I Corinthians: Reflections on Chapter 2

“And I came to you in weakness and in fear and in much trembling…”

At the beginning of Fall semester this year, as part of the Bonner leadership program, I spent a night and a morning at the House of Charity homeless shelter.  That morning, we had devotional in which we read meditatively one of the psalms, and there was a woman there whom we had talked to the night before, under the freeway. She had confessed to having schizophrenia, multiple personality disorder, and a host of other mental problems (and had joked about everything her boyfriend had to put up with- he met this with a shrug and a wry smile). Sitting there that morning, she confessed with equal honesty her doubts about God. But there was a part in the psalm we read about God caring for the weak, using the weak, and while we were talking about it she eventually spoke up and said: “This gives me hope. If God loves the foolish, then maybe I have a chance.”
I echo her sentiment, and would claim her hope as my own as well, and maybe Paul would join us too. I am at a point right now where I have been trying to serve God, walk in his footsteps, live a life of love, but have become increasingly aware of my weakness. I find myself in dificult times. And I must admit that I overestimated my strength, enthusiastically taking on too great a burden without having a sufficient spiritual foundation. In all that I took on, I expected perfection of myself, or at least excellence. In this, I was as foolish as Peter, asking to be second to Christ in the kingdom but having no idea what that means. But Christ still used Peter, and he still uses a fool like me. He speaks comfort. He says, “I love you.”
I don’t know if I understand God’s love yet, or what he has prepared for me along with the others who love him, but I pray that his Spirit would be born in me, and search my heart, and teach me the fullness of the love that is in the crucified Christ.

1 Corinthians: Reflection on Chapter 1

“Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? 21For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, it pleased God through the folly of what we preach to save those who believe. 22For Jews demand signs and Greeks seek wisdom, 23but we preach Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and folly to Gentiles, 24but to those who are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. 25For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men.

26For consider your calling, brothers: not many of you were wise according to worldly standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. 27But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; 28God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are, 29so that no human being might boast in the presence of God. 30And because of him you are in Christ Jesus, who became to us wisdom from God, righteousness and sanctification and redemption, 31so that, as it is written, “Let the one who boasts, boast in the Lord.”"

1 Corinthians 1:20-30

I am weak, but Christ is strong. Can I confess this? My salvation does not come from my own strength and understanding. It is a hard thing, to need help. This is the place where something in me dies. This is where I am freed, and begin to live. In open confession of brokenness, in return to the open arms of God, something new is sparked within me, and I begin to mature in Christ. In the words of Paul, I am “being saved”. I am one of the saints, the “set apart”. What does that mean? Right now, I can tell you that it means pain. It hurts to die to oneself. It hurts to constantly have to relearn what true wisdom, strength, and power are. But I also rejoice. As God has worked in me, I have come to see the wisdom of his foolishness, the greatness of that different way in which he works. I have experienced it in my life. Though stubborn, I welcome the outpouring of his grace, even though it brings discomfort, even though it brings the unexpected.
However, that doesn’t mean that it still doesn’t look like foolishness sometimes. I take joy that Christ would use a broken person like me, but often lose heart at the brokenness of the church, of the many mistakes the “saints” have made throughout history.  God is saving the world through a man who died, a “rebellious people”, and an old book? Often, I feel inclined to trust instead in what I understand, what I can touch: modern sensibilities, American pragmatism, the wisdom of the universities, the march of technology, the comfort of middle-class suburban life.

Work, Rest, and the Desert Fathers on Humility

Well, school has certainly been busy the last month.

A lot has been going on, mostly good, certainly formative, but overwhelming at times (as in, several times a week).

And in the course of about two weeks, I heard this verse quoted three times, and I began to think it was something I needed to hear:

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” Matthew 11:28

I’ve been realizing I need to learn how to rest.

I’ve been realizing that being overworked and stretched to the limits is less heroic, as I would like to think, and in reality more, well, wrong. Not how things are meant to be.

It is wrong not to recognize that my strength has limits.

It is wrong not to recognize that I can do nothing unless I abide in Christ, that the strength I have depends on him.

Dust returns to dust and the flower fades. I am subject to hunger, sickness, the need for sleep, aging, and one day I will die.

All men are sinners. There is darkness hiding in my heart.

So today, and this week, and in my life, do I trust that beyond me there is a strength of unfailing love that is made perfect in my weakness?

Can I trust that where I fail short Christ is victorious, and that his victory is a generous victory?

Can I rest in that grace?

Can I be defined by that grace?

What does that mean, for the posture of my heart, for my schedule this week, for the way I see others, for how I deal with business and failure and stress?

This, I pray that Christ will teach me, that I may slow down long enough to hear his voice, and that I may be humble enough to take his words to heart, about work and rest, and, again, about how to live life well, as he meant for me to live.

Well, since this all really has to do with the subject of humility, I think it would be good to share some of the sayings of the Desert Fathers (early monastics from the 4th century). We read these for class a couple weeks ago:

“A certain brother came to Abbot Poeman and said: What ought I to do, Father? I am in great sadness. The elder said to him; Never despise anybody, never condemn anybody, never speak evil of anyone, and the Lord will give you peace.”

“Abbot Alonius said: Humility is the land where God wants us to go and offer sacrifice.”

True Allegiance

“They live in their own native lands, but as aliens; as citizens they share all things with others; but like aliens, suffer all things… Every foreign country is to them as their native country, and every native land as a foreign country…”

Living as I do in the midst of so much Christian nationalism, in which to be un-Christian means to be un-American (and vice versa), these sentences hit me with a blunt force. How it restored my hope, to read such a clear statement that we follow and serve a King whose suffering love extends to all peoples, and that as his followers we are to be known for the same.

“They are passing their days on earth, but are citizens of heaven. They obey the appointed laws, and go beyond the laws in their own lives.”

In my History of Christianity class (which is where I came across this “Letter to Diognetus” in the first place), the teacher remarked that while Rome had many gods, Rome’s real god was Rome.

Rome’s gods were subservient to the Rome’s dreams and Rome’s thirsts, Rome’s lusts and Rome’s rages; and Rome allowed people to keep their gods as long as they swore allegiance to the idea of Rome and the strength of its legions.

During the 2nd and 3rd centuries, Christians were singled out for persecution because they believed it was Christ (and not the empire) who would bring healing and peace to the world.

My question for today is simply this, and I ask it sincerely and with all seriousness:

Do we believe in America more than we believe in Jesus?

Do we believe in America more than we believe in Jesus?

In our pride and our hurt and our “strength” we have declared that we will love those who love us, and hate those that hate us. We blunder across the stage of the world swinging futile arms. We work ourselves into frenzied tangle swinging at that which cannot be fought with human powers. We try to douse fire with kerosene, as if believing it to be water.

Is it in the strength of men that we place our hope?

Can the gun and the sword and bomb bring us salvation?

No, our salvation is found in the cross, and in the way of the cross, and in the Spirit that gives us the strength to walk that path in love, in union with Christ our Savior and our Friend.

Letter to Diognetus

We have about 1,800 years between us, the author of the “Letter to Diognetus” and I. And yet, I can’t dismiss him as unelightened, ignorant, or hopelessly pre-modern. Though translated, his words express a hope and understanding that I believe we should be both inspired and humbled by. His hope in the ability of Christ to work healing and redemption through regular people is large. His understanding of the relationship of Christians to the world, to the societies in which they find themselves, is frankly more mature than that of many American Christians.

I will be writing some responses, and posting them separately.

For now, this is what he has to say:

“For Christians are not differentiated from other people by country, language or customs; you see, they do not live in cities of their own, or speak some strange dialect, or have some peculiar lifestyle…They live in both Greek and foreign cities, wherever chance has put them. They follow local customs in clothing, food, and the other aspects of life. But at the same time, they demonstrate to us the wonderful and certainly unusual form of their own citizenship. They live in their own native lands, but as aliens; as citizens they share all things with others; but like aliens, suffer all things. Every foreign country is to them as their native country, and every native land as a foreign country. They marry and have children just like everyone else; but they do not kill unwanted babies. They offer a shared table, but not a shared bed. They are at present ‘in the flesh’ but they do not live ‘according to the flesh’. They are passing their days on earth, but are citizens of heaven. They obey the appointed laws, and go beyond the laws in their own lives. They love everyone, but are persecuted by all. They are unknown and condemned; they are put to death and gain life. They are poor and yet make many rich. They are short of everything and yet have plenty of all things. They are dishonored and yet gain glory through dishonor. Their names are blackened and yet they are cleared. They are mocked and bless in return. They are treated outrageously and behave respectfully to others. When they do good, they are punished as evildoers; when punished, they rejoice as if being given a new life. They are attacked by Jews as aliens, and are persecuted by the Greeks; yet those who hate them cannot give any reason for their hostility. To put it simply – the soul is to the body as Christians are to the world. The soul is spread through all parts of the body and Christians through all the cities of the world. The soul is in the body but is not of the body; Christians are in the world but not of the world.”

Babylon Besieged

(note: I actually didn’t mean to post this on the anniversary of 9/11. I didn’t write the poem with 9/11 specifically in mind and I did a double-take when I noticed this morning that I had posted it by accident on the hallowed date. Nevertheless, in a more general way I did write the poem in dialogue with a world that is filled with violence, that has been made weary and frayed by too many wars and bombings and genocides and lynchings and disappearings. It is in this world that I hold out my hands to Christ and ask him to give me a new song to play.)

Babylon Besieged

Children starve and nobles dance
But the poor weep
While we cannot
And I
I am a rich young ruler
Who has never known what it means to be alive
Though perhaps now
I am beginning to learn.

In such a world
I could have sung a brazen song, pretending
Life like a prop against the gate
Of Babylon besieged
But why
Should I disguise the sting of your poison?
My bloody heart.

I remember a day when
Golden sunlight anointed the dust
And I saw our future written in the clouds
The bombs fell so slowly
That the children played in the patterns
Of their shadows on the rooftops.
We have lived with death
And forgotten its meaning.
We have lived without life
And forgotten our purpose.

Today was born in smoke
I can’t see the city- I can’t see the street
Nevertheless, life has always been beyond my reach
And that is why I’m kneeling on the gravel
Here and now Friend
Reaching out my hands to you.
Will you fill them overflowing
With foolishness?
With a life I’ve never had?
I dream of a life
My city cannot understand
But I’ve heard your call
And I pray to you
Give me a heart.

My faith is kneeling in the bloody city
Beyond the irreversible stutters
And statics of the bullets
Of shells bursting in air
Beyond the dollars and dusts that numb the scars
Of souls malnourished
And overcoming all lonely tears and propaganda fliers
And overflowing dumps and empty hearts
Love cries a new song
Triumphant in death but never dying.

My Irreplaceable Friend,
In you I play a new song
Because you are the breath
That moves in me to love.
Here in Babylon the besieged
You are my breath
You are my love
You pick me up off the pavement
You set me on my feet again.
And for that
You have my love
And my devotion forever.

Timothy and Mary, part 2

Timothy and Mary live under the bicycle underpass five minutes from my house. A little-used bike path that runs alongside Escondido’s drainage canal suddenly dips down under a somewhat-more-used highway, and there in the shade, with the concrete of the canal yawning to one side, the couple has set up camp.

“It cost the city millions of dollars to build this underpass,” Timothy tells me, then laughs, “We were the first ones in.”

I laugh too. Its a quick moment of shared acknowledgment. There’s some sad irony here.

We have been accidentally generous to the broken people on our streets, have acted out an unintended grace. How sad that it was an accident, that it was not meant.

We, the outwardly clean, respectable world of Escondido, like to forget the broken people are around, hiding the night away somewhere ‘out there’, somewhere beyond the automatic lights and locks that mutely proclaim unwelcome at every door.
When sunlight returns, we would prefer and would insist if we could that they remain in those distantly close shadows and not follow the sun out to wait inconveniently with their cardboard signs at impatient intersections.
Perhaps we fear them like we fear the grit that spoils the delicate smoothness of the well-oiled machine. You see, we respectable people have a cardinal rule that keeps everything running on. It’s the very oil that slicks the mechanisms of our word.
The rule is this: “Like proper Victorian children, all problems must be kept hidden and under control.”

Scandalously, these people cannot hide their problems. They have committed the unforgivable crime of blatantly being needy for grace- because the one thing we cannot bear is to be reminded of the human brokenness that in pride we refuse to admit in ourselves, and that in fear we refuse to confront with trust in a God greater than ourselves.

We are not broken. We do not need.
(Smooth oil of pretending, greasing the death of souls…
Repelling against the sincere transparency of water, its cleansing honesty.)

Nonetheless, in direct violation of the unspoken rules Escondido has unwittingly provided a shelter for these people. Again, accidental generosity, unintended grace.

“It’s cool here all day,” Timothy explains, “Never gets above 80 degrees.”

Of course, the city is repentant for such a slip in judgment, and makes stern-faced atonement in the form of 4 AM evictions and laws banning bikes in the park.

But here I will end this self-implicating rant, such as it is, and attempt once again to start from the beginning, such as it is.

As I explained in part one, it had been my plan all summer to step out from my outwardly clean and respectable world into the shadows, to see what Christ might teach me there. As I also explained, my confidence in my own resolve to do so was more than it should of been.

And so it wasn’t until my last week in Escondido that anything happened.
On that morning, my friend Riley and I woke early, having resolved to make the best breakfast sandwiches we could and then head out into the streets to find people to give them to.
We made our way sluggishly to my kitchen, and with our rudimentary cooking skills set to work, hoping that good flavor would be an emergent property of the various elements we had assembled: a hefty loaf of bread, butter, eggs fried in an oiled skillet, salsa, brussel sprouts (for vitamins).

Half an hour later, sandwiches now made and wrapped, we approach the couple in the underpass with a bit of nervousness. The woman in the sleeping bag struggles to sit up, rubs her eyes. We say hello, apologize for waking her up, introduce ourselves, shake hands. Her name is Mary.

I say, “We’ve made sandwiches. Would you like one?”

This is the awkward moment. Here we are, with our desire to in some way be generous and loving to “those in need.” And, of all things, this desire has become incarnate in the form of an egg sandwich.

As kingfishers catch fire…

This is one of my favorite poems.

I was introduced to it from reading Eugene Peterson’s “Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places”, which is incidentally a great book and one that I would recommend reading. =)

But enough of that- to the poem!

‘As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame’

Gerald Manley Hopkins (1844–89)

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves–goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying What I do is me: for that I came.

I say more: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is—
Christ—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the feature of men’s faces.

Timothy and Mary, part one

If there’s one thing that I’ve learned this summer, it’s a deeper appreciation for the difficulty of translating ideals into reality, plans into action, the exciting and imaginative conceptual into imperfect and everyday concrete.

I think of the lines T.S. Eliot penned in “The Hollow Men,” chilling but all-too-true:

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

And so I’ve been reflecting on the last two months, trying to discern where the shadow fell, and why.

I think that my capacity to dream -to hope- is greater than my capacity to enact, greater than my capacity for the elements that form the foundation for action: persistence, patience, faith, sacrifice, love…

And I think that to some degree my hope itself has been mis-founded, resting more on an overconfident estimation of my own ability than on Christ’s ability to form me as his disciple, that process I so frequently resist, that life-long journey I wish could be done in a moment. One day there may be such a moment, a “twinkling of an eye” (1 Corinthians 15:51, 52), but that day is not now, and I remain myself, imperfect and needy for the outstretched arm, the loving rebuke, the spirit of the cross: that mundane, everyday sort of resurrection. In short, needy for the wiser guidance of real love amidst all my dreams of heroism.

The Blank Canvas

This week I started my first job for this summer, which is working as a summer student intern for my church. Today we were in charge of the whole service. This included the sermon, and the six of us decided to collaborate and do a “State of the Youth” address (like the State of the Union), trying to sketch out various aspects of where we’re at as the younger generation in the church. So Adam made a movie, Michael did artwork up front, Riley talked about taking a humble approach when trying to evangelize, Thomas wrote a poem, Ashley talked about being the body of Christ (young and old both need each other), and I talked about how being young is like being an artist in front of a blank canvas.

So I thought I’d post my talk here on the blog.

Without further ado, here it is:

Today I’m going to talk about what it’s like to be young and seeking God. Which may be redundant, I realize, because most of you have already experienced this yourselves. Once upon a time, you were young and seeking God too. Nevertheless, I do think its beneficial to talk about some of the pressures and needs that young people commonly face, for me because it will be good to think through where I’m at, and for you because it will be good to remember what it was like to be at the same place. And hopefully that remembering will help you in what you are already trying to do, which is supporting us as we go through this difficult journey of growing up.