The story of the wise men coming from the east to visit the birthplace of the Christ child is one of the staples of the Christian story. It is an account replete with unintended consequences. They are astrologers who ponder what they see in the sky; they come to Jerusalem to ask about the star they have seen and give Herod sleepless nights as a result. They arrive in Bethlehem and lay the foundations for modern gift giving by dropping off gold, frankincense and myrrh.
The story concludes: “When they had heard the king, they set out; and there, ahead of them went the star they had seen at its rising (or, in the east) until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw that the star had stopped they were overwhelmed with joy.” Matthew 2:9-11 At Christmas we sing of that joy.
This story told in the 21st century gives us pause. What exactly is going on? We might conclude that it gives credence to the astrologer’s speculation. Maybe there is something to their pondering the course of stars and planets. That is not a very comfortable conclusion for those of us in this bastion of reason.
Maybe it is simply best to focus on the gifts that were brought and to develop a theology of gift giving to undergird what has become an exercise in capitalist frenzy. I have often thought that the whole of the Christian story might be recast in terms of gifts given and gifts received. We learn to give to others out of our gratitude for what we have been given. I am often struck by how little I understand how much of my life depends on the generosity of others.
The broader Christian community has concluded that this story is an epiphany. The word is defined as a “sudden manifestation of the essence or meaning of something”. I have always had trouble with the word and often needed to be reminded of what it means. I think it is because when folk use it, it always sounds a bit judgmental. To be told you have had an epiphany has always seemed a reminder of my failing as in “I should have known that.”
In this tale, the sudden insight into meaning speaks of the notion that the birth of Jesus means something for the Gentile community, i.e. Jesus is not simply the promised one of Israel, but he is the salvation of the Gentiles; his birth has implications for the whole of humanity. This insight has become the foundation of the feast of Epiphany which is traditionally celebrated on January 6th.
It is a provocative insight and one that ought to give us pause in this day when we talk about diversity as a good that is difficult to achieve and is a goal that occupies much time on college and university campuses. At the beginning of the story which demands much attention from both Christians and Jews, we have a reminder that the human family is one and of concern to the Creator of heaven and earth.
My dream for the future as we step into this new decade is two fold and captured in the poems we share this morning that are printed on your program. Call it an epiphany for the New Year if you wish! First, I want us to reaffirm the sacred nature of the work we do with the people in this community. What we put our hands to in the educational endeavor is sacred work. On the laboratory bench, in the classroom, on the playing fields, we are shaping lives that will have profound impact on the course of our world. It is not too much to say that we are shaping eternity. My dream for the New Year is that we will have a renewed recognition of the importance of what we are about.
Secondly, we are valued. If you must, think of it simply as a sense of self worth, but as a Christian I would like for us all to know that beyond the worth we affirm, we are objects loved and cared for by the one who called creation into being. As a result our ability to love has given us the opportunity to love others and in so doing to shape humankind. My dream this new decade is that we will begin here and now, on this day in this place, to make this work real here at MIT.
Let us pray:
God give us wisdom to use our gifts in the service of this community.
Amen
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Monday, December 7, 2009
A Chapter in the Life of David
1 Samuel 20:41-22:3
We have come to an episode in David’s life where he has fallen on hard times. The solitary life of the hillside shepherd became so easy for David that not even lions and bears could keep him from success on the job. But now he was far from the comforts of that routine. Pulled out of that routine he was put in another: in charge of an army. That was probably okay, and it was probably also okay to have freedom to roam the palace as the best friend of the king’s son.
But now the king wants him dead and David is on the run. And though he was capable of raising up an army to launch a coup, or just as capable of assassinating the king, or though he could count on the heir to the kingdom as an ally, instead, David resorts to what he knows best: get out of Dodge for the solitary life. Probably an okay move all things considered. But in search of relief, David does what we all tend to do: either in fear or in ignorance, he goes out of his way to add things to his life that he really doesn’t need.
He journeys away from the palace to Nob and where the priest Ahimelech, trembling, comes out to meet him. There’s no way this VIP travels alone and the priest knows trouble when he sees it. The first thing David does that he really doesn’t need to do is he adds a lie to his identity. Ironically, he does so in order to protect himself. And yet Ahimelech might be a citizen who probably wants to protect David just the way he is, as a fugitive from the king whom everyone knows is a tyrant. In this first instance of an opportunity to trust God, in order to protect himself in the present, David instead trusts in himself, by making a false claim to strength rather than trust God with an honest claim of weakness.
The second thing David does, that he really doesn’t need to do, is he asks Ahimelech to compromise the law and give him an abundance of bread: far more than he needs, but enough to maintain the lie he has started. In this second instance of an opportunity to trust God, David again trusts in himself. David constructs another false identity, and this time, projects it into the future.
The third thing David does, that he really doesn’t need to do, is he asks the priest to give him the weapons he used in the slaying of Goliath, weapons he himself gave up in memorial to the Lord. In this third instance of an opportunity to trust God, David again trusts in himself. David constructs another false identity, and this time, projects it into the past.
So how far did David get with these false identities? David’s unnecessary manipulations are laughable and it is God who has that last laugh. After deceiving others, David even manages to deceive himself into thinking that he can truly save himself by deceiving his enemies that he’s on their side. However, his enemies are not deceived. This would likely have been the end for David, but in beginning to come to his senses, David actually does save himself. Instead of claiming things, now he’s giving them up: feigning insanity, he gives up his present identity, the bread he was counting on, and his weapons of glory. Dribbling down his beard, David has given up everything, even his self-respect.
Giving up everything you have, even if it’s to your enemy, is safer than keeping anything for yourself. With nothing left, David escapes to the cave of Adullam. And then rather than having nothing, he now has more than he can handle. 400 men who would not submit to the corrupt administration of a tyrant are now his companions, including a family of brothers who never thought much of him in the first place, but now see David as all they’ve got.
The strength and resources of 400 men would be a significant source of relief for any man, especially one trained in statecraft and warfare. The loyalty and guidance and support of a family are often enough to encourage a man through any difficulty, especially when they’re relying on you. This is a collection of ordinary, reasonable people who have suffered loss and want just one ordinary, reasonable solution: to get back what belonged to them in the first place. And now David is captain over 400 ordinary, reasonable angry people.
What more is there to pray about and what more is there to do except to prepare yourself to bring about what’s fair and what’s right and what’s just? But David is not just any ordinary, reasonable man. David has seen God strip him of the serenity of the hillside, a friend who was closer than a brother, his rank, titles, and privileges, and even his honor, having surrendered to sins of lying and deceit. Where David finally arrives at is in the place God wanted him to be from the very beginning: David says to the king of Moab, “Please let my father and my mother come and stay with you until I know what God will do for me.”
It’d be nice if he knew that from the beginning: to wait until he knew what God wanted to do. But David, like many of us, are too talented for that. In these hard times, what’s ordinary and reasonable for talented people like us is to do what David did at first: trust in no one but yourself, glory in the past, and prepare for the future. No one wants to be in a cave with 400 angry men and wait on God. Hard to imagine? It’s probably like waiting in front of Macy’s with 400 angry women on Black Friday, or in front of Best Buy with 400 angry teenagers. Maybe those images make a smelly cave sound not so bad? Quite plainly, David re-learned the only lesson that really matters: when in search of relief, whether alone or as captain of 400, it’s time to trust in the Lord.
David Thom
We have come to an episode in David’s life where he has fallen on hard times. The solitary life of the hillside shepherd became so easy for David that not even lions and bears could keep him from success on the job. But now he was far from the comforts of that routine. Pulled out of that routine he was put in another: in charge of an army. That was probably okay, and it was probably also okay to have freedom to roam the palace as the best friend of the king’s son.
But now the king wants him dead and David is on the run. And though he was capable of raising up an army to launch a coup, or just as capable of assassinating the king, or though he could count on the heir to the kingdom as an ally, instead, David resorts to what he knows best: get out of Dodge for the solitary life. Probably an okay move all things considered. But in search of relief, David does what we all tend to do: either in fear or in ignorance, he goes out of his way to add things to his life that he really doesn’t need.
He journeys away from the palace to Nob and where the priest Ahimelech, trembling, comes out to meet him. There’s no way this VIP travels alone and the priest knows trouble when he sees it. The first thing David does that he really doesn’t need to do is he adds a lie to his identity. Ironically, he does so in order to protect himself. And yet Ahimelech might be a citizen who probably wants to protect David just the way he is, as a fugitive from the king whom everyone knows is a tyrant. In this first instance of an opportunity to trust God, in order to protect himself in the present, David instead trusts in himself, by making a false claim to strength rather than trust God with an honest claim of weakness.
The second thing David does, that he really doesn’t need to do, is he asks Ahimelech to compromise the law and give him an abundance of bread: far more than he needs, but enough to maintain the lie he has started. In this second instance of an opportunity to trust God, David again trusts in himself. David constructs another false identity, and this time, projects it into the future.
The third thing David does, that he really doesn’t need to do, is he asks the priest to give him the weapons he used in the slaying of Goliath, weapons he himself gave up in memorial to the Lord. In this third instance of an opportunity to trust God, David again trusts in himself. David constructs another false identity, and this time, projects it into the past.
So how far did David get with these false identities? David’s unnecessary manipulations are laughable and it is God who has that last laugh. After deceiving others, David even manages to deceive himself into thinking that he can truly save himself by deceiving his enemies that he’s on their side. However, his enemies are not deceived. This would likely have been the end for David, but in beginning to come to his senses, David actually does save himself. Instead of claiming things, now he’s giving them up: feigning insanity, he gives up his present identity, the bread he was counting on, and his weapons of glory. Dribbling down his beard, David has given up everything, even his self-respect.
Giving up everything you have, even if it’s to your enemy, is safer than keeping anything for yourself. With nothing left, David escapes to the cave of Adullam. And then rather than having nothing, he now has more than he can handle. 400 men who would not submit to the corrupt administration of a tyrant are now his companions, including a family of brothers who never thought much of him in the first place, but now see David as all they’ve got.
The strength and resources of 400 men would be a significant source of relief for any man, especially one trained in statecraft and warfare. The loyalty and guidance and support of a family are often enough to encourage a man through any difficulty, especially when they’re relying on you. This is a collection of ordinary, reasonable people who have suffered loss and want just one ordinary, reasonable solution: to get back what belonged to them in the first place. And now David is captain over 400 ordinary, reasonable angry people.
What more is there to pray about and what more is there to do except to prepare yourself to bring about what’s fair and what’s right and what’s just? But David is not just any ordinary, reasonable man. David has seen God strip him of the serenity of the hillside, a friend who was closer than a brother, his rank, titles, and privileges, and even his honor, having surrendered to sins of lying and deceit. Where David finally arrives at is in the place God wanted him to be from the very beginning: David says to the king of Moab, “Please let my father and my mother come and stay with you until I know what God will do for me.”
It’d be nice if he knew that from the beginning: to wait until he knew what God wanted to do. But David, like many of us, are too talented for that. In these hard times, what’s ordinary and reasonable for talented people like us is to do what David did at first: trust in no one but yourself, glory in the past, and prepare for the future. No one wants to be in a cave with 400 angry men and wait on God. Hard to imagine? It’s probably like waiting in front of Macy’s with 400 angry women on Black Friday, or in front of Best Buy with 400 angry teenagers. Maybe those images make a smelly cave sound not so bad? Quite plainly, David re-learned the only lesson that really matters: when in search of relief, whether alone or as captain of 400, it’s time to trust in the Lord.
David Thom
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Christian Hope
This semester in chapel we have been looking at the importance of having hope during hard times. Last week, I watched a PBS special about how deregulation policies led to the fall of our economy. The economic experts placed too much confidence in the market to correct itself, and so advocated for a strong separation of state and the economy. This confidence in the market was based on a hope that there were large amounts of money to be made. Greed and a lack of accountability led to fraudulent activity, so we find ourselves in a recession.
God’s intention for His creation, this world and society, is described by the beautiful Hebrew word shalom. It is translated into English by the word “peace,” but it is much more than just the absence of violence. Shalom means flourishing at every level, economically, agriculturally, ecologically, psychologically and spiritually. But this is not a picture of our world and society today, is it? Things are not the way they are supposed to be and the problem doesn’t just lie in global forces that affect the economy. In the early 20th century, the British newspaper The Times invited several eminent authors to write essays on the theme "What's Wrong with the World?" One of the invited authors was G.K. Chesterton. He responded:
Dear Sirs,
I am.
Sincerely yours,
G. K. Chesterton
As a Christian, I think Chesterton rightly understood that problems of the world lie ultimately within each of us. This resonates with me. When I place other things in my life—even good things like financial security, professional success, my children’s welfare—above God, shalom is broken. My kids resent me when I try to live my life through them. My ministry to college students becomes a means to make a name for myself rather than God. Service becomes self-oriented, a means of justifying my existence rather an overflow of joyful desire to serve God. When we put secondary things in Gods’ place, we become out of tune with God’s intent. We become like instruments in a symphony doing their own thing, rather than following the lead of the conductor. Now, economic, political, social and technological solutions are needed in the world, but the human heart needs to be re-oriented so that the right solutions are applied for the right reasons and in a right manner. Most essentially, we require a spiritual solution.
One of my favorite passages from my Christian tradition that gives me hope for the human condition (especially my own) is found in Hebrews 6:19-20: “We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain, where Jesus has gone as a forerunner on our behalf, having become a high priest forever.” Jesus is personified as hope because of two essential roles he plays. One is that of high priest. By his life and death, he paid the penalty we owe for how we have vandalized shalom. In Israel, a high priest would make atonement in the temple for the sins of the people annually. Because this was a continuous cycle had no end, the question remained, “Are my sins forgiven?” But Jesus died for the sins of the world, once for all. God wants us to know that in Christ, we are forgiven and have free access to Him. This brings me levity, because the guilt and burden of my sin is gone. But there is more.
Secondly, Jesus plays the role of forerunner. That is, he has gone before. He is very much like the character Andy Dufrense in the movie The Shawshank Redemption. Andy, played by Tim Robbins, befriends another inmate Red, played by Morgan Freeman, in Shawshank prison. Red has been in prison for the majority of his life and he struggles with hope. Andy repeatedly attempts to give Red hope, but he fears hope will let him down. Andy tells Red of his plans of restoring a boat and sailing it in Mexican waters. He tells Red that he will leave a stash of money hidden under a stone in local field. If Red were to make parole, he could pay for the bus fare to Mexico. One day, Andy escapes from prison and eventually crosses the border of Mexico. Andy sends Red a blank postcard, post-marked from a particular border town, letting Red know that he has found freedom. Red finally does make parole and the end of the movie, pictures Red walking down a Mexican beach towards Andy, who is sun-tanned and working on restoring a boat. Andy was Red’s forerunner. The Christian hope is that Jesus is our forerunner. He has conquered death and returned to the Father’s presence. Because he has gone before us, he can guide us, helping live not only without the burden of sin but with hope—a hope that recognizes that the restoration of shalom is at work now, within us and around us, and that this hope will be realized at a future time when shalom will be fully restored when Jesus ushers us into God’s presence. Then, we will flourish at a global level and at a personal level as God intended.
Mike Bost
Campus Crusade
God’s intention for His creation, this world and society, is described by the beautiful Hebrew word shalom. It is translated into English by the word “peace,” but it is much more than just the absence of violence. Shalom means flourishing at every level, economically, agriculturally, ecologically, psychologically and spiritually. But this is not a picture of our world and society today, is it? Things are not the way they are supposed to be and the problem doesn’t just lie in global forces that affect the economy. In the early 20th century, the British newspaper The Times invited several eminent authors to write essays on the theme "What's Wrong with the World?" One of the invited authors was G.K. Chesterton. He responded:
Dear Sirs,
I am.
Sincerely yours,
G. K. Chesterton
As a Christian, I think Chesterton rightly understood that problems of the world lie ultimately within each of us. This resonates with me. When I place other things in my life—even good things like financial security, professional success, my children’s welfare—above God, shalom is broken. My kids resent me when I try to live my life through them. My ministry to college students becomes a means to make a name for myself rather than God. Service becomes self-oriented, a means of justifying my existence rather an overflow of joyful desire to serve God. When we put secondary things in Gods’ place, we become out of tune with God’s intent. We become like instruments in a symphony doing their own thing, rather than following the lead of the conductor. Now, economic, political, social and technological solutions are needed in the world, but the human heart needs to be re-oriented so that the right solutions are applied for the right reasons and in a right manner. Most essentially, we require a spiritual solution.
One of my favorite passages from my Christian tradition that gives me hope for the human condition (especially my own) is found in Hebrews 6:19-20: “We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain, where Jesus has gone as a forerunner on our behalf, having become a high priest forever.” Jesus is personified as hope because of two essential roles he plays. One is that of high priest. By his life and death, he paid the penalty we owe for how we have vandalized shalom. In Israel, a high priest would make atonement in the temple for the sins of the people annually. Because this was a continuous cycle had no end, the question remained, “Are my sins forgiven?” But Jesus died for the sins of the world, once for all. God wants us to know that in Christ, we are forgiven and have free access to Him. This brings me levity, because the guilt and burden of my sin is gone. But there is more.
Secondly, Jesus plays the role of forerunner. That is, he has gone before. He is very much like the character Andy Dufrense in the movie The Shawshank Redemption. Andy, played by Tim Robbins, befriends another inmate Red, played by Morgan Freeman, in Shawshank prison. Red has been in prison for the majority of his life and he struggles with hope. Andy repeatedly attempts to give Red hope, but he fears hope will let him down. Andy tells Red of his plans of restoring a boat and sailing it in Mexican waters. He tells Red that he will leave a stash of money hidden under a stone in local field. If Red were to make parole, he could pay for the bus fare to Mexico. One day, Andy escapes from prison and eventually crosses the border of Mexico. Andy sends Red a blank postcard, post-marked from a particular border town, letting Red know that he has found freedom. Red finally does make parole and the end of the movie, pictures Red walking down a Mexican beach towards Andy, who is sun-tanned and working on restoring a boat. Andy was Red’s forerunner. The Christian hope is that Jesus is our forerunner. He has conquered death and returned to the Father’s presence. Because he has gone before us, he can guide us, helping live not only without the burden of sin but with hope—a hope that recognizes that the restoration of shalom is at work now, within us and around us, and that this hope will be realized at a future time when shalom will be fully restored when Jesus ushers us into God’s presence. Then, we will flourish at a global level and at a personal level as God intended.
Mike Bost
Campus Crusade
Monday, November 16, 2009
Community=Hope
Morning Prayers * MIT Chapel * November 10, 2009
In the fall of 1995, I arrived at the seminary I was to attend excited to meet my classmates. As it turns out they were an impressive bunch: lawyers, professors, a professional calligrapher, most graduates of fancy universities, most accustomed to succeeding at whatever they set out to do. We studied Church history together, we ate together, we prayed together in the chapel three times a day, we planned Holy Week services together, we did service work together, and we socialized together.
By the middle of our second year of seminary, none of us were speaking to one another. We were entirely fed up of one another. Rivalries had bred resentments
and disagreements had festered into deep irritations. We had frustrated one another's project (which was, generally, to shine like a star wherever we went). The ego is the last idol, as Anglican theologian John Macquarrie writes, and we were each clinging to ours like a life bouy.
The mutual, seething silence didn't last forever. Eventually, by the grace of God, we let go of those idols, we forgave one another for the sin of being
human, and we slowly helped one another recompose themselves as a more authentic human being. By the time we graduated, each of us had survived the shipwreck and were able to look back, see how far we had come, give thanks for one another's role in building up one another's capacity to love, and move out into our ministries much clearer about what we had to offer and what we didn't. We spent the next year and a half traveling all over the Midwest attending one another's ordinations, so committed were we to one another's ministry.
Community is the frustration and the fulfillment of the individual (John Macquarrie). We become who we are in community, and that is by design. My Christian faith teaches me that we are created by love, for love, and so we are necessarily relational. Our very personhood is never autonomous, and it is in the rough and tumble of real families, real friendships, real communities that we are shaped into the fullness of ourselves. It is unusually much less romantic than it sounds. But it gives me hope.
One of my favorite things, as a chaplain, is seeing how community mentors a student. In our Lutheran Episcopal Ministry community, we have lots of mountain-top
Experiences -- winter hikes, hymn sings, deeply moving sharing of stories, healing prayers. And all of that is great. But what is even more great, I think, is when things go wrong, when heated words are exchanged or anger voiced, when students are tempted to give up or walk away, but by the grace of God they stick with it, they stick with one another, they are honest about
their feelings and they work back towards relationship, a relationship that feels different now, bringing a self that feels different, too. This process helps them to be less fearful, to trust their voices, and to trust that they will be loved regardless.
Community like this is the real deal. It gives me hope. More than that, I need it. Living as I do in our "Bowling Alone" culture, I need social capital
that will not disappear if I dare to cry or yell or mess up. Communicating as I do in a Twittering world, I need people who will listen to me blather on from
time to time. Working as I do in a time when employers demand super-metrics and double overtime, I need people who will affirm that my value as a person cannot
be measured on a spreadsheet. Bear one another's burdens, Paul wrote to the Galatians. That's really what Jesus was talking about. That's really what
Amos and Hosea were talking about. That's really what God has always been talking about. That gives me hope.
I want to end with an excerpt from one of my favorite essays by one of my favorite authors. This is from Anne Lamott's "Why I make Sam go to church." It's not really about church; it's about communities and hope.
"[My son] Sam is the only kid he knows who goes to church -- who is made to go to church two or three times a month. He rarely wants to. This is not exactly
true: the truth is he never wants to go. What young boy would rather be in church on the weekends than hanging out with a friend?
You might think, noting the bitterness, the resignation, that he was being made to sit through a six-hour Latin mass. Or you might wonder why I make
this strapping, exuberant boy come with me most weeks, and if you were to ask, this is what I would say.
I make him because I can. I outweigh him by nearly seventy-five pounds.
But that is only part of it. The main reason is that I want to give him what I found in the world, which is to say a path and a little light to see by. Most of the people I know who have what I want -- which is to say, purpose, heart, balance, gratitude, joy -- are people in community, who pray, or practice their faith; people banding together to work on themselves and for human rights. They follow a brighter light than the glimmer of their own candle; they are part of something beautiful. I saw something once from the Jewish Theological Seminary that said, "A human life is like a single letter of the alphabet. It can be meaningless. Or it can be a part of a great meaning." Our funky little church is filled with people who are working for peace and freedom, who are out there on the streets and inside praying, and they are home writing letters, and they are at the shelters with giant platters of food.
It's funny: I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox, full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools -- friendships, prayer, conscience, honesty -- and said, Do the best you can with these, they will have to do. And mostly, against all odds, they're enough."
In the fall of 1995, I arrived at the seminary I was to attend excited to meet my classmates. As it turns out they were an impressive bunch: lawyers, professors, a professional calligrapher, most graduates of fancy universities, most accustomed to succeeding at whatever they set out to do. We studied Church history together, we ate together, we prayed together in the chapel three times a day, we planned Holy Week services together, we did service work together, and we socialized together.
By the middle of our second year of seminary, none of us were speaking to one another. We were entirely fed up of one another. Rivalries had bred resentments
and disagreements had festered into deep irritations. We had frustrated one another's project (which was, generally, to shine like a star wherever we went). The ego is the last idol, as Anglican theologian John Macquarrie writes, and we were each clinging to ours like a life bouy.
The mutual, seething silence didn't last forever. Eventually, by the grace of God, we let go of those idols, we forgave one another for the sin of being
human, and we slowly helped one another recompose themselves as a more authentic human being. By the time we graduated, each of us had survived the shipwreck and were able to look back, see how far we had come, give thanks for one another's role in building up one another's capacity to love, and move out into our ministries much clearer about what we had to offer and what we didn't. We spent the next year and a half traveling all over the Midwest attending one another's ordinations, so committed were we to one another's ministry.
Community is the frustration and the fulfillment of the individual (John Macquarrie). We become who we are in community, and that is by design. My Christian faith teaches me that we are created by love, for love, and so we are necessarily relational. Our very personhood is never autonomous, and it is in the rough and tumble of real families, real friendships, real communities that we are shaped into the fullness of ourselves. It is unusually much less romantic than it sounds. But it gives me hope.
One of my favorite things, as a chaplain, is seeing how community mentors a student. In our Lutheran Episcopal Ministry community, we have lots of mountain-top
Experiences -- winter hikes, hymn sings, deeply moving sharing of stories, healing prayers. And all of that is great. But what is even more great, I think, is when things go wrong, when heated words are exchanged or anger voiced, when students are tempted to give up or walk away, but by the grace of God they stick with it, they stick with one another, they are honest about
their feelings and they work back towards relationship, a relationship that feels different now, bringing a self that feels different, too. This process helps them to be less fearful, to trust their voices, and to trust that they will be loved regardless.
Community like this is the real deal. It gives me hope. More than that, I need it. Living as I do in our "Bowling Alone" culture, I need social capital
that will not disappear if I dare to cry or yell or mess up. Communicating as I do in a Twittering world, I need people who will listen to me blather on from
time to time. Working as I do in a time when employers demand super-metrics and double overtime, I need people who will affirm that my value as a person cannot
be measured on a spreadsheet. Bear one another's burdens, Paul wrote to the Galatians. That's really what Jesus was talking about. That's really what
Amos and Hosea were talking about. That's really what God has always been talking about. That gives me hope.
I want to end with an excerpt from one of my favorite essays by one of my favorite authors. This is from Anne Lamott's "Why I make Sam go to church." It's not really about church; it's about communities and hope.
"[My son] Sam is the only kid he knows who goes to church -- who is made to go to church two or three times a month. He rarely wants to. This is not exactly
true: the truth is he never wants to go. What young boy would rather be in church on the weekends than hanging out with a friend?
You might think, noting the bitterness, the resignation, that he was being made to sit through a six-hour Latin mass. Or you might wonder why I make
this strapping, exuberant boy come with me most weeks, and if you were to ask, this is what I would say.
I make him because I can. I outweigh him by nearly seventy-five pounds.
But that is only part of it. The main reason is that I want to give him what I found in the world, which is to say a path and a little light to see by. Most of the people I know who have what I want -- which is to say, purpose, heart, balance, gratitude, joy -- are people in community, who pray, or practice their faith; people banding together to work on themselves and for human rights. They follow a brighter light than the glimmer of their own candle; they are part of something beautiful. I saw something once from the Jewish Theological Seminary that said, "A human life is like a single letter of the alphabet. It can be meaningless. Or it can be a part of a great meaning." Our funky little church is filled with people who are working for peace and freedom, who are out there on the streets and inside praying, and they are home writing letters, and they are at the shelters with giant platters of food.
It's funny: I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox, full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools -- friendships, prayer, conscience, honesty -- and said, Do the best you can with these, they will have to do. And mostly, against all odds, they're enough."
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Created from the same dust
Tuesdays in the Chapel
October 27, 2009
O CHILDREN OF MEN! Know ye not why We created you all fromthe same dust? That no one should exalt himself over the other. Ponder at all times in your hearts how ye were created. Since We have created you all from one same substance it is incumbent on you to be even as one soul, to walk with the same feet, eat with the same mouth and dwell in the same land, that from your inmost being, by your deeds and actions, the signs of oneness and the essence of detachment may be made manifest. Such is My counsel to you, O concourse of light! Heed ye this counsel that ye may obtain the fruit of holiness from the tree of wondrous glory.
-from The Hidden Words of Bahá’u’lláh
In this passage, our redemption as spiritual beings is linked to our realization that we who live on this planet are indeed one family. And yet how far we seem at times from heeding His counsel to live as one human family.
Today I would like to share with you some insights from my tradition, the Bahá’í Faith, on why we should have hope when there is so much going on that can be cause for despair. The Bahá’í writings propose that the human family, collectively, has passed through stages of maturation analogous to infancy and childhood in the life of an individual. The “adulthood” will be a world civilization that functions according to principles of justice and unity. Right now we are passing through an adolescent stage, which is an extremely turbulent period. Teenagers, as we know, often learn the wisdom of adulthood the hard way; so it is with humankind. In this phase, we see both constructive and destructive process. Institutions that function
according to archaic values decline and collapse; this leads to hard and painful times. But it also clears the ground for the building up of new institutions and the cultivation of new ways of life. The processes of decay and destruction grab the headlines, while the constructive processes often go unnoticed, at least in the short run.
Consider race relations in the United States. I live in Cambridge, a city with an African-American mayor in a state with an African-American governor in a country with an African-American president. 150 years ago, slavery was a legally sanctioned institution in the US. Many back then, I am sure, thought that slavery would be around for a long time, that it’s abolition was a “pie in the sky” idea that does
not really accord with human nature. 150 years. Think about that! On a historical time scale, that’s blazingly fast and profound social change. This did not come about through some smooth and orderly progression of rational reforms. There was a lot of turmoil and struggle and sacrifice. But the point is we did succeed in moving forward, not only in terms of the outward legal and social changes,
but also in terms of our inner struggle against prejudice and alienation.
Now we are experiencing an economic crisis. I suggest that this is a blessing in disguise. Indeed the word crisis means a turning point; the Chinese character for crisis is a combination of the idea of “danger” with the idea of “opportunity.” Where is the opportunity in this economic crisis? For one thing, it makes us ask important questions that we would otherwise not be motivated to ask. How can
we devise an economic system that has the dynamism and flexibility of the market, while at the same time fostering the pursuit of something greater than a myopic and narrowly defined bottom line?
How can we learn to talk about such issues in an atmosphere of mutual respect and open-minded investigation, rather than rancorous debate among adherents of rigidly defined ideologies? I obviously don’t propose to answer such big questions in a seven-minute chapel talk. My point is we are asking such questions. And each of us, motivated by the enobling teachings of our faiths, has the power to make a difference and to help the world get to the right answers.
In it’s 1985 statement on peace, the international governing council of the Bahá’í community makes the case for having hope in hard times: A candid acknowledgement that prejudice, war and exploitation have been the expression of immature stages in a vast historical process and that the human race is today experiencing the
unavoidable tumult which marks its collective coming of age is not a reason for despair but a prerequisite to undertaking the stupendous enterprise of building a peaceful world. That such an enterprise is possible, that the necessary constructive forces do exist, that unifying social structures can be erected, is the theme weurge you to examine.
Brian Aull
October 27, 2009
O CHILDREN OF MEN! Know ye not why We created you all fromthe same dust? That no one should exalt himself over the other. Ponder at all times in your hearts how ye were created. Since We have created you all from one same substance it is incumbent on you to be even as one soul, to walk with the same feet, eat with the same mouth and dwell in the same land, that from your inmost being, by your deeds and actions, the signs of oneness and the essence of detachment may be made manifest. Such is My counsel to you, O concourse of light! Heed ye this counsel that ye may obtain the fruit of holiness from the tree of wondrous glory.
-from The Hidden Words of Bahá’u’lláh
In this passage, our redemption as spiritual beings is linked to our realization that we who live on this planet are indeed one family. And yet how far we seem at times from heeding His counsel to live as one human family.
Today I would like to share with you some insights from my tradition, the Bahá’í Faith, on why we should have hope when there is so much going on that can be cause for despair. The Bahá’í writings propose that the human family, collectively, has passed through stages of maturation analogous to infancy and childhood in the life of an individual. The “adulthood” will be a world civilization that functions according to principles of justice and unity. Right now we are passing through an adolescent stage, which is an extremely turbulent period. Teenagers, as we know, often learn the wisdom of adulthood the hard way; so it is with humankind. In this phase, we see both constructive and destructive process. Institutions that function
according to archaic values decline and collapse; this leads to hard and painful times. But it also clears the ground for the building up of new institutions and the cultivation of new ways of life. The processes of decay and destruction grab the headlines, while the constructive processes often go unnoticed, at least in the short run.
Consider race relations in the United States. I live in Cambridge, a city with an African-American mayor in a state with an African-American governor in a country with an African-American president. 150 years ago, slavery was a legally sanctioned institution in the US. Many back then, I am sure, thought that slavery would be around for a long time, that it’s abolition was a “pie in the sky” idea that does
not really accord with human nature. 150 years. Think about that! On a historical time scale, that’s blazingly fast and profound social change. This did not come about through some smooth and orderly progression of rational reforms. There was a lot of turmoil and struggle and sacrifice. But the point is we did succeed in moving forward, not only in terms of the outward legal and social changes,
but also in terms of our inner struggle against prejudice and alienation.
Now we are experiencing an economic crisis. I suggest that this is a blessing in disguise. Indeed the word crisis means a turning point; the Chinese character for crisis is a combination of the idea of “danger” with the idea of “opportunity.” Where is the opportunity in this economic crisis? For one thing, it makes us ask important questions that we would otherwise not be motivated to ask. How can
we devise an economic system that has the dynamism and flexibility of the market, while at the same time fostering the pursuit of something greater than a myopic and narrowly defined bottom line?
How can we learn to talk about such issues in an atmosphere of mutual respect and open-minded investigation, rather than rancorous debate among adherents of rigidly defined ideologies? I obviously don’t propose to answer such big questions in a seven-minute chapel talk. My point is we are asking such questions. And each of us, motivated by the enobling teachings of our faiths, has the power to make a difference and to help the world get to the right answers.
In it’s 1985 statement on peace, the international governing council of the Bahá’í community makes the case for having hope in hard times: A candid acknowledgement that prejudice, war and exploitation have been the expression of immature stages in a vast historical process and that the human race is today experiencing the
unavoidable tumult which marks its collective coming of age is not a reason for despair but a prerequisite to undertaking the stupendous enterprise of building a peaceful world. That such an enterprise is possible, that the necessary constructive forces do exist, that unifying social structures can be erected, is the theme weurge you to examine.
Brian Aull
Monday, November 2, 2009
Richard Yamamoto Memorial
I wanted to talk today about the word “grace”.
When we see something sublime or beautiful, we say it is graceful.
But, as a noun, a grace is a favor granted us by the world.
All around us, every day, there are hundreds of graces, large and small. Little beautiful things everywhere.
We stop and look at them if we have the time; sometimes we are too busy to notice them.
Richard Yamamoto was seldom too busy – he saw the wonderful things around him, appreciated them and gave thanks.
I will always remember that my conversations with him inevitably began with a remark about some little grace: a tree, the well executed experiment in Junior Lab, frequently a car. There was always something he had just seen or done that had made an impression.
He always seemed grateful for the graces the world had given him and was always ready to share them.
And now, today, I see his life as a grace granted to me and the rest of us.
And today, with you, I am grateful for the life of Richard Yamamoto.
Prof. Peter Fisher
Physics
When we see something sublime or beautiful, we say it is graceful.
But, as a noun, a grace is a favor granted us by the world.
All around us, every day, there are hundreds of graces, large and small. Little beautiful things everywhere.
We stop and look at them if we have the time; sometimes we are too busy to notice them.
Richard Yamamoto was seldom too busy – he saw the wonderful things around him, appreciated them and gave thanks.
I will always remember that my conversations with him inevitably began with a remark about some little grace: a tree, the well executed experiment in Junior Lab, frequently a car. There was always something he had just seen or done that had made an impression.
He always seemed grateful for the graces the world had given him and was always ready to share them.
And now, today, I see his life as a grace granted to me and the rest of us.
And today, with you, I am grateful for the life of Richard Yamamoto.
Prof. Peter Fisher
Physics
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Tuesdays in the Chapel
We’re looking at finding hope in hard times. In this parable (The Prodigal Son) that Jesus told, certainly this younger son has fallen upon hard times. But it is the father, too, who has fallen upon hard times. What mother or father does not know the pain of witnessing a son or daughter make poor choices? Those poor choices sometimes throw into question the quality of the parents, resulting in shame or dishonor. What about a spouse who is unfaithful or who has given up hope? Or a friend who now doubts or rejects you? What do you do when those who are dear to you make choices which reflect poorly on your reputation?
Much has been made of the notion that because the father saw the son from a long way off, that the father has been anticipating or hoping for his son’s return. I think this may be true. But when you consider the hard times that the father might have been going through, any notion of joyful anticipation and hope is counter-intuitive. In a culture of honor, the son has not only wasted an inheritance, he has brought shame to his father and his household. Surely, a good father wants to restore a wayward son, but a proud father would certainly have difficult feelings about such a son.
Why do people look in the direction of another from a distance? We can well imagine the son standing in a tavern doorway at night, looking toward his father’s estate half-way through his indulgent excess saying, “Take that, old man.” What drove the son to such prodigal excess? That is the definition of a prodigal, by the way: to be excessive. The parable is known as the Parable of the Prodigal Son. But it may as well too be known as the Parable of the Prodigal Father. The Father is himself excessive. And his excessiveness may be behind how the boy ended up in his own excess.
If you really had a father who was genuinely graceful and giving in every way, embodying both love and truth, justice and mercy, such excessive goodness would be too much to behold. Such incredible love should drive you insane. Such love does not fit our realities. We need a whole lifetime to grasp the unconditional love of God. How can anyone be so genuinely good? As a child, you simply receive such goodness. But as you mature, your response is that you can’t possibly deserve such goodness, so you work hard to justify the goodness that you are surrounded by. You’re not working to earn it ~ you’re working to feel good about having it. You begin to feel justified in being so blessed because after all, you’re good too, by golly. That’s the state of the older brother in the parable, though I regret that we don’t have time to stop and try to understand him today.
But then that feeling gets old. Working to justify the goodness that you are surrounded by is unsatisfying because you weren’t designed to satisfy yourself. You chafe and you twist and you wriggle but you can’t shake the feeling that you now feel even more distant from the source of goodness in your life. When you can’t take the pressure you put on yourself to assure yourself of your worthiness in stoic excess, you turn and begin to assure yourself of your worthiness in nihilistic excess. When that too proves unsatisfying you have nothing left except one thing: to go back to work. To be productive. To serve and to help others. Is that wrong? No. But it’s fruitless and unsatisfying if it’s meant to give your life meaning because nothing you can do will ever give your life meaning. Only God Himself gives you and your life meaning.
Let’s cut to the last scene. The young man has a speech prepared. It sounds very nicely religious, he would get an A in Sunday school for it, but it’s really designed as an instrument of self-justification: “Dad, you have to take me back because I’m sorry and I’m willing to earn my way.” Chances are the boy has refined this speech in anticipation of a disagreement with his dad. One word out of his dad’s mouth and this boy would surely ramp up the speech to twice the intensity with twice the finely tuned arguments.
So what happens? The dad does indeed totally disagree with his son. How? He runs to him, embraces him, kisses him, and doesn’t say a word about his son’s speech. The robe, the ring, the sandals, the calf, they’re all loaded with symbolism about the restored relationship the son now has with the father, in total rejection the son’s proposition. In hard times, when you have been shamed or you have been deeply hurt by another, and that person turns to you, forgive.
You can’t offer an expression of forgiveness until there is readiness to receive. Sure, you have forgiven someone from the moment they turned away! Or, maybe not! But now you have. But if you have to use any words to convince someone that they’re already forgiven, they’ll argue you into the ground that they don’t need your forgiveness or want your forgiveness or deserve your forgiveness. Not once did Jesus expressly say to anyone that they are forgiven except to do so by healing them at the same time. His healing was an expression of His forgiveness that was already true. God’s forgiveness, His excessive prodigal grace, is already yours. He awaits your turning to Him to receive His love and mercy. He doesn’t need your words, He doesn’t want your words; He wants only you.
Dave Thom
Much has been made of the notion that because the father saw the son from a long way off, that the father has been anticipating or hoping for his son’s return. I think this may be true. But when you consider the hard times that the father might have been going through, any notion of joyful anticipation and hope is counter-intuitive. In a culture of honor, the son has not only wasted an inheritance, he has brought shame to his father and his household. Surely, a good father wants to restore a wayward son, but a proud father would certainly have difficult feelings about such a son.
Why do people look in the direction of another from a distance? We can well imagine the son standing in a tavern doorway at night, looking toward his father’s estate half-way through his indulgent excess saying, “Take that, old man.” What drove the son to such prodigal excess? That is the definition of a prodigal, by the way: to be excessive. The parable is known as the Parable of the Prodigal Son. But it may as well too be known as the Parable of the Prodigal Father. The Father is himself excessive. And his excessiveness may be behind how the boy ended up in his own excess.
If you really had a father who was genuinely graceful and giving in every way, embodying both love and truth, justice and mercy, such excessive goodness would be too much to behold. Such incredible love should drive you insane. Such love does not fit our realities. We need a whole lifetime to grasp the unconditional love of God. How can anyone be so genuinely good? As a child, you simply receive such goodness. But as you mature, your response is that you can’t possibly deserve such goodness, so you work hard to justify the goodness that you are surrounded by. You’re not working to earn it ~ you’re working to feel good about having it. You begin to feel justified in being so blessed because after all, you’re good too, by golly. That’s the state of the older brother in the parable, though I regret that we don’t have time to stop and try to understand him today.
But then that feeling gets old. Working to justify the goodness that you are surrounded by is unsatisfying because you weren’t designed to satisfy yourself. You chafe and you twist and you wriggle but you can’t shake the feeling that you now feel even more distant from the source of goodness in your life. When you can’t take the pressure you put on yourself to assure yourself of your worthiness in stoic excess, you turn and begin to assure yourself of your worthiness in nihilistic excess. When that too proves unsatisfying you have nothing left except one thing: to go back to work. To be productive. To serve and to help others. Is that wrong? No. But it’s fruitless and unsatisfying if it’s meant to give your life meaning because nothing you can do will ever give your life meaning. Only God Himself gives you and your life meaning.
Let’s cut to the last scene. The young man has a speech prepared. It sounds very nicely religious, he would get an A in Sunday school for it, but it’s really designed as an instrument of self-justification: “Dad, you have to take me back because I’m sorry and I’m willing to earn my way.” Chances are the boy has refined this speech in anticipation of a disagreement with his dad. One word out of his dad’s mouth and this boy would surely ramp up the speech to twice the intensity with twice the finely tuned arguments.
So what happens? The dad does indeed totally disagree with his son. How? He runs to him, embraces him, kisses him, and doesn’t say a word about his son’s speech. The robe, the ring, the sandals, the calf, they’re all loaded with symbolism about the restored relationship the son now has with the father, in total rejection the son’s proposition. In hard times, when you have been shamed or you have been deeply hurt by another, and that person turns to you, forgive.
You can’t offer an expression of forgiveness until there is readiness to receive. Sure, you have forgiven someone from the moment they turned away! Or, maybe not! But now you have. But if you have to use any words to convince someone that they’re already forgiven, they’ll argue you into the ground that they don’t need your forgiveness or want your forgiveness or deserve your forgiveness. Not once did Jesus expressly say to anyone that they are forgiven except to do so by healing them at the same time. His healing was an expression of His forgiveness that was already true. God’s forgiveness, His excessive prodigal grace, is already yours. He awaits your turning to Him to receive His love and mercy. He doesn’t need your words, He doesn’t want your words; He wants only you.
Dave Thom
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