: a fighting giraffe towers above its opponent, then with one swift motion lowers its large jaws and bites the head off its human or non-human combatant. And the crowd goes wild. Except that giraffes turned out to be rather disinterested gladiators, preferring to lope lazily around the arena, look for vegetation to munch, and take naps rather than fighting to the death. Pacifists in the arena aren’t very entertaining, so giraffes in the Coliseum gave way to slightly more aggressive creatures. None of this surprised me, because although I have no direct experience with giraffes other than admiring them at the zoo, I gained intimate knowledge over the years of giraffe-like gentleness and peace, channeled through beloved human form—my mother.

Although I would have denied it vociferously as a boy or adolescent, I was a classic momma’s boy. untitledMy older brother loved my mother but was all about Dad, while my attachments were the exact opposite. My brother and I were a twentieth-century version of Esau and Jacob. My mother was a 100% Swede, with the appropriate accompanying last name (“Thorsen”—son of Thor), stature, and stoic personality. She was the stable center of my universe, while my father, an itinerant preacher and fund-raiser for his small Bible school, was on the road as often as he was home. We lived out in the country and my brother and I rode the bus a half-hour each way every school day. rapture and tribulationMy mother’s loving presence when I entered the house after a long day at work was so predictable and expected that on the rare occasions when she was not where I expected her to be I assumed the worst. I imagined that the rapture I had heard about so often in church and was so afraid of had occurred and my mother had been snatched up into heaven, leaving my brother and me, sinners that we were, to fend for ourselves during the tribulation to come. Be careful how much Baptist theology gets packed into Sunday School for the youngsters—someone will probably take it seriously.

Flashing forward several decades, shortly after we met (introduced by my parents), Jeanne mentioned to me that she had always thought of my mother as a giraffe—Jeanne knew my parents well for ten years or so before the two of us ever met. I had never imagined my mother as a giraffe, but once Jeanne said it I realized that it was a perfect comparison. giraffes can't danceMy mother had the temperament, grace, and even the long neck of a giraffe. Jeanne pulled out a children’s book the other day entitled Giraffes Can’t Dance—with my mother in mind, there should also be books called Giraffes Can’t Go To Movies and Giraffes Can’t Drink Alcoholic Beverages. Baptist giraffes, at least, did not do such things and neither did my mother.

My mother was in many ways a typical 1950s homemaker, cooking, cleaning, knitting, sewing, and generally making the place run. My father was charismatic and volatile; my mother was neither. But she provided a foundation and safety net so secure and reliable that on the few occasions that she was sick, away, or for some other reason unable to play her usual roles my inner world would temporarily descend into chaos. My father had a great sense of humor; my mother couldn’t tell a joke without either forgetting a crucial part of the setup or screwing up the punchline. Bruce and Trudy's wedding picture (2)She had no enemies and disliked no one. That’s not entirely true—I know of a couple of people over the years about whom she actually said something negative. I’ve often noted that the definition of a total asshole is someone that my mother would not have liked.

The word that most immediately comes to mind when I think about my mother—which I do frequently—is peace. She was the embodiment of parental love, setting a standard that I seldom if ever lived up to when I became a parent. But her presence and demeanor surrounded those around her in an atmosphere of calmness. Last Sunday during the All Saints liturgy, as both my mother and father were present to me even more than usual, I noticed how many times the word “peace” has a central place in the Episcopal service: “In peace we pray to you, Lord God,” “The peace of the Lord be always with you,” “The peace that passes understanding keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge of Christ.” The deep center of peace that I’ve discovered within over the past few years is where I believe God is—it is also where I am most deeply connected with my mother.

I am an interesting mixture of elements inherited from my parents. My sense of humor, what skills I have as a teacher, my love of books and the life of the mind, my intellectual restlessness and constant questioning of my faith, and my relatively low tolerance for being sick or for pain I get from my father. I remember many years ago a couple, B and N, who had known my parents for years before I met them were telling Jeanne and me stories about various times that my parents stayed at their house. These stories frequently featured my father being demanding, temperamental and self-centered as he often was. N said to me “in many ways, you remind me a lot of your father. But you’re a lot nicer.” Trudy and Bruce summer or fall of 1979If so, it is only because I inherited my mother’s natural concern for things and people other than herself, her Swedish even temperament, and her ability to empathize deeply (perhaps too deeply at times) with others. Of course I could also write about my negative characteristics that I also inherited equally from my parents, but I’m running out of space in this essay.

My mother was born on Halloween and would have been eighty-six years old last Friday. I shudder to think of what a handful my father at that age might have been, but I imagine my mother at eighty-six as just an older and smaller version of the loving, peaceful giraffe-like person that she was. She died far too young of cancer only three weeks short of her sixtieth birthday; I am just one year younger now than she was when she died. I recall receiving phone calls and cards from friends of my parents whom I never had met in the weeks after she died—the gist of most of them was that while my father the preacher and teacher was the ostensible draw and star of the meetings he held across the country, giraffe mother 2my mother was the real attraction. “We came to hear Bruce, but we really wanted to spend time with Trudy.” I dedicated my first book, published six years after she died, to my mother with the following verses from Proverbs: She opens her mouth with wisdom . . . Her children rise up and call her blessed.

Mom lived just long enough to play matchmaker and facilitate the meeting and budding romance between her little boy and the person whom she somehow knew had the potential to be the love of my life. Jeanne and I met at my parents’ condominium the day before Thanksgiving in 1987; I was accompanied by my seven- and five-year old sons, just five months after the end of a difficult eleven-year marriage. Things clicked, our relationship developed with nightly telephone conversations between Santa Fe and Laramie, and when Jeanne joined me in Laramie and we returned with the boys to spend the Christmas holidays with my parents, we stayed at the local Motel Six (no room at my parents’ small condo) where my mother had properly reserved separate rooms—with an adjoining door. Thanks, Mom.

Mom and her sisters

Mom and her sisters

Date Afternoon

Marriage experts (if there are such things) often suggest that all married couples, even those who have been married for so long that they can’t remember when they weren’t married, should regularly schedule times just for themselves, times when they deliberately leave their children, animals, jobs, worries, home and everything else behind for some “us” time. NYAJThis is often called “date night,” which is an attractive title only for those who remember their dating years fondly—I’m not one of them. But I agree with the idea behind the concept. Jeanne’s and my “date night” is pretty simple and predictable—a movie preceded by or followed by a drink and something to eat. Our latest such foray involved a fifteen mile ride to Massachusetts (one is never farther than a half hour from another state anywhere in Rhode Island), a movie, then a drink and light dinner at Not Your Average Joe’s (our go-to place to eat). This should probably be called a “date afternoon,” since we almost always go to the 4:00ish showing of whatever we are seeing in order to pay a couple of bucks less. Yes, we are both cheap dates.

As we left the theatre on our most recent date afternoon, I said “I liked that.” And I did—I’ve often said that one way to tell whether a movie was worth the price of admission is to see whether the two of us talk about it much afterward. At the bar in NYAJ’s fifteen minutes or so later, as I drank an AllagashAllagash Black Porter and Jeanne consumed a Diet Pepsi with a vodka chaser (there’s no accounting for taste), she returned my attention to movie by saying “I’m really surprised you liked that movie. I didn’t think you would.” And she was right—it was exactly the sort of film that I would have hated—probably would have not wanted to see at all—not very long ago. It would have pushed about a dozen different buttons that I didn’t want pushed and resurrected a number of memories that are best left in the tomb. Maybe I’ve changed just a bit.

The movie was “War Room.” The first red flag is that this is a “Christian” movie—made by Christians, about Christians, with Christian actors, message, themes, activities, attitudes and food. war roomThose who have a similar upbringing and history to mine should already be cringing. “Christian movies” have during my lifetime earned the reputation of being propagandistic, jingoistic, in your face, smug and judgmental. Join that with abominable cinematography, ludicrous story lines, and atrocious acting and you have a product worthy of being shown only in church basements on Sunday evenings and viewed only by those who have been bathing in fundamentalist Kool Aid their whole lives. But over the past few years, movies with a Christian orientation have begun to press their way into the movie mainstream and have been popping up at neighborhood multiplexes, not through godless Hollywood but independent films constructed and packaged by people who actually know how to make and promote a real movie for real people, populated with believable characters played by talented actors.

“War Room” is a case in point. The movie is well put together, all of the actors do a more than satisfactory job, and toward the end there is a ten minute or so scene of a jumping rope championship that has to be seen to be believed. Really. The story is believable as are the performances. It is yet another proof that the rank and offensively amateur nature of the Christian movies of my earlier years is a thing of the past. christian moviesSo why was Jeanne surprised that I enjoyed it? Because it is a Christian movie. And all of the improved production value and acting in the world can’t disguise it. No one is trying to hide its message—it is hard core and in your face evangelical Christian from opening to closing credits.

I’m not going to spoil the movie for you, since you really should see it, but its plot is pretty predictable for this sort of film. A couple who has been married for several years has grown apart; their primary formx of communication are fighting and silence. The husband is obsessed with his job (pharmaceutical sales) and being a success, highly motivated and colossally impressed with himself. He is married to a successful business woman (real estate); between their jobs and their arguing, they have little time remaining for their only child, their ten year old daughter. Into their stressful world and deteriorating relationship comes a person of faith—prayer warriorthe sort of person we called a “prayer warrior” when I was growing up—who has been around the block a number of times. This person’s dynamic relationship with God has an accumulating effect on the other main characters who, first the wife then the husband, rediscover the Jesus and God they supposedly believe in but have been ignoring for a long time. By the end of the movie the couple’s relationship is restored, their attention to their daughter has returned, and both are ready to live out a renewed commitment to Christ.

And Jeanne was surprised that I liked the movie. “Why didn’t you think I would like it?” I asked, and her answer made perfect sense. “Because it is fundamentalist and evangelical Christianity,” reminding me that these are both the things that I was raised in and have spent most of my adult life trying to get over. And she’s right. The faith on display in “War Room” is no longer mine—it did sufficient damage to me that I tried in my twenties to leave Christianity entirely. So why did I enjoy the movie? fundy evangelicalBecause there is not an ounce of judgment in it. In other words, while is evangelical it is definitely not fundamentalist. The story is about people struggling with their lives and looking for a lifeline, not about the destiny of those who do not share the lifeline with them once they find it. After several weeks of a Kentucky county clerk refusing to obey the law and expressing judgment concerning those who do not agree with her, all in the name of her Christian faith, Kim Davisit was nice to see faith portrayed as a source of inspiration and stimulant for living one’s life in a difficult world rather than proscribing what’s best for everyone else.

My response to Jeanne’s answer to my question, though, was along slightly different lines. I have frequently said over the past few years, as I live out unexpected but entirely welcome changes in my own perspective and life, that the best proof of the importance of faith is a changed life. No amount of doctrine, dogma, rules, Scripture, or proselytizing can beat the testimony of the blind man in the gospel: “I was blind, but now I see.” who am i to judgeAnd that’s what this movie was about—changed lives. This is who I was, this is who I am, and this is who I hope to be. The method and manner of the changes portrayed is quite different than what I have experienced, but change for the better is a great thing no matter the process. As a famous Argentinian living in Rome who will be visiting the U.S. soon said recently, “who am I to judge?”

Where is the Gardener?

2011-03-22-the-unseen-gardenerOnce upon a time two explorers came upon a clearing in the jungle. In the clearing were growing many flowers and many weeds. One explorer says, “Some gardener must tend this plot.” The other disagrees, “There is no gardener.” So they pitch their tents and set a watch. No gardener is ever seen. “But perhaps he is an invisible gardener.” So they set up a barbed-wire fence. They electrify it. They patrol with bloodhounds. (For they remember how H. G. Wells’s The Invisible Man could be both smelt and touched though he could not be seen.) But no shrieks ever suggest that some intruder has received a shock. No movements of the wire ever betray an invisible climber. The bloodhounds never give cry.

Yet still the believer is not convinced. “But there is a gardener, invisible, intangible, insensitive to electric shocks, a gardener who has no scent and makes no sound, a gardener who comes secretly to look after the garden which he loves.” At last the Skeptic despairs, ‘but what remains of your original assertion? bb8c4889389c165a36d352b8fde1d068[1]Just how does what you call an invisible, intangible, eternally elusive gardener differ from an imaginary gardener or even from no gardener at all?”

This story, or “parable,” was offered at the beginning of an academic symposium by British philosopher Anthony Flew over a half century ago as a way to get people to thinking about their beliefs and the evidence that supposedly counts for or against those beliefs. The Believer in the story seems bound and determined to believe that there is a gardener that takes care of the flowers in the clearing, even in the face of no supporting factual evidence. The Skeptic is only willing to believe in the gardener along with the Believer if shown relevant evidence. “I agree that there are flowers and that there are weeds here, but there are many possible explanations for this in addition to your gardener hypothesis,” the Skeptic might say. “Let’s test your hypothesis.” When it turns out that the Believer doesn’t need evidence to support his belief, the Skeptic knows that the conversation has come to an end. For what can be said to a person who insists on believing something even when there is no supporting evidence or, worse, even when there is strong evidence contrary to the belief?

The symposium at which Anthony Flew provided this parable was entitled “Theology and Falsification”—in short, what is the relationship between belief in God and evidence that might count for or against such belief? The plot with flowers and weeds is an image of the world we live in, a world that contains both beautiful and ugly things. How to account for the beautiful and the ugly, the good and the bad, existing side-by-side in every corner at every level of our reality? The Believer says “God (the gardener) is responsible for the beautiful things,” responsibility-1and the Skeptic challenges “but why would a God interested in creating beautiful and good things allow these ugly and evil things to continue existing?” In other words, “Who is responsible?”

The Psalms in the daily lectionary this week have focused on the “Who is responsible?’ theme. If you ever want to get bummed out, to wonder what on earth God is up to, drop in to any Psalm in the 50 to 60 range and experience the silence and absence of God along with the Psalmist. In virtually every one of these Psalms, something has gone wrong and the Psalmist is looking for answers.

57843571_640My best friend betrayed me—what are you going to do about it?

Wicked people are prospering—what are you going to do about it?

My life is not working out the way I want it to—what are you going to do about it?

People I know are sick and need healing—what are you going to do about it?

Someone I love has been treated unfairly—what are you going to do about it?

Most of these Psalms end with an “I will worship and praise you anyways” sort of final verse, but they don’t sound particularly sincere. Tflannery hathroughout these Psalms is an energy and anger that reminds me of Ruby Turpin in Flannery O’Connor’s short story “Revelation” who, when her expectations concerning God have been disappointed one too many times, shakes her fist at the sky and shouts “WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE??

It’s a place that everyone who believes in the goodness of God will eventually arrive. And it’s all a matter of disappointed expectations. If God is God, why is this happening? If I can’t depend on God to be there when expected, to set things right when I don’t approve of them, to punish the wicked and reward the just, what’s the point of believing? As the skeptic asks the believer in frustration, what’s the difference between a God who cannot be detected, understood, explained or relied upon and no God at all.

These questions are the gateway to what one of my students in a colloquium focused on these issues this past semester told me the course had challenged her to develop: a more nuanced and interesting faith. There is abundant evidence that runs counter to the relatively simplistic divine model that many of us were taught to believe in, the model of a problem solving, prayer answering God who can be manipulated into acting by the proper procedures and pious intentions. A more nuanced and interesting faith, a faith that gets the believer out of the nursery of faith and into the arena of encounter with something far more challenging and disturbing, is a faith that neither ignores contrary evidence nor gives up on belief at the first sign of trouble. indexThe question is, do I want to believe in a God I can’t predict or control, a God who refuses to behave in the manner I would prefer? As Thomas Cahill asks in The Gifts of the Jews,

Can we open ourselves to the God who cannot be understood, who is beyond all our amulets and scheming, the God who rains on picnics, the God who allows human beings to be inhuman, who has sentenced all of us to die?

Opening up to that sort of God requires both guts and a willingness to continually readjust and retool. But it is certainly interesting.

help someone

A Case of Mistaken Identity

costnerJeanne and I are great lovers of movies. As I have described in this blog on several occasions, my all-time favorite movie is “Dead Poet’s Society;” Jeanne’s is “Chariots of Fire.” But a different movie that appears on both of our “top ten” lists—a movie that I am thinking of frequently these days as politicians seek to attract the attention and support of the good citizens of the heartland—is “Field of Dreams.” The story is familiar to most everyone—pure magic with Kevin Costner, James Earl Jones, Burt Lancaster and Ray Liotta in an Iowa corn field. Toward the end of the movie, as Ray Kinsella begins throwing a baseball with his father who died years earlier and who Ray had rejected long before that, John Kinsella asks “Is this heaven?” “No,” Ray replies—“It’s Iowa.” its iowaEvery four years, Iowa is a place where the dreams of Presidential hopefuls come either to die or to live until the next primary, but the Iowa of “Field of Dreams” is a place where, at least for a time, the dividing line between this world and what lies beyond is blurred.

Joan Chittister tells the story of another case of mistaken identity. On a busy Manhattan street, hundreds of people per minute rush by a young woman’s fruit and vegetable stand; vegetable standher daily business depend on her produce being attractive enough as a quick lunch or snack to draw people away from their focused and determined travels to their next destination. Suddenly, everyone heard the crash. The produce stand teetered for a moment, then the baskets containing apples, oranges, pears, tomatoes and peppers fell off the stand onto the sidewalk. They rolled in every direction, under the feet of pedestrians and toward the sewer grates along the street. The girl behind the stand burst into tears, fell to her knees, and began to sweep her hands as far as she could reach in an attempt to gather in her produce. “What am I going to do?” she wailed. “It’s all ruined! I won’t be able to sell any of this!”

One man, rushing by with a few colleagues on his way to a meeting a few blocks down the avenue, upon seeing her distress stopped and came back. “Go on—I’ll catch up with you!” he shouted to his companions. He got down with the young woman on the sidewalk and started retrieving what produce he could. overturned fruitIt was only then, as he watched her sweep her hands across the sidewalk in every direction with her face pointed upward, that he realized the young woman was blind. “What am I going to do?” she kept crying.

After returning her cart to an upright position and putting the items he had been able to collect back in their baskets, the man took forty dollars out of his wallet and pressed it into her hand. “Here is forty dollars to pay for the damage we caused,” he said as he prepared to go. The girl stood up and reached in the direction of where she had heard his voice. “Mister,” she called out after him—“Mister, wait!” He turned around, returned to where she was standing, and looked into her blind eyes. “Mister,” she asked, “are you Jesus?”Where's jesus

Chittister doesn’t reveal the man’s answer to the question, but I know what mine would have been. Assuming, of course, that I had been good enough to stop and help the woman while hurrying from one place to another. I’d like to think that I would have helped, but the truth is that Jeanne is far more likely to have immediately gotten on her hands and knees to help and would have dragged me down to do so as well. My answer to the “are you Jesus?” question would have been first to laugh, then say something like “no, that’s well above my pay grade!” The blind woman’s question is understandable—this is the sort of thing that one can imagine Jesus doing, regardless of whether one is a Christian—above my pay gradebut we forget that all we have of what Jesus was like are vignettes, bits and pieces of the sorts of things the guy and his entourage were up to for three years as they wandered the countryside and towns.

It is very possible, though, that the gospels are a “greatest hits” sort of account; stories of the undoubtedly many times Jesus walked by someone in need or failed to recognize a person in distress aren’t likely to sell very well or generate many followers over the generations. But even in the gospels we catch glimpses of Jesus in a hurry, Jesus worn out by the crowds, and Jesus having a bad day. The young woman’s “Are you Jesus?” question is not inspired by a miracle performed or an eloquent sermon delivered—she asks because the man who helps is doing the sort of thing that human beings do when they are at their best rather than in a rush, self-absorbed, or unaware of what is right in front of them. In her mind “Jesus” is the name for the best that a human being can be. That is definitely not above my pay grade.

Within the context of my Christian faith, helping those in need is not only within my pay grade, it is according to the gospels a requirement of my faith. According to the texts, the one guaranteed way to piss God off is to fail to pay attention to the poor, widows, homeless, orphans, and all those who have fallen through the cracks. To be a follower of Jesus is, by definition, to be a person who is on the front lines of aid and protection for the less fortunate. Thelp someonehis is more than a moral directive—it is the direct outcome of the Christian story of Incarnation. God in human form, the divine clothed in mortal flesh—this is the heart and soul of the Christian faith and it how God continues to be present and work in the world. God made flesh is not just a moment in time that we celebrate two millennia later. As Chittister points out, the created world in which we live can only be completed when we take ownership of the divine within us and act accordingly.

Chittister Impersonating Catholic copyGod did not finish creation; God started it. Its ongoing development God leaves to us. What we do in life makes us the hands of God in living flesh and blood. Having made the world, having given it everything it needs to continue, having brought it to the point of abundance and possibility and dynamism, God left it for us to finish. God left it to us to be the mercy and the justice, the charity and the care, the righteousness and the commitment, all that it will take for people to bring the goodness of God to outweigh the rest.

Sister Joan closes the story of the blind young lady with the shocking, but empowering truth;

Are you Jesus? people ask us silently every day. And the answer formed in us if we live it with constancy, with regularity, with fidelity, is surely, yes.

Behind the Curtain

Not long ago I led a seminar with a number of colleagues from the Honors Program as part of a two-day end-of-the-semester workshop. Our text was several essays from Michel de Montaigne, a sixteenth-century diplomat, philosopher, and introvert who has become one of my favorite authors over the past few years. My general tendency, both as a philosopher and as a normal human being, is toward the details rather than grand, sweeping schemes, and toward skepticism rather than certainty. French wars of religionMontaigne speaks directly to both of these tendencies. He lived in 1500s France in the midst of the bloody French wars of religion that broke out between Catholics and Protestants in the wake of the Reformation, and frequently comments on the absurdity of human beings claiming to know with certainty anything about the nature or will of God. He observes that “there is nothing in the whole world madder than bringing matters down to the measure of our own capacities and potentialities,” arguing that “It is hard to bring matters divine down to human scales without their being trivialized.” He was a person of faith and considered himself to be a good Catholic, but sought to live the sort of life that he most admired: “The most beautiful of lives to my liking are those which conform to the common measureOz, human and ordinate, without miracles, though, and without rapture.” Words of wisdom, I think.

But there is in many of us a seemingly incurable desire to peek into the mind of God. As Dorothy and her entourage in The Wizard of Oz, we want to know what’s behind the curtain. On the way to the early show at church one recent Sunday, Jeanne and I caught the last few minutes of Krista Tippett’s radio program On Being. She was interviewing Jewish theologian and prolific author KushnerRabbi Lawrence Kushner, who ended the interview with a charming story from one day when he was giving a bunch of preschoolers a tour of the synagogue.

I was leading a tour of the sanctuary, of the prayer hall with the children in the congregation’s preschool. And then I figured as a piece de resistance I’d have them come onto the bima, or the little prayer stage up in front of the room, where there was an ark where we kept the scroll of the Torah. It was accessible via a big floor-to-ceiling curtain. And I got them up on the stage, and I was about to call them—’Open the ark,’ but I saw the teacher at the back tapping her wristwatch, which as you may know, is an old Talmudic gesture, which means your time is about up, bucko. So, I said, ‘I tell you what, boys and girls. We’ll come back when we get together again in a couple of weeks, we’ll come back here and I’m going to open that curtain there and show you what’s behind it.’ It’s very special. You know, and so they all say, “Shalom, Rabbi,” and like little ducklings, follow the teacher back to the class.
Well, the next day, the teacher shows up at my office with the following story. Apparently the preceding day’s hastily-concluded lesson has occasioned the fierce debate among the little people as to what is behind the curtain. They didn’t know. And, the following four answers are given, which is I think pretty interesting.

FNAnswer One: The first kid guessed that there is absolutely nothing behind the curtain. As Kushner notes, this kid “is obviously destined to become a professor of nihilistic philosophy at a great university.” I read recently in the NY Times that 68% of academic philosophers in this country describe themselves as atheists, with 13% more leaning in that direction. I had no idea that I am in such a minority amongst my peers—what do they know that I don’t know? Food for thought and another post, perhaps. I am reminded of a story Nietzsche tells—in a dream he once took the mask off a Greek sculpture and found himself “staring into the empty eye sockets of nothingness.”

jewish holy thingsAnswer Two: Another preschooler, playing a safe hand, thought that behind the curtain one would find a Jewish holy thing. This kid will probably turn out to be a nominal follower of Judaism, recognizing the existence of “holy things” and perhaps people like the rabbi who are strangely obsessed by “holy things,” but unlikely to be bothered by what they might represent and what Holy Thing might be lurking behind such “holy things.” Pretty much like the vast majority of children cranked out of Protestant Sunday Schools and CCD classes every year.

Monty HallPat SajakAnswer Three: A third kid, channeling his inner Monty Hall or Pat Sajak, hoped that a brand new car was behind the curtain. There are any number of televangelists who scream something similar from various media outlets on a daily basis. There’s something attractive about The Gospel of Prosperity, the notion that God wants the most faithful followers of the Divine Plan to be rich and prosperous. Too bad that there is not a shred of evidence to support the idea anywhere that I’m aware of.

Answer Four: The most fascinating answer came from child number four. As Kushner tells it, “the fourth kid said no, you’re all wrong. mirrorNext week when that rabbi man comes and opens that curtain, behind it, there will be a giant mirror.” Not only is this creative and interesting, I’m more and more coming to believe that this little boy or girl is right. What one expects or hopes for when engaged in faith-related activities may say little or nothing about God, but it says a lot about the person doing the expecting and hoping. Whatever God is—if God is—our thinking and believing about God always begins with what we want and need God to be. Somehow the four-year-old knew that whatever is hidden behind the curtain is us. The story of Incarnation, of God becoming human so that we might become God as Irenaeus put it, begins with this mirror.


Mister Perfect Has a Bad Day

A conversation heard behind the scenes:

Dude! Did you see what just happened??

How could I?? I’m in charge of the fucking luggage today and am stuck way back here. Why is the crowd always biggest when I have luggage duty?

The big guy just got dissed in front of everyone!

Are you shitting me? Tell me!

He was already in a pissy mood and this woman kept nagging him and bothering him until he finally put her in her place with one of his patented one-liners.

What else is new? That’s what he always does.

images0EW9Y1AOYeah, but she came right back at him with an even better put-down! And he admitted he was wrong!

HE ADMITTED HE WAS WRONG??? Oh My God!! You mean “MISTER PERFECT” made a mistake?? MISTER PERFECT admitted he was wrong?? Oh how the mighty have fallen! Priceless!!

Admit it. Every one of us has participated in a conversation like this at some point—probably more than once. Because deeply embedded in the heart of human nature is the desire to see the high and mighty take a pratfall. Henry VIII goutWe love hearing about the peccadilloes and foibles of those we put on a pedestal and enjoy finding out that they are flawed and limited just like the rest of us. It’s great to know that Henry the Eighth was afflicted with gout and that Napoleon suffered from hemorrhoids. WMIMI would love to find out that The World’s Most Interesting Man has an embarrassing case of athlete’s foot or dandruff or has bad teeth. Anything is welcome that lets us know that those who we, on the one hand, praise to the skies and worship in some fashion, on the other hand have feet (or other body parts) of clay.

The conversation above is what I imagine was going on behind the scenes of a classic story of someone’s imperfections showing in a very public way. The Sunday gospel readings during the summer in the common lectionary wander through Jesus’ activities and shenanigans as described by the gospel author of the year. tombsLast Sunday we encountered Jesus putting the finishing touches on yet another devastating dismantling of the religious authorities of the day. The disciples ask “Do you know that the Pharisees took offense when they heard what you said?” No shit—people usually don’t like being called white-washed tombs and hypocrites. Jesus is still pontificating as he and his entourage hit the road for the next town, undoubtedly still heated by self-righteous energy. Cue up yesterday’s gospel from Mark.

As the group presses forward, a woman elbows her way to within shouting distance of Jesus. Her accent and clothing show that she is a Caananite, a non-Jew, but that doesn’t stop her from doing whatever she can to attract Jesus’ attention because she has a big problem. Her daughter is “tormented by a demon,” and she knows by reputation that this itinerant preacher is also a healer. He has cast out demons before. “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon!” she screams at the top of her lungs. CanaaniteAnd she keeps screaming—her daughter’s health and well-being matter more than the fact that as a woman and as a foreigner, she has no reason to think that anyone, let alone Jesus, will take notice of her.

And for a time Jesus simply ignores her. He’s too busy, too tired, too annoyed by the crowds, too something to be bothered with this woman. But she continues screaming for his help, so much so that now it’s getting embarrassing. “Send her away,” a disciple or two mutters to him. “She keeps shouting after us.” “Jesus Christ” (really) Jesus finally sighs. “Enough already.” Turning to the annoying foreigner, he says “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” Ignoring this rather gentle dismissal, she simply gasps, with tears flowing down her cheeks, “Lord, help me.” That should work, right? This is Jesus, after all, the ultimate good guy who never turns down an opportunity to help the needy who come across his path.

But no. Jesus counters that “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” Oh my. That’s not very nice. And we know from other stories that Jesus has often addressed the needs of non-Jews without hesitation. The hero of one of his best stories, the Good Samaritan, is a non-Jew. So what the hell’s his problem? Simple enough—he isn’t in the mood. Just as all human beings—and he was one, after all—he’s having a tough day and he’s not at his best. He doesn’t feel like helping this foreign bitch (he just called her a dog, after all) and has provided a perfectly good rationalization for why he doesn’t have to. dog and crumbsEnd of story—the demons can have your daughter.

Not quite. This woman is not only insistent, but she’s also as quick on her feet as Jesus is. “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table!” Touché! In your face, holy man! This is impressive—her retort is the sort of thing that I always come up with hours after the conversation is over and I’m alone. “Man, I should have said . . .” But despite her panicked concern for her daughter, the unnamed woman is able to match Jesus one-liner for one-liner with her daughter’s health, perhaps her life, at stake. And even more impressively, it works. Something here, her persistence, her intelligence, her lack of regard for propriety, cuts through Jesus’ bullshit. “Woman, great is your faith. Let it be done for you as you wish.” “And her daughter was healed instantly.” The Jesus posse continues on its way and we never hear of this woman again.

So what’s the takeaway? Without the exchange between Jesus and the woman, this tale would be indistinguishable from dozens of other accounts of persons healed by Jesus. Why does the author choose to tell the story in this fashion? In the estimation of many, Jesus is the ultimate and cosmic “Mister Perfect”—their faith depends on it. nicene creedSo why make a point of showing that even Jesus had off days, could be rude and judgmental, and had clay body parts just as we all do? In addition to driving home the “Jesus was a human being” point, one the Nicene Creed tells Christians every Sunday but that we tend to ignore, there’s a more direct behavioral lesson to be learned here. Jesus listened. Even on a bad day crowded with distractions and annoyances, he was able to hear the truth, recognize he was being an ass, and wake up. We all have bad days, perhaps many more than Jesus did, and we tend to use “I was having a bad day” as a justification for all manner of bad behavior, even to those we love the most. The story of Mister Perfect having a bad day lets us know not only that the best of us occasionally fail to live up to expectations, but also that such failures need not be debilitating. Each of us can hear the truth and change a bad day into a not-so-bad one. Even Mister Perfect.

Back to the behind the scenes conversation:

Iwalk on water love it! Mister Perfect is having a bad day! Mister Perfect, who probably thinks he can walk on water, made a mistake!

Dude, he CAN walk on water.

Shut up.


The Return of Republican Jesus

Numerous polls report that as of today, Donald Trump is the preferred candidate of conservative Evangelical Christians for the Republican nomination for President. I don’t get it. As Frank Bruni wrote last week in a NY Times op-ed,trump-hair

Trump-ward Christian Soldiers?

I must not be watching the same campaign that his evangelical fans are, because I don’t see someone interested in serving God. I see someone interested in being God.

Last summer I wrote about the “Republican Jesus” phenomenon and wondered how a serious Christian squares her or his faith commitments with the conservative Republican world view. I’m still wondering.

I’m not sure how I became a liberal. I was raised in a conservative, fundamentalist religious world that frowned on liberal activities such as dancing and going to movies; left-leaning political positions were never mentioned. barry_button1Northeastern Vermont is not known as a hotbed of liberal attitudes. My father was as politically aware as watching Walter Cronkite every night on television allowed him to be, and he was a classic reactionary voter. Starting with the first Presidential election I remember, mondalemy father voted for JFK, Goldwater, Humphrey, Nixon, Carter, Reagan, Mondale, Bush the First, Clinton, Dole, and Gore before passing away in 2002. He was always voting against someone or somethingdole-button-1. The only time I recall hearing my mother saying anything about politics was probably the only time she voted differently than my father. As she returned home from voting in the ’72 Presidential election, I asked her who she voted for. “McGovern,” she said. “I just don’t like the sound of that Watergate thing.”

I was too young to vote in the ’72 election (I was 16), but that didn’t stop me from wearing a McGovern button on my jacket as I loaded groceries into customer cars at the supermarket where I worked after school. Several customers who were not in favor of someone they perceived as a virtual Communist running for President complained to ComeHomeAmericaTed, the store manager, but Ted was a liberal and was wearing a McGovern button on his store apron, so the complaints didn’t get very far. To be honest, I’m not sure how anyone who came of age in the ‘60s and early ‘70s as I did could have avoided becoming a liberal, although my cousins, who are my age and grew up in the next town managed to avoid it. The impact of growing up in the sixties and early seventies is all over me, from my ponytail to my natural attraction to pushing the envelope rather than embracing the status quo to my internal delight in ignoring rules and regulations, even if ever so slightly.

But lots of people grew up in the sixties and did not turn out to be the liberal that I have been my whole adult life. I’ve become more and more convinced over the past few years that if I am to take my faith commitments seriously, which I always have even in times when deeply submerged beneath layers of rationality, fear, hubris, complacency or even brief attempts at atheism, then if I am going to be consistent the political and social beliefs and positions I511vOzalgjL__SL500_AA280_ inhabit are going to well left of center. In other words, although there is definitely a 60s counter-cultural youngster still inside me, the real reason I am a liberal is because I am a Christian. Don’t get me wrong—I am fully aware that there are millions of people professing to be committed Christians in this country who are hard core conservatives both in their political and social beliefs and are proud of it. I just don’t know how they pull it off without crossing their fingers behind their backs.

A brief email conversation with an acquaintance several years ago illuminated this for me very clearly. My acquaintance is a Christian speaker, retreat giver and counsellor with a certain following; I was a regular recipient of her e-newsletterr-SARAH-PALIN-JOHN-MCCAIN-OBAMA-large570. During the 2008 Presidential campaign summer, she wrote passionately about her great respect for Sarah Palin, the former Governor’s ability to “stick it to the liberals,” and her plans to streamline governmental support programs. In a private email I asked my friend (ingenuously) “How do you square your political positions with your faith?” In her reply, among other interesting things, she wrote “I think that, first and foremost, Jesus wants us to stand on our own two feet and take care of ourselves.” Now that’s a Jesus that I am unfamiliar with from the Gospels, but a Jesus that has become rather popular for a lot of people in these politically polarized times: Republican Jesus.

For instance, in last Sunday’s gospel reading from Matthew, Jesus feeds five thousand people with five loaves and two fishes, not because he’s a show-off in need of a signature miracle on his resume, but because “he was moved with compassion for them.” Regardless of whether you believe this story to be factual or allegorical, it undoubtedly illustrates the compassionate heart of the gospels. In the same situation, however, Republican Jesus would have acted otherwise:lazy jesusfeeding 5000





The Jesus of the gospels came from poverty, was poor his whole life, had little if anything positive to say about the pursuit of money and wealth, and had tough news for the rich young man who wanted to be his disciple—“Sell all you have and give it to the poor, then come follow me.” I suspect that Republican Jesus would have encouraged the rich young ruler to continue amassing wealth and enabling others to do so, in keeping with an often forgotten part of the Beatitudes: Blessed are the one percent, for their wealth shall trickle down to those who do not work as hard , and who are not as smart and creative (maybe). Republican Jesus would have endorsed the message of the “Gospel of Prosperity” ministers who preach that financial success is a sign of God’s favor.NVP

Toward the end of Matthew’s gospel, Jesus summarizes what the life of following his example requires succinctly: I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me . . . Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me. Republican Jesus? A different attitude entirely.   Jesus with rifle

It’s all parody and sarcasm, of course, and the Republican Jesus meme has gone viral all over social media. Unfortunately, the positions and attitudes expressed by Republican Jesus are carried out on a daily basis by well-meaning persons who simply assume that their hardcore conservative values somehow or another mesh seamlessly with the teachings of the Jesus whom they claim to love and follow. And I don’t get it. There are good reasons to take various political/social positions, and there are good reasons to choose to be a Christian. The trick is remembering that what you believe in one area of your life has a direct impact on things that you believe in other areas of your life. Conservative Christians—good luck with that. It’s challenging enough as a liberal (impossible, actually), but at least I’ve got the book on my side.09ab37a6ab5e3feada1e948c21889d0c