Today I finished my paper for my class on the letter of James. It was a lot of work, but I think it was the most fun I've had writing a paper. In case you are interested, the title of my paper is "'Every Perfect Gift': Word Gender Patterns as a Rhetorical Device in James 1." For a while I was hesitant about my topic. It compelled me, but didn't seem to address the issues that concerns James the most, including caring for orphans and widows, being humble, seeking wisdom and receiving God's every good and perfect gift, and taming the tongue. I felt a little guilty pouring so much energy into an essay that sort of misses the very point of James' letter, which is to put into practice his teachings. But the topic excited me, and I wanted to write about something I was passionate about. Besides, there is only so much one can do in an academic paper to put into practice James' teachings. That's a task I expect to be working on even now that my paper is finished. I am glad I followed through on my topic and finished my paper. Through writing it I learned about how James communicates his message, and perhaps even did put into practice some of what James teaches.
It's the beginning of the fall semester, of my third and final year at ESR. I'll soon begin my Supervised Ministry, which all third-year M.Div students have to do at my school. Mine will involve working on my fantasy novel and performing original songs at an open mic night at a local coffee shop. The other classes I am taking are Science Fiction and Theology, Constructive Theology, and most likely an independent study of the history and polity of the Church of the Nazarene.
It has been fun living with the letter of James this past month. It is now my favorite book of the Bible, but I always feel that way about whatever book I am studying at the moment. The following verse stands out to me: "Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows" (1:17, NIV).
7.8.13
Give Thanks
I am taking a class on the letter of James. Today we discussed James 1:9-11: "Let the believer who is lowly boast in being raised up, and the rich in being brought low, because the rich will disappear like a flower in the field. For the sun rises with its scorching heat and withers the field; its flower falls, and its beauty perishes. It is the same way with the rich; in the midst of a busy life, they will wither away."
We talked about how this passage suggests a leveling effect that comes from being in the church. Those who are humble will be elevated, and those who are wealthy will be lowered. Our discussion reminded me of the song "Give Thanks":
Give thanks with a grateful heart
Give thanks unto the Holy One
Give thanks because he's given Jesus Christ, his son
And now, let the weak say, "I am strong"
Let the poor say, "I am rich"
Because of what the Lord has done for us
And now, let the strong say, "I am weak"
Let the rich say, "I am poor"
Because of what the Lord has done for us
Give thanks
Whenever I would sing this song at Southeast Church of the Nazarene, I would identify with the strong and rich. After all, I was earning a bachelor's degree, giving me distinction over many in the congregation and in the world.
I would feel strange singing "I am weak, I am poor because of what the Lord has done for us." Being proud of weakness and poverty is not generally encouraged in most cultures. But through the Spirit, I have journeyed into the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus and his church, and through this movement I have become weak and poor. I have become one with members of Christ's body who are weaker and poorer than me. God has changed me and I have changed, and God continues to change me and I continue to change, into a person who seeks and who wants to seek not wealth, fame, and control, but the kingdom of God, the rule of simplicity, humility, trust, and love.
At the same time that I am strong and rich, I am also weak and poor. For example, I owe money in student loans. Yet Christ has given me strength and riches. Through God's people I have learned and continue to learn to walk with integrity, to live boldly, to trust that I have all that I need, and that God will provide what I need.
James teaches that God is the giver of all good things. "Every generous act of giving, with every perfect gift, is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change" (1:17). When I think about the good gifts God has given and continues to give me, in a variety of forms including experiences, people, food, and shelter, I realize that I am very rich.
The song tells us to give thanks because God has given to us Jesus Christ. In the context of this song, it seems that we give thanks for Jesus because Jesus has caused the reversal between poor and rich. Jesus has taught us how to live in God's reign. Jesus has blessed the poor, those who mourn, the meek, the hungry and thirsty, the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers, the persecuted. Jesus has become poor so that we may become rich with compassion and mercy. Jesus has emptied himself and filled us with life and joy.
I have a long road ahead of me in living fully in the life of God in Christ. But "Give Thanks" and James' words dare me to step into the life of God. For God's meeting, welcoming, and calling me in Jesus, I give thanks. For Jesus' making me weak and strong, and poor and rich, as much as I don't understand it and as incomplete as the journey is, I give thanks. For the many other gifts God has given and continues to give, I give thanks.
We talked about how this passage suggests a leveling effect that comes from being in the church. Those who are humble will be elevated, and those who are wealthy will be lowered. Our discussion reminded me of the song "Give Thanks":
Give thanks with a grateful heart
Give thanks unto the Holy One
Give thanks because he's given Jesus Christ, his son
And now, let the weak say, "I am strong"
Let the poor say, "I am rich"
Because of what the Lord has done for us
And now, let the strong say, "I am weak"
Let the rich say, "I am poor"
Because of what the Lord has done for us
Give thanks
Whenever I would sing this song at Southeast Church of the Nazarene, I would identify with the strong and rich. After all, I was earning a bachelor's degree, giving me distinction over many in the congregation and in the world.
I would feel strange singing "I am weak, I am poor because of what the Lord has done for us." Being proud of weakness and poverty is not generally encouraged in most cultures. But through the Spirit, I have journeyed into the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus and his church, and through this movement I have become weak and poor. I have become one with members of Christ's body who are weaker and poorer than me. God has changed me and I have changed, and God continues to change me and I continue to change, into a person who seeks and who wants to seek not wealth, fame, and control, but the kingdom of God, the rule of simplicity, humility, trust, and love.
At the same time that I am strong and rich, I am also weak and poor. For example, I owe money in student loans. Yet Christ has given me strength and riches. Through God's people I have learned and continue to learn to walk with integrity, to live boldly, to trust that I have all that I need, and that God will provide what I need.
James teaches that God is the giver of all good things. "Every generous act of giving, with every perfect gift, is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change" (1:17). When I think about the good gifts God has given and continues to give me, in a variety of forms including experiences, people, food, and shelter, I realize that I am very rich.
The song tells us to give thanks because God has given to us Jesus Christ. In the context of this song, it seems that we give thanks for Jesus because Jesus has caused the reversal between poor and rich. Jesus has taught us how to live in God's reign. Jesus has blessed the poor, those who mourn, the meek, the hungry and thirsty, the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers, the persecuted. Jesus has become poor so that we may become rich with compassion and mercy. Jesus has emptied himself and filled us with life and joy.
I have a long road ahead of me in living fully in the life of God in Christ. But "Give Thanks" and James' words dare me to step into the life of God. For God's meeting, welcoming, and calling me in Jesus, I give thanks. For Jesus' making me weak and strong, and poor and rich, as much as I don't understand it and as incomplete as the journey is, I give thanks. For the many other gifts God has given and continues to give, I give thanks.
6.6.13
The Summons (song)
Tomorrow my class and I fly out to Scotland. I've been listening to "The Summons" by John Bell, a musician/songwriter from the Iona Community.
1.6.13
Joy is like the rain (song)
It rained today, and I thought of the song "Joy is Like the Rain" by Medical Mission Sisters.
I saw raindrops on my window
Joy is like the rain.
Laughter runs across my pain
Slips away and comes again
Joy is like the rain.
I saw clouds upon a mountain
Joy is like a cloud.
Sometimes silver, sometimes gray
Always sun not far away
Joy is like a cloud.
I saw Christ in wind and thunder
Joy is tried by storm.
Christ asleep within my boat
Whipped by wind, yet still afloat
Joy is tried by storm.
I saw raindrops on the river
Joy is like the rain.
Bit by bit the river grows
Till all at once it overflows
Joy is like the rain.
26.5.13
Remembering Jesus
In less than two weeks, I will (God willing) be going to Scotland with a professor and fellow seminary students. We will stay in the Iona Abbey for a week, where we will worship, work, and dialogue with Christians from around the world. I am excited for the ecumenical experience, and that this will be my first time traveling to a foreign country (besides Mexico) without my family--and Scotland, at that--and that it will be my first time being in a monastery (unless you include the Redemption House). Following that will be a week traveling through Edinburgh, Sheffield, and Market Harborough, England.
To prepare for the trip, we are required to read about Iona. Today I read the following quote by the community's founder, George MacLeod:
MacLeod supposes that the universe is God's garment, and that bread and wine are symbols for this garment. I recently suggested that the curtain of the Jewish temple was the garment of God, and that its tearing could have signified God's grieving the death of Jesus. If the universe too is God's garment, symbolized by bread and wine, then breaking bread is our way of tearing garments to grieve the death of Jesus.
I wonder if we can take it further. Paul writes, "For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord's death until he comes" (1 Cor. 11:26). The church teaches that proclaiming the Lord's death means proclaiming the reconciliation between God and humanity, between God and the universe, even, and the forgiveness of sins through Jesus' death. Some early church theologians like Irenaeus taught that when God became a human in Jesus, the very matter of humanity changed, that the Word became flesh so that flesh might become Word; in other words, God became human so that humans could become like God.
In even other words, the atoms of God mingled with the atoms of creation, and thus God bound Godself with the universe in a way never done before. (Or perhaps God had done this before; maybe it had been this way from the beginning, but Christians see this union in the incarnation of Christ.) So when Jesus died, in a sense God and the universe died with him, but when Jesus was raised from the dead, every atom in the universe was resurrected too. This is called deification, the process by which humans and the world become holy.
This means, then, that to proclaim Jesus' death also means to proclaim the deaths of other people, and of other beings. When we take communion, we proclaim that many people in this world die. In the quote above, MacLeod proclaims the deaths of the victims of the atom bomb and of war. The author of the book I was reading wrote how ironic it is that, while the church takes communion, many people in the world die of hunger. When we break bread together, we tear God's garments and grieve the death of all people.
We may also proclaim the deaths of animals, stars, and worlds, because all matter finds its home in God. The origin of the word "matter" could be "mater," which means "origin, source, mother." Matter is the original substance of something, the first thing that begets the following thing. We were created in God's image, revealed fully when God put on flesh, so we share the same matter with God. When God took on flesh, God mingled with carbon and oxygen and nitrogen and many other atoms. The Incarnation suggests that every atom finds its home in God. God is the Mother of us all, people and plants and proteins; God is our matter; as a matter of fact, God is The Mater.
If we share matter with God, then when our minds, hearts, bodies, and souls ache, does God feel that ache too? Does God rejoice when we are joyful and happy?
There is more to communion than proclaiming Jesus' death until he comes. In Luke's Gospel, when Jesus eats the Passover meal with his disciples, he takes a loaf of bread, gives thanks, breaks it and gives it to them, saying, "This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me" (Luke 22:19). Jesus does the same with the cup. Christians take communion to remember Jesus.
What does it mean to remember Jesus? To name a few possibilities, it could mean remembering the life of a remarkable man, his teachings and actions, and all the good God did through him. It could mean remembering his death and resurrection and how they bring us peace. It could mean remembering Jesus' work among the world today.
Literally, to re-member something is to put it back together again, like re-assembling a Lego person who has lost his legs, arms, and head somehow. When we break bread, we mend Jesus. When we grieve his death, somehow he lives among us. If remembering is bringing to life, then forgetting is dying. When we do not remember Jesus, he remains broken in us. When we do not take communion, Jesus' life, death, and resurrection wither.
It is as though Jesus needs us to keep breaking bread in order to live among us. That, if we stop, then we forget the story, and maybe even forget who we are. That gives us much responsibility, maybe too much. If we forget Jesus, then perhaps the universe will have to remember him. What makes Jesus worth remembering? What would the human race, the world, the universe even, be like if we forget him?
Surely God remembers Jesus, and will remember us. Nehemiah weaves the prayer "Remember me, O my God" throughout his book, and I wonder if his prayer is one that we pray, or will pray. When our lives have ended, when existence reaches its limit, who is there but God to remember us and bring us back to life? Yet the strange thing is that Jesus asks us humans to remember him.
In remembering Jesus, we live. In sharing a meal together, we feast on God, and the life of God springs up in us. Could this be true even when we eat together and not consciously or publicly remember Jesus?
Unlike the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, in John's Gospel, before the Passover, Jesus does not share a meal with his disciples, but washes their feet. This suggests that foot washing is, for John, communion. Instead of breaking bread, we rub toes and soles; instead of drinking wine, we pour water. God puts all power in Jesus' hands, and Jesus uses that power to clean and refresh his friends, to welcome them as a host welcomes his guests.
A few days ago, while I was walking, it began raining. I wondered if God was baptizing me. Does God baptize the world with rain? I was walking through an alley, and the water rushed downhill, soaking my shoes and socks. It seemed like Jesus was washing my feet.
To prepare for the trip, we are required to read about Iona. Today I read the following quote by the community's founder, George MacLeod:
Suppose the material order, as we have argued, is indeed the garment of Christ, the temple of the Holy Ghost? Suppose the bread and wine, symbols of all creation, is indeed capable of redemption awaiting its Christification? Then what is the atom but the emergent body of Christ?
The Feast of the Transfiguration is 6th August. That is the day we 'happened' to drop the bomb on Hiroshima. We took His Body and we took His Blood and we enacted a Cosmic Golgotha.
MacLeod supposes that the universe is God's garment, and that bread and wine are symbols for this garment. I recently suggested that the curtain of the Jewish temple was the garment of God, and that its tearing could have signified God's grieving the death of Jesus. If the universe too is God's garment, symbolized by bread and wine, then breaking bread is our way of tearing garments to grieve the death of Jesus.
I wonder if we can take it further. Paul writes, "For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord's death until he comes" (1 Cor. 11:26). The church teaches that proclaiming the Lord's death means proclaiming the reconciliation between God and humanity, between God and the universe, even, and the forgiveness of sins through Jesus' death. Some early church theologians like Irenaeus taught that when God became a human in Jesus, the very matter of humanity changed, that the Word became flesh so that flesh might become Word; in other words, God became human so that humans could become like God.
In even other words, the atoms of God mingled with the atoms of creation, and thus God bound Godself with the universe in a way never done before. (Or perhaps God had done this before; maybe it had been this way from the beginning, but Christians see this union in the incarnation of Christ.) So when Jesus died, in a sense God and the universe died with him, but when Jesus was raised from the dead, every atom in the universe was resurrected too. This is called deification, the process by which humans and the world become holy.
This means, then, that to proclaim Jesus' death also means to proclaim the deaths of other people, and of other beings. When we take communion, we proclaim that many people in this world die. In the quote above, MacLeod proclaims the deaths of the victims of the atom bomb and of war. The author of the book I was reading wrote how ironic it is that, while the church takes communion, many people in the world die of hunger. When we break bread together, we tear God's garments and grieve the death of all people.
We may also proclaim the deaths of animals, stars, and worlds, because all matter finds its home in God. The origin of the word "matter" could be "mater," which means "origin, source, mother." Matter is the original substance of something, the first thing that begets the following thing. We were created in God's image, revealed fully when God put on flesh, so we share the same matter with God. When God took on flesh, God mingled with carbon and oxygen and nitrogen and many other atoms. The Incarnation suggests that every atom finds its home in God. God is the Mother of us all, people and plants and proteins; God is our matter; as a matter of fact, God is The Mater.
If we share matter with God, then when our minds, hearts, bodies, and souls ache, does God feel that ache too? Does God rejoice when we are joyful and happy?
There is more to communion than proclaiming Jesus' death until he comes. In Luke's Gospel, when Jesus eats the Passover meal with his disciples, he takes a loaf of bread, gives thanks, breaks it and gives it to them, saying, "This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me" (Luke 22:19). Jesus does the same with the cup. Christians take communion to remember Jesus.
What does it mean to remember Jesus? To name a few possibilities, it could mean remembering the life of a remarkable man, his teachings and actions, and all the good God did through him. It could mean remembering his death and resurrection and how they bring us peace. It could mean remembering Jesus' work among the world today.
Literally, to re-member something is to put it back together again, like re-assembling a Lego person who has lost his legs, arms, and head somehow. When we break bread, we mend Jesus. When we grieve his death, somehow he lives among us. If remembering is bringing to life, then forgetting is dying. When we do not remember Jesus, he remains broken in us. When we do not take communion, Jesus' life, death, and resurrection wither.
It is as though Jesus needs us to keep breaking bread in order to live among us. That, if we stop, then we forget the story, and maybe even forget who we are. That gives us much responsibility, maybe too much. If we forget Jesus, then perhaps the universe will have to remember him. What makes Jesus worth remembering? What would the human race, the world, the universe even, be like if we forget him?
Surely God remembers Jesus, and will remember us. Nehemiah weaves the prayer "Remember me, O my God" throughout his book, and I wonder if his prayer is one that we pray, or will pray. When our lives have ended, when existence reaches its limit, who is there but God to remember us and bring us back to life? Yet the strange thing is that Jesus asks us humans to remember him.
In remembering Jesus, we live. In sharing a meal together, we feast on God, and the life of God springs up in us. Could this be true even when we eat together and not consciously or publicly remember Jesus?
Unlike the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, in John's Gospel, before the Passover, Jesus does not share a meal with his disciples, but washes their feet. This suggests that foot washing is, for John, communion. Instead of breaking bread, we rub toes and soles; instead of drinking wine, we pour water. God puts all power in Jesus' hands, and Jesus uses that power to clean and refresh his friends, to welcome them as a host welcomes his guests.
A few days ago, while I was walking, it began raining. I wondered if God was baptizing me. Does God baptize the world with rain? I was walking through an alley, and the water rushed downhill, soaking my shoes and socks. It seemed like Jesus was washing my feet.
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