Lead, Kindly Light (Birthday of John Henry Newman)

It's the anniversary of the birthday of John Henry Newman, and I found myself thinking again of the first stanza of his poem/hymn:

"LEAD, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom
Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home—
Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene—one step enough for me."

And then I read the next couple of lines, and got zinged with their truthfulness:

"I was not ever thus, nor pray'd that Thou
Shouldst lead me on.
I loved to choose and see my path, but now
Lead Thou me on!"

Wow. "I loved to choose and see my path." Yes, I think most of us do. But sometimes the path isn't entirely clear, is it? And yet we're still called to follow, trusting God with each single step -- "I do not ask to see/The distant scene -- one step enough for me."

This all feels especially pertinent on the heels of yesterday's appointment, where one of the best things dear Dr. P said to me, as he squeezed my hand, was "hang in there...and take it one step at a time." I love my medical team. They were with me yesterday during laughter, tears, and questions. And oh, there were so many questions.

For now, I am off the chemo trial, disqualified because of the new lesions in my brain. But Dr. P is making a persuasive case to try to get me back on, once I get through the radiation and Lord willing, the tumors will be gone. And if not, he has a back up plan -- is already applying for another med. It amazes me how many steps he stays ahead of me, even when my mind is whirring and whirling with thoughts and questions and I am thinking through things with my dear husband and sisters and others as I try to edge my way tentatively forward.

Lead, Kindly Light....lead Dr. P and J and D and Dr. A and Dr B (no kidding!) and my entire medical team. Lead, Kindly Light...lead pastors, mentors, teachers, intercessors, friends, as they pray and help me so much. Lead, Kindly Light...lead me, as I step into the unknown and feel unsure of what direction to go or how. One step enough for me. "Step by step you'll lead me...and I will follow you all of my days." 

O! The Antiphons of Advent

Although I graduated from seminary, I am not a liturgy geek. I have friends (lots of them) who are...who can tell you the historical background behind all the various prayers, colors, and traditions in the church. I love beautiful liturgy and will forever be thankful that the prayer book grabbed me so many years ago and helped direct me to the Anglican tradition I now call home. But as a lay person, not a priest or deacon, I am usually perfectly content to participate in the liturgy without understanding all the exact whys and wherefores of why we do what we do.

Since I'm not a liturgy geek, but I do love history and music, occasionally I stumble upon something that I feel like I should have known about before but didn't. This year it is the "O Antiphons" of Advent.

I learned about the O Antiphons this year when I went looking for background on "O Come, O Come Emmanuel." It's the sweet girl's favorite Advent hymn, and I had promised we could delve into its meaning a little bit during our evening Advent prayers around the wreath. (And yes, liturgical geek friends, our candle colors are wrong this year! We were late buying candles and the best we could do this year was dark green with one pink.)

I knew that the names for Jesus in O Come were all Scriptural, so I decided we would dive into those biblical allusions. What I didn't realize was that the verses of the hymn correspond to ancient antiphonal prayers, each one beginning with an O!

I love those Os! Isn't it a wonderful exclamation! As though you are drawing your breath in, feeling total amazement and awe. Addressing a king. Stunned by the beauty of the gospel.

An antiphon, by the way, is simply a prayer that is read or sung antiphonally -- with voices volleying the words back and forth. The seven Antiphons of Advent are typically prayed in the week leading up to Christmas Eve and Christmas day. They are wonderful prayers that help us to prepare our hearts to make room for the celebration of the Nativity.

We've reflected together on "O Come, O Come Emmanuel," and now we are praying our way through the O Antiphons. Last night it was a prayer to "Wisdom of the Most High," and tonight we address God as "Ruler of the House of the Israel." O, I love that we never run out of names for God!

Here's a lovely site with all the Antiphons, from whence I pulled the beautiful image for this post. It's an original artwork by Jeanne Kun, entitled "The Root of Jesse."

It Must Be June

We turned the calendar to a new month today. To all intents and purposes, our school year is "done" -- at least officially. I've tallied up attendance records and we've hit our requisite number of days. All that should be left is portfolio and evaluation.

But S. still has some things to wrap up: she's still writing her final research paper for her writing course, she's got a review unit still to do in math, a few stray grammar lessons to finish up to complete the workbook, and some ongoing work in Spanish (ditto). What makes me happy is to see her willingness to keep going with all of this, in a good, disciplined way, even though it's June and we're both oh so ready for a break. The nice thing, of course, is that she can tackle these things pretty systematically on her own and still have plenty of time leftover to begin some relaxation.

The other nice thing is that we're not feeling rushed in the mornings. Which, wonderfully, means more chances to explore learning trails. This morning we lingered at the breakfast table and had an awesome conversation about missions history and the shifting of the Christian world from global north to global south, which got her so excited she actually did a little cheer for our "missionary God!" (which made my heart want to sing, naturally). At lunch, we tackled the Smithsonian magazine that arrived on Saturday and I read her the Pluto article while she ate. She did a big paper on Pluto last year, so I knew she'd find it fascinating, and she did. We're excitedly looking forward to July 14, the big NASA encounter with the dwarf planet.

So yes...it must be June. Learning continues, but it does so in a more relaxed, chasing-your-passions-down-learning-trails way. That's good for us both.

June also marks the beginning of the summer diaconate course I'm teaching, along with four independent studies. Considering I'm still grading for spring, I'm feeling like I'm not getting much of a breath, but grateful for the work. I've got final edits on some S&T work too, and a doctor's appointment this week. Never a dull moment!

Gregory of Nyssa on the Mystery of the Human Person

I've begun doing daily readings from Drinking from the Hidden Fountain: A Patristic Breviary. This is a daily reading book that my husband used and enjoyed last year and has now passed on to me. (He loves books that provide daily readings, and I'm in the throes of ordering a couple of such books for him...late this year...thanks to an Amazon gift certificate we received for Christmas.)

One of the things I always enjoy about reading the church fathers is the recognition that I'm listening to a faithful voice from a very long time ago. We are connected across the span of time because of our shared faith in Christ, and that connection runs deep. At the same time, a remarkable amount of distance exists because of the very fact of so much time between the writer's life and my own -- though sometimes I'm amazed that it feels smaller than I think, because so much about being human stays the same. Still, I love that the "clean sea breezes of the centuries" blow between us, as C.S. Lewis puts it so beautifully in his encouragement to read old books (which you can find in his introduction to Athanasius' On the Incarnation). I need those breezes. I need perspectives significantly older than my own.

I love that the ancient writers often have a healthy and wonderful sense of mystery about the human person, something that I think we've lost a little bit in our efforts to understand, explain, and control so much in a time when science holds sway. This isn't, by the way, an anti-science polemic. I love the fact that we've been given minds to ask questions and that, in our curiosity and our yearnings to know more, we've learned so much about the world over the years. It's also fascinating to me that the more we learn, the more we still have to learn. The complexities of life are so rich and full, we can never get to the end of knowledge.

Still, there's a humility and a wonder in some of the church fathers that's just so refreshing. This week the breviary has been focusing on excerpts from Gregory of Nyssa's The Creation of Man. I got a chuckle when I read this line:

"The Apostle Paul says 'Who has known he mind of the Lord?' (Rom. 11:34)...To this I would add, 'Who knows his own mind?'

Gregory goes on to reflect on the fact that not only is God's nature beyond our comprehension, but that we, made in his image, are also pretty incomprehensible. In other words, I think he's saying that we shouldn't be too easily frustrated by our own complexity and how hard it can be to understand our own selves (and others). Our very complexity is part of our reflection of God's nature, which is even more unfathomable (again, in a deep, good, mysterious sense) than our own. Our intellect "remains a mystery" he says, and he doesn't seem all that worried about it. Our mind "has many parts and many components...How does it comprehend knowledge? How are its different elements brought together? The mind is a single entity, not a compound. How it is divided among the various senses? How does this diversity in unity arise? How unity in diversity?" (Hint: he sees in this mysteriousness our resemblance to the Trinitarian God.)

I love that Gregory asks questions that are still, for all our advances in science and medicine, still being asked. I love that he seems genuinely serene as he asks them. And not just serene, filled with wonder and amazement before the mystery of human beings who are made in the image of God who is also mystery, beyond our comprehension, and yet willing to reveal himself, to draw near and make himself known.

(Funny p.s.: my spellchecker suggests the word "humanitarian" in place of "Trinitarian" ~ apparently the latter is not in its dictionary. And it suggests "patriotic" for "Patristic.")

The Changing Shape of Church History (Notes on Intro)

Several years ago I read a little book by Justo Gonzalez that felt like a real conversation changer for me. It was called The Changing Shape of Church History. Conversation changers are what I call those books that shape my thinking enough that I begin to talk about things differently than I used to. This book has not just changed the way I've thought about church history, and the church in the world today, but how I've taught it.

I have gone back to parts of this book so many times that I've decided to re-read it, but this time through I want to take notes. Yesterday I dove back into the introduction, so thought I would post my notes on that today. I'm summarizing, but also adding some of my own thoughts and glosses as I go.

• In the introduction, Gonzalez makes the claim that "the entire field of church history is changing" (2) and then says, someone is bound to ask, "how is it possible for the past to change?" (2)
• He makes the obvious but important (and I think often overlooked) point that "history is not the same as the past. The past is never directly accessible to us. The past comes to us through the mediation of interpretation. And that interpreted past is history." (2)
• He provides the useful image of a dialogue. When we speak with another person, that person is not directly accessible to us. We have their "words, gestures, and tones" (2) and we receive those things and interpret what they are attempting to communicate. When we are in an authentic dialogue, we do our best to respect the "givenness" of the other person's words. But we also have no choice but to "hear and interpret those words" from our own perspective, which is shaped and colored by our own unique experiences. Dialogue is really impossible, he points out, and yet we engage in it all the time -- and it forms the basis of our social life. (Just think about the last time you tried to have a meaningful "conversation" on Facebook, minus all the visual and body language clues he just referenced, and think about how hard real dialogue can be!)
• Now that you have the image of a dialogue firmly in mind, "think about history as a dialogue. It is a dialogue in which it is not only the past that addresses us, but also we who address the past." (2) In other words, we're not passive observers -- we speak with the past, we ask it questions. And the answers we get from it depend in large part on what we're asking. 
• So it makes sense to realize that church history changes, as the church itself changes.
• History is pertinent "not that it is what happened in the past, but rather that it is what happened in the past as seen from our present and toward the future we imagine." (3) (Keep that one in mind -- and think how, as the people of God, we're called to live faithfully in the present, inspired and encouraged and deeply connected to the past, as we walk boldly into the future that God has not only imagined for us, but the future he can actually bring to pass.)
• So why is the history of the church changing? You might think it's just because "scholars have new sources" (3) but there's more to it than that. It's because "the church and the world are changing. And these are changes that we can only begin to understand as we look at them in historical perspective." (3)
• He goes on to highlight changes seen in the world around the time of 9/11 (which happened a few months before he penned this intro...the book was published in 2002). 9/11 reminded us the map of the world was changing. 9/11 revealed to us the shared vulnerability of humankind, even in places/centers of power which we might have thought were invulnerable. As we reflected on what happened, we also became aware "that the world is not really as secular as Western modernity had thought, that many nations are no longer culturally or religiously homogeneous, that events in the past that many of us did not consider important still have great power to shape the future" (4).
• And changes in the way world history is perceived and written about will also have an impact on how we think and write about the history of the church. 

More notes to come.

Lenten Reading: Pondering St. Augustine

For part of my Lenten reading this year, I've been working my way through the devotional readings in Bread and Wine, published by Orbis Books. This is a richly diverse collection of readings from Christians of various traditions and across a number of years. It has a lot of my favorite writers in it (one of the reasons it caught my eye) but has also been introducing me to some writers I didn't know as well. It's also giving me lots of food for heart and mind from some of the classic writers of Christian devotion.

This was part of this morning's reading, from St. Augustine's Confessions:

"The Maker of man was made man, that the Ruler of the stars might suck at the breast; that the Bread might be hungered; the Fountain, thirst; the Light, sleep; the Way, be wearied by the journey; the Truth, be accused by false witnesses; the Judge of the living and dead, be judged by a mortal judge; the Chastener, be chastised with whips; the Vine, be crowned with thorns; the Foundation, be hung upon the tree; Strength, be made weak; Health, be wounded; life, die. To suffer these and suchlike things, undeserved things, that He might free the undeserving, for neither did He deserve any evil, who for our sakes endured so many evils, nor were we deserving of anything good, we who through Him received such good."

Amen and amen. I'm reminded afresh of how important the whole of Jesus' life is for us -- the incarnation, his earthly life, his passion, death and resurrection -- how the whole of that life catches us up and brings us into the eternal life of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

It also reminds me of another meditation by a much more recent Christian poet and ponderer, Michael Card. From his song "The Cross of Glory":

From the pages of the prophets
He stepped out into the world
And walked the earth in lowly majesty
For He had been creator
A creature now was He
Come to bear love's sacred mystery
He the Truth was called a liar
The only lover hated so
He was many times a martyr before He died
Forsaken by the Father
Despised by all the world
He alone was born to be the crucified
Upon the cross of Glory
His death was life to me
A sacrifice of love's most sacred mystery
And death rejoiced to hold Him
But soon He would be free
For love must always have the victory
Though no rhyme could ever tell it
And no words could ever say
And no chord is foul enough to sing the pain
Still we feel the burden
And suffer with your song
You love us so and yet you bid us sing

For love must always have the victory

Bernard, Francis, Anselm

"O gentle Jesus, turn Thee unto me; What I have broken do Thou bind in me, And what is crooked make Thou straight in me; What I have lost restore Thou unto me, And what is weak and sickly heal in me."  ~St. Bernard of Clairvaux

That beautiful prayer was posted this evening on the Renovare page on facebook. I was happy to see it, both because I needed its heartfelt words, and because I've been thinking a good bit about Bernard of Clairvaux.

We started our introduction to the Crusades yesterday, and as usual, I am finding Bernard a tough guy to figure out. I like to segue into church history whenever I can in the course of our usual history studies, and during this period of the Middle Ages, with the church in such a position of power and cultural influence (for good and for ill) it's easy to make that jump.

What to say about Bernard? One of the most influential preachers of his age, he seemed to overflow with a true love for Christ ("gentle Jesus") and an understanding of his own deep failures. Yet he preached the first Crusade. Granted, we can't hold him responsible for all that came after, in that war or subsequent ones, but it's still hard to reconcile that fact with some of his prayers. At least for me at the moment.

Interesting side note: out of curiosity I went looking in our library system to see if I could find anything age-appropriate about Bernard for children. One book title popped up, and it was some sort of anthology (and only available as reference, not for check-out). By contrast, a quick search on children's resources on Francis of Assisi returned 34 titles, some of them quite recent. There seems to be about one new children's book on Francis each year. It's just interesting to see which saints speak to (or "translate") to our time and culture -- or at least seem to translate according to whomever is deciding what's appropriate and edifying for kids to read about saints.

And one more note: really thankful as we discussed the Crusades to have St. Anselm's prayers and meditations close to hand. We read from his prayer for his enemies. So good to have that clear, clear, humble prayer washing in from the past and landing on our shores yesterday.

Two Movements: Into and Out of the Sanctuary

This week I have my students thinking and writing about the different ways the Anglican church engaged the culture in the 19th century. The Oxford Movement, with its emphasis on the "church gathered" and the importance of gathering in worship to "be the church," sometimes had reservations about the Evangelical movement and its commitment to social action, the way it was "being the church" within the world. (This would be the second generation of the Evangelical revival, folks like Wilberforce and his Clapham friends.)

The distinction drawn, for the sake of the question, is purposefully overdrawn for the sake of compelling thought and discussion. Of course the higher church folk often engaged the culture "in the world" in specific ways, and of course the Evangelicals didn't cease to gather in worship to remember who they were. It's more a matter of emphasis, of looking at where each found its firmest understanding of who they were and where they stood. But it's a good question and a perennial one: what does it mean to be church, and how do we best relate to the world around us with fresh gospel energy?

So during my morning quiet time, when I came across this passage in Eugene Peterson's Eat This Book, I just had to chuckle:
 

 "The task of liturgy is to order the life of the holy community following the text of Holy Scripture. It consists of two movements. First it gets us into the sanctuary, the place of adoration and attention, listening and receiving and believing before God. There is a lot involved, all the parts of our lives ordered to all aspects of the revelation of God in Jesus.

Then it gets us out of the sanctuary into the world into places of obeying and loving, ordering our lives as living sacrifices in the world to the glory of God.  There is a lot involved, all the parts of our lives out on the street participating in the work of salvation."

Two movements. Into the sanctuary, out of the sanctuary. Both involving the same kinds of actions: listening, loving, obeying, believing, ordering, giving God glory. Both involving all parts of us. Amen. Yes.

Reading and Writing Biography and History: What Matters Most

A friend of mine recently emailed me an article entitled "So Many Different Dietrich Bonhoeffers" by Richard Weikart. Within the context of his wider agenda of discussing the ways in which Bonhoeffer has been made over in the image of various liberal and conservative thinkers, Weikart takes Eric Metaxas' recent biography of Bonhoeffer to task for this very practice. He castigates Metaxas for actual historic errors, a lack of deep understanding of historical and theological context, and finally, for presenting a portrait of Bonhoeffer that is far too evangelical.

I found myself at sixes and sevens when I read this piece. First of all, I should note that I read Metaxas' Bonhoeffer biography this past February. To be more honest, I should say I tumbled headfirst inside it and devoured it. Laying aside, just for a moment, any or all qualms about its historical accuracy or the worth of its interpretive lens (we'll come back to those things) the book was crafted so well from a stylistic standpoint that it was hard to put down. Metaxas, whose book on Wilberforce I truly loved, has a way of warmly inviting readers into the story of his subject. He has a knack of making you feel as though you are in the person's presence. He is also artful in his use of quotes. In other words, he can tell a good story (something I am coming to prize in the world of biography) and his tales go down easy.

But when it comes to writing biography, is spinning a good story enough if one isn't historically accurate? And how much does one's own context come into play in the way one spins a tale?

Although I devoured the Bonhoeffer book, I did not feel the full-hearted love for it that I had for the Wilberforce volume. It left me feeling a little unsatisfied and ragged. In fact, I never reviewed the book, as I normally would such a large volume I'd spent so much time with. It took me a while to muddle through to why, and my reflections helped me to think through how much the shape of a subject's life also affects the shape of a biography.

One reason the Bonhoeffer biography felt untidy and somehow incomplete is that Bonhoeffer's life felt that way. I don't mean to speculate on how Bonhoeffer himself felt when he died. Indeed, the accounts we have of his death seem to indicate that he died peacefully, a man at rest with God. But the fact remains that he was a victim of war; his life came to a tragic and sudden end when he was only 39, and when the war was almost over. Presumably, had the government not discovered Canaris' diaries, it would not have gone after the conspirators. With the war so close to its end, he would likely have been liberated and perhaps gone on to live a long life, thinking, writing, and teaching more. And had he done so, probably many of the questions people raise about his theology would have become much more clear.

The fact that Bonhoeffer was in prison for almost two years before he died also seems to complicate things for Metaxas, and (I would imagine) for any biographer. There's only so much we know about those final two years, most of it from letters and poems Bonhoeffer wrote from prison, or from the memories of loved ones who visited him during that time. The last three months, when he was being moved often and in secrecy, are almost a complete blank. Here is where I really struggled with Metaxas' biography, because he had to rely almost completely on the reminisces of people who just happened to share prison transports and cells with Bonhoeffer. Their perspective can make you feel as though you're viewing blurred snapshots from the final months, and those only taken every few days.

But back to my original musings about what makes good history and biography. Weikart certainly isn't the only critic to call Metaxas' work into question. Fellow evangelicals, though more sympathetic in tone, have also called him on his scholarship. There's a really good article from Christianity Today back in February (yes, I'm late to this party) that rounds up early reactions and responses to the book. Even the author of this article, who lauds Metaxas for his vivid writing (and doesn't dismiss the worth the book still has, which I appreciate) admits that the book is "agenda-driven." But of course he does so within the context of admitting that all history/biography (and even all book reviews!) are agenda-driven to some extent.

To some extent. I repeat that, because it seems to me that sometimes our writing is not so much agenda-driven (which implies we've consciously got our agenda in the front seat, calling the shots) as worldview soaked.

It's true that it helps us to clearly know from what perspective/lens (and potential bias) we're writing from, but writing from one is a given. We can't perch on an imaginary objective pedestal when we write: we write from a given place, time, and culture colored by our own unique personal history and understanding.

I also think there are times when writing from a clearly inhabited perspective is helpful. It's true that there are times when our given perspective distorts what we see and how we report it. But there may also be times when our given perspective sharpens what we see and how we write about it. In this particular case, I'm thinking that, while it seems to be true that Metaxas' understanding of Bonhoeffer's theological context doesn't go very deep, his perspective as an evangelical does help him to ferret out those places where Bonhoeffer manages to get past his own potential biases to critique theological liberalism -- in American seminaries of the period, for instance, or even in the work of his teacher Harnack. Doesn't it seem worth noting the places where Bonhoeffer steps outside the box you assume he would fit most comfortably inside, given the theological training he was steeped in? Does it take evangelical eyes to see those places?

So what, beyond in-depth research and artful telling, matters most when writing good biography and history? I'm still thinking this through. It seems that much biographical writing would be helped by a candid acknowledgment of our own context (with its potential strengths and drawbacks), a willingness to wrestle with at least some key sources that interpret a subject from a different perspective of our own, and a steeping (as much as possible) in the voice of our biographical subject. One reason I love using primary sources when I teach history is that nothing seems to take the place of hearing the actual voice of someone from the time period under discussion. Yes, sometimes those texts will be in translation (and that raises the issue of perspective in translation work!) and we still have to interpret what we read, but a thoughtful wrestling with primary sources can still go a long way toward insuring that we have a thorough understanding of a biographical subject.

More on this another time.

Notes from a Reading Life: Alcuin of York

So....I'm tired. You can probably tell by the paucity of my posts here lately. Or maybe you are imagining me living a life of leisure, eating bon-bons and reading mystery novels. (Not! But doesn't that sound nice?)

In the midst of a crazy-busy life, I am doing a lot of reading. Some of it by necessity, since I'm assisting this term in three sections of a course in Medieval and Reformation Church History. The prof. I'm assisting sometimes piles on the primary source readings for our students, giving them the option to choose which sources they read according to what ressourcement lens they're working with (theology, worship or catechesis). But since I'm supposed to be responding to papers across all levels in the online section, I'm trying (note I said trying) to keep up with reading across all three tracks.

Since I often don't have time until late in the evening to tackle this reading, sometimes it feels like physical plowing. Read a few pages, get up and stretch and try to wake up. Read a few more pages, pop a hershey's kiss after unwrapping it from is pink foil blanket (ha! see, you were right...I *am* eating bon-bons). Listen to some lecture bits, record a few quiz grades, check in on facebook. Then back to the primary source readings, where I plow further ahead, trying to keep those furrows straight (that would be the furrows on my brow, as I try to exercise a very tired brain that's spent the day helping my third grader parse sentences, or figuring out what to cook for dinner, or answering missions committee related email, or mostly likely all three things at once...)

So though I am reading great quantities, I don't often have time for huge a-ha moments. I'm more in scribble-like-crazy-in-the-margins mode, or put-a-really-big- asterisk-next-to-this-important-thought and hope I'll be able to find it again mode.

So it's lovely when something I'm reading stops me in my tracks. Such was the case with Alcuin of York this evening.

Alcuin lived mostly in the eighth century (730 -804). He was Northumbrian by birth, influenced by the world of Bede, but he spent a lot of his life on the continent, where he became an important teacher/administrator/liturgist/writer in the court of Charlemagne. I could have gone on listing things he did, you get the drift. This was an important man whose thinking, writing, praying and teaching lay a lot of the groundwork for later medieval thought and practice.

He was also a poet. Do you know how blessed and happy it made my right-brain to happen upon his poetry in the midst of a long night of left-brain activity? Especially when I came across lines like these:

"Teach us faith, awaken hope, and fill us with love.
Give me the purity that comes from you and cannot come from me,
That I make forsake earth and seek heaven.
My soft plumage is weak without your help:
Grant me the wings of faith that I may fly upwards to you:
For I confess faith in you, through you and from you.

I confess that you are one in substance and Trinity in persons:
You are always the same, alive and all comprehending.
I confess the three in one and the one in three --
The Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit: O blessed Trinity.
You are God, the Lord, and the Paraclete.
You are love, grace and communion:
For God is love, Christ is grace, and the Holy Spirit is communion:
Begetter, begotten and regenerator: O blessed Trinity.

The true Light, true Light from Light, and the Illuminator:
The fountain, the river and the refreshing stream:
All things are from one, through one and in one: O blessed Trinity."


I confess my heart soared (on wings of faith!) when I read these words. My tired eyes snapped open, my heart stood to attention and saluted. I fell into the words like someone who did indeed need to step into a refreshing stream. O Lord, I so need the language of poetry and prayer.

This is why -- and I say it as I've said it to students of all ages and stages over the years -- this is why it's so important that we spend time reading for formation and not just information. This is why we need the language of prayer and poetry and not just analytical prose (as much as I can delight in well-written history, biography, theology). Once in a while, we need to step out of words (even really good ones) that are written *about* and step into words that are *addressed to* the Word. We need to step out of mere thinking and into full-bodied, full-brained, full-hearted worship.

Patchwork Post

Just a few patches from the crazy quilt of recent days...

SICK

If you were a little flummoxed by yesterday's brief post, or if you've been wondering where the heck I've been, it can all be summed up in one word: SICK.

And what an odd round of sickness it's been. It started almost a week ago when I discovered I'd done a mysterious something to my back. Terrible muscle spasms, not being able to bend or walk without real pain, and it felt worst while sitting in (or getting up from) my desk chair at the computer.

It got so bad late Thursday-into-Friday that I really couldn't walk or lie down without terrible spasms radiating from my lower back into my right hip. In desperation, I strayed from my normal natural homeopathic path (a good path, by the way) and slathered myself in the menthol Icy Hot ointment. And then (in a haze of pain) completely disregarded package directions and put moist heat on top of it, which must have made the stuff absorb into my skin incredibly deeply.

Note, if you think you might have the slightest allergy to salicylates, don't do what I did.

So the result was several days of some of the worst hives I've ever had, and believe me, I've had some doozies.

Then the weather turned chilly and it started pouring rain, and I started my annual autumn bout of congestion/cough. And the cough seemed to strain my starting-to-heal back, which gave me a couple more bad days (though not quite as bad) with my back.

And then yesterday I couldn't bear the hives anymore...they didn't seem to be responding to the homeopathic remedy I was trying...so I switched to another remedy and also gave in and took Benadryl.

Which proceeded to knock me flat for most of the day. SoI was either sleeping, fighting sleep, or wishing I was sleeping...

Hence my post about not teaching while under the influence!

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"SALVE, MAGISTRA!"

That was the sweet girl's enthusiastic greeting to me the other day. Yes, we've been studying the first few lessons in Prima Latina.

I'm glad we decided to take the gentle route with Latin this year. It's been a good, slow beginning for us, just what we needed. I'm having a hard time getting in all the things we want to do, but including one PL lesson per week has been easy peasy and such an enjoyment for all of us. We couldn't afford the DVDs, but we like the audio CD. The woman who narrates the vocabulary has such a sweet southern inflection.

One of the nice things about Prima Latina is its inclusion of Latin prayers. We've been working on memorizing the Sanctus. The sweet girl's favorite word from her lessons so far is "Oremus" -- "let us pray." She often uses it as our call to prayer at dinner time or candles!

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LIVING WITH THE EARLY CHURCH

Being sick has at least afforded me some opportunity to read, and read I must if I'm going to keep ahead of the curve as I help teach the Early Church course for the seminary. It's been so good to dive back into the apostolic and sub-apostolic periods (the course runs from NT church up through Chalcedon). So I'm spending a lot of waking hours in the company of folks like Clement of Rome, Ignatius of Antioch, Irenaeus and Justin Martyr.

Good company...probably some quotes/posts forthcoming.

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"FASCINATING," said Mr. Spock, with his eyebrow raised.

Although we've had almost no time to breathe, much less watch movies, Dana and I continue our meander through the Netflix provided season 1 of the original Star Trek. What a great show...and what memories it brings back (mostly of watching them in re-runs in the 70s, along with my big brother).

I've always been fond of Bones (given my maiden name, probably understandable) but I'm really finding myself drawn to Spock lately. Hmm...

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RECIPES FROM THE ROOT CELLAR

I have fallen in love with this cookbook by Andrea Chesman, which I found recently on the "just-in" shelves at our library. It's subtitled "270 Fresh Ways to Enjoy Winter Vegetables" and although I've only tried 2 of the recipes so far, I feel game to try as many as I can from the other 268. I LOVE winter vegetables, and this book has offered some wonderful ideas for using them. Full of yummy ideas using potatoes, squashes, dark greens, carrots and other root veggies (not to mention apples).

So far I've made the Italian Wedding Soup with kale (really good, though I'd like to try it with a veggie chicken broth next time...all I had on hand was regular veggie broth) and Rumbledethump (fell in love with the name!) a casserole dish based on a recipe for Scottish colcannon.

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FEELING LIKE MA INGALLS

I joked that cooking up such a hearty Scottish dish (made with potatoes, onions, and cabbage) made me feel a little like Ma Ingalls. But I've got Ma and all the rest of the Ingalls on the brain anyway, since we have been having a Little House festival of reading this fall. Unplanned, but delightful...we finished Long Winter the other day and launched immediately into Little Town. We've been saving the reading for bedtime so Pa...er, Daddy...can join the fun.

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BOOK REVIEWS!

Oh, do I miss writing book reviews. It's funny that a writing pastime that began on a whim several years ago has become such a delight of my heart, but I do loving writing book reviews. And I'm currently in a major review writing drought -- not for lack of books, but serious lack of time (busiest schedule ever this fall, compounded by health stuff lately...)

In addition to all the books I've read recently that are piling up on my desk (and beckoning me to write about them) yesterday I got a package of books to review from Greenwillow Press, imprint of Harper Collins. It's only the second time I've had a publisher directly send me books to review, and I have to confess, though it sounds silly, that I felt like a real reviewer as I oohed and aahed my way through these beautiful books I get to read, share about and keep. You would think almost 900 written and posted reviews online would make me feel like a real book reviewer already, wouldn't you? But we writers are funny creatures...

Many more patches I could share, but dinner calls.

Augustine of Hippo (d. 430)

It's the feast day of Augustine of Hippo (not to be confused with Augustine of Canterbury, another Augustine of particular significance in the Anglican tradition).

I recently finished David C. Downing's book Into the Region of Awe: Mysticism in C.S. Lewis. I was hoping to have a chance to review it this week, but thus far that time has eluded me! But I thought I'd make a couple of brief comments on his sections on Augustine, the "prince of mysticism." Downing sees Augustine's influence on Lewis, by the way, particularly in Till We Have Faces.

One of the most interesting things I learned from Downing about Augustine is that Augustine's account, in his Confessions, of a deeply mystical experience is:

"remarkable in several respects. It is the earliest account of the actual stages of mystical transport: from contemplation to a sense of leaving behind the material world to entering the quiet sanctuary of one's own soul to momentarily glimpsing eternal truth. Augustine's description is typical in that the rapturous experience is transitory and it seems to occur in distinct stages. But the account is also highly unusual in that it seems to occur communally, not individually, and that one of those caught up is both uneducated and a woman. In the mystery religions of the ancient world someone like Augustine's mother, however devout, would not be an initiate and would not be considered qualified for mystical experiences."

I loved this thought for two reasons:
1) It seems fitting that Augustine and Monica would share such deep spiritual closeness, especially given her deep love for son, and her tears and prayers that availed so much in moving Augustine toward God's path for his life.

2) Once again, I am unutterably grateful for the radical availability of God's grace and love, which flows so freely to all and is not reserved for a special few or some mysterious "initiates" who possess great wisdom, learning and secret knowledge. God welcomes all to his table, all to his family, regardless of their background or status. Worldly prestige and honor matter not a whit. In fact, God seems to rejoice in choosing the lowly and those of "no account" in the eyes of the world.

"...For consider your calling, brothers: not many of you were wise according to worldly standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are, so that no human being might boast in the presence of God."

From the archives: Saint Macrina

When I first began blogging, back in 2006, I posted about Saint Macrina on July 19, her feast day. In honor of the day, I thought I'd re-post it.


On the Episcopal calendar, today is the day we celebrate Saint Macrina. Macrina was the oldest of ten children born around the year 327 to Basil the Elder and his wife Emmelia, a prominent Christian couple in Cappadocia (a mountainous district east of Asia Minor, where the Christian Gospel took early root). She's best known as the sister of two of the great Cappadocian fathers, Basil and Gregory, who along with their friend Gregory of Nazianzus were important defenders of Nicaean orthodoxy during the height of the Arian controversy.

Macrina is also sometimes credited with the founding of what's usually known as "Basilian monasticism" because she undertook monastic life early on and influenced her brother Basil in his formation of monastic communities. Although it was the men in the family who took center stage at a crucial time in church history, Basil's letters and Gregory's Life of Saint Macrina (a beautiful meditation on his sister's holy life and death) make it clear that they were very shaped by the deep Christian teaching and example of sister, mother and grandmother.

I became rather fascinated by Macrina several years ago when I took a course in Patristics. I ended up writing a paper about her, which I've dug out a few times over the years, including today, to refresh myself on the particulars of this amazing woman's life.

I had hoped to include a picture or an icon with this posting, but I'm still getting the hang of how to post graphics and where I can get them without either copyright infringement or stealing someone's bandwidth. I know that the "flickr" site has plenty of photos usable for blogs, so I thought I'd check there today...though it turns out they primarily feature very contemporary photos. Ironically, the name "Macrina" brought up numerous photos of rich and delicious looking rolls, breads and pastries, all apparently made at a well-known bakery named Macrina's in Seattle, WA.

Why do I say ironic? Well, my first reaction was to think how strange it was to go looking for images of an ascetical saint (who lived and ate very simply and owned almost no posessions) and find all these images of rich, gooey, fattening desserts. What a contrast in eras, cultures and values! That was my immediate somewhat cynical inner response.

But then I thought some more. Saint Macrina was actually well-known as a breadmaker. (I might add that this fact apparently didn't escape the Seattle bakery owners...yes, I googled the word Macrina and came up with the bakery's website...in fact, it was the first hit, ahead of an encylopedia article on Saint Macrina.) Macrina's father died when she was quite young and she helped her mother raise all the younger children in the family as well as caring for her mother. Later Macrina formed a community of women, and her mother lived in the community with her, along with a number of other women (many of whom had been poor or abandoned, some of whom had once been the family servants). Among her other prayerful concerns and activities, Macrina and presumably some of the other women in the community baked bread for Holy Communion.

So perhaps it's not so ironic that I would be looking at images of rich and glorious food. Macrina lived a life of holy detachment from things, but a life rich in the inner spirit and one focused on the joys and realities of the coming heavenly banquet. In life, she had only a cloak, veil, sandals, a cross necklace and ring. She had no other clothes. But as we know from the Life of Saint Macrina, her brother Gregory helped prepare her body for burial by dressing her in a beautiful wedding gown. We who believe in bodily resurrection can only imagine the rich sumptuousness of heaven. It's hard for me not to reflect on the possibility that Macrina might be smiling at the notion that when I went looking for her today, the "icons" I saw were of cinnamon rolls and chocolate cake.

The Radical Message of the Gospel

Yesterday I was reading along in Mark Noll's The Rise of Evangelicalism: The Age of Edwards, Whitefield and the Wesleys (my current church history read) and got stopped in my tracks by this paragraph:

"The movement of evangelicalism beyond the boundaries of British society had begun. As often in the evangelical story, the prompting of Continental pietists was critical. But even more vital was the evangelical understanding of the gospel as free -- that is, as broader, deeper and higher than the conventions of both British Christendom and Western civilization. Evangelicals in their early decades were not social radicals, yet the message that moved them to action was beginning to have radical effects."

Isn't this a wonderful truth to ponder? Sometimes evangelicals (and Christians of all traditions) can get carried away by their understandable enthusiasm for the past contributions of the church in the cause of social justice. That's good in its place: we should laud the example of saints like William Wilberforce and care deeply about the kinds of things and people that he and other like-minded Christians cared about. But we should also remember where his impetus came from, and why he was compelled to care and to act as he did.

It's the gospel that's truly radical, the gospel that sets people free, the gospel that speaks into people's lives and moves far ahead of any of us in its radical nature. It compels us to be far more radical than we'd ever possibly be on our own. When you look at the legacy of earlier evangelicalism, as it was emerging in the British Isles and North America in the 18th century, you see, for instance, that the evangelical churches' attitudes regarding race, and their work with the African community, is a mixed bag at best. The Wesleys preached the spiritual equality of all people before God. So did Whitefield, to a point (though he eventually accepted slavery and even owned slaves). The Moravians, always on the cutting edge of ministry and mission, didn't speak out directly against slavery, but their actions and their ministry amongst Africans in communities in the Virgin Islands, for example, spoke eloquent volumes about their understanding that all people were made in God's image and needed to hear the good news that alone could set them free. They were far ahead of many of the churches of their day (and many miles ahead of the Anglicans, whose culture-boundedness at this point in their history did not serve them well...has it ever?).

My point: as inspiring as the work of spiritual pioneers like Wesley and Whitefield is, they themselves sometimes struggled with the radical implications of the gospel. It was the radical message of the gospel itself that made them forge ahead, that shaped them outside of their comfort zones. This was true in all sorts of matters, I expect, not just racial matters. I often think about John Wesley, church-born and bred, beginning his ministry not thinking anyone should or could preach outside church walls. God literally moved him *out* -- outside those walls and into the fields where hungry, exhausted miners struggled with poverty and addiction. When Wesley got the place where he said "the world is my parish" it was huge. He'd realized that God was calling him to something much more vast than he could have ever imagined.

The early evangelicals weren't social radicals, but the gospel called them to places they never expected, and they began to see radical fruits because of their ministry. No surprise that a Wilberforce was growing up right behind the Wesleys, no surprise that Wilberforce himself was mentored in the ways of radical grace by a former (and now radically converted) captain of a slave ship. No surprise that the gospel began to have radical effects, because it is indeed "broader, deeper and higher" than any cultural conventions.

And what did all this mean? Well, in the context of the 18th century, the gospel message meant freedom for many people (as it still does today). But it also meant that seeds were planted that are still bearing fruit as we see the enormous and amazing growth of Christianity around the globe now, in the twenty-first century, in all sorts of communities and cultures. Noll calls "the beginning of an enduring Christian presence among African Americans..." "the one truly revolutionary development in evangelicalism" during this time period. We often focus on the ways that evangelical churchmen like the Wesleys sparked revival in the established churches of England (and other English-speaking parts of the world). What I've sometimes failed to grasp is the enormity of the rise of Christian faith among people who didn't need "revival" but who needed to hear the gospel for the first time, the rise of Christian faith "among black communities in the new world," among peoples who often lived as social outcasts and who had "no strong tradition of Christian faith, no stake in church establishments and no heritage of European civilization." This wasn't just revival, it was the evangelization of cultures who had never had the opportunity to hear the gospel before. And it was radical and huge.

God's work often is.

Revisiting Amazing Grace

I'm up way too late (past midnight) trying to get some work done, both teaching and writing. It's been a long, full week with very little time for thinking or reading, and tired as I am, I just feel in need of some quiet space to do both.

This Friday evening found us at church for the monthly movie night, which my husband and a current seminarian began hosting a few months ago. This evening's film was "Amazing Grace," the 2006 film inspired by the life of William Wilberforce.

D. and I originally saw the movie back in the fall of 2007. I loved it then, as you can see from my review here, but I loved it even more the second time around. Perhaps this time I wasn't so focused on seeing whether or not they were historically accurate in the way they portrayed one of my favorite heroes of the faith. This time I just sat back and soaked in the wonderful performances. All of them were excellent, but Ioan Gruffudd was really masterful as Wilberforce. I remembered how well he captured his passion and drive; I hadn't remembered so vividly how he captured his frailty and exhaustion.

That's what really got to me tonight: how terribly in need of grace we all are, even those saints (like Wilberforce and Newton) whose lives we look back on with gratitude and sometimes awe. Wilberforce nearly burned himself out for God. There were clearly times (many times) when he couldn't see what God was doing, when he was worn out and at the end of his rope, and when he felt like a complete failure. Of course we the audience know, even as we watch those darkest moments, that grace will prevail. Wilberforce will succeed (did succeed) in getting his bills passed in parliament. The British slave trade was abolished in 1807 and slavery itself was abolished in 1833. His life's work was blessed and countless people freed and blessed through it.

But Wilberforce didn't know that while he lived it. He couldn't see the very good end, though he prayed for it fervently, dreamed it, imagined it, hoped for it. But what Gruffudd captures so brilliantly about Wilberforce is the truth that, in the midst of the very long fight, there were simply times when it just felt like a long, lonely, bitter slog. And there were times when only the grace of God, especially manifested through the love and encouragement of people around him, carried Wilberforce through.

Alleluia! Christ is Risen!

Soar we now where Christ has led, Alleluia!
Following our exalted Head, Alleluia!
Made like him, like him we rise, Alleluia!
Ours the cross, the grave, the skies, Alleluia!

There are moments in the Easter liturgy where my heart always soars. That first moment when the congregation seems to rise up like a tidal wave of joy to shout "He is risen indeed! Alleluia!" And the moment when the first notes of "Christ the Lord is Risen Today" launch us into praise.

I know that the singing of that hymn is not always a part of every Easter service or liturgy, but within Anglican churches at least, it's almost definite that we'll sing it at some point. And I am so grateful. The words of that hymn have become a huge part of the celebration of Jesus' resurrection for me: his rising, his defeating of death once and for all time, our praise, our joy, our sure and certain hope that because he rose we also shall rise. Alleluia!

When I teach English church history, I remind my students that Anglicanism really has no primary founding theologian in the way that the Presbyterians have Calvin and the Lutherans have Luther. We have a founding liturgist in Thomas Cranmer, but he wasn't a theologian in the sense of the others...not a great systematizer or revolutionary thinker. The richness of Cranmer is the way he deeply inhabited the Biblical story and let the Scriptures enrich his prayers.

It strikes me more and more the the best and most deeply influential Anglican theologians have primarily been poets and hymn-writers (which may be one of the reasons I was drawn into this tradition in the first place!) and that Charles Wesley is certainly one of the most important. We may not think of C.W. primarily as a theologian but if you consider a theologian someone who speaks truth about God in ways that enrich the lives and understanding of the community of God's people (and I do) then Charles Wesley is one of the best we've ever had.

This is the man who penned Hark the Herald Angels Sing as well as Christ the Lord is Risen Today, but his prolific and profound poetry didn't touch only on the great feasts of Christmas and Easter but on every part of our journey in Christ. Love Divine All Loves Excelling (sung by the congregation at our wedding), O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing (my favorite hymn as a child), Jesus Lover of My Soul, And Can It Be, Lo How He Comes With Clouds Descending. These are not merely some of the most beautiful and singable congregational hymns ever written; they speak profoundly and truly about who God is, how he loves us, and who he calls us to be.

I love both the Wesley brothers, and though I'm fond of reminding my students of the many thousands of miles that John rode on horseback during his preaching tours (remember the world was his parish!) I love that he wasn't the only Wesley who composed while riding. There's a marvelous story of Charles arriving at a chapel one evening and springing from his horse with a cry of "a pen! a pen!" They say he wouldn't talk to anyone until he had written down whatever words had been given to him as he journeyed along. I'm so grateful for all the words God gave Charles Wesley over the years as well as for Charles' faithfulness in receiving them and using his God-given talents to shape those words into such deep praise and poetry.

One More Note on Lincoln and Some Musings on Teaching American History

It's been a "Licoln-ish" week for us. Not only have we been reading the D'Aulaire biography, but D. brought home Lincoln Logs as a special present for the sweet girl. Hooray, our own Kentucky cabins, right on the living room rug!

I felt like I should add a caveat to my previous post about the D'Aulaire biography of Lincoln. We finished it today, and I must say that the sweet girl really enjoyed it. She was especially taken with a few of the illustrations, most notably the one of baby Abraham on a bearskin rug in a log cabin, surrounded by his parents and older sister Sally (anything to do with babies is a complete fascination for her right now). We also liked the end paper maps which showed Lincoln's geographical journeyings from Kentucky to Indiana to Illinois, with appropriate markers showing the direction of New Orleans (where he spent some time ferrying boats) and Washington, D.C., where he obviously spent a good deal of time as president of the U.S.

But I ended up with mixed feelings about the book. My minor concern was that it painted Lincoln in such glowing, ideal terms that he seemed more "saint-like" than I expected (and let's face it, even 'saints' are real, every-day people who sometimes make mistakes). I do find him a deeply admirable man, and I want S. to learn to value what's worthy and lasting in a person's life. I also found it odd that the book ended with the reunion of the North and South, but didn't go on to tell about the very sad ending of Lincoln's own life. Considering the book started with his birth, I expected it to move all the way through the story and onto his death. Yes, it's tragic and sad and hard to understand, but it's an important part of Lincoln's story and of our country's history. His death also highlights the cost of some of the work people do for justice. I can't fathom why the authors didn't include at least a mention of his death, in an afterword if not in the text itself, unless they were so concerned about having a "happy ending" in a children's book. Tell the truth, tell it simply, tell it well. I think that would be my approach here.

The other major concern I had was some of the later illustrations. When Lincoln first encounters a slave market in New Orleans, and then later when he meets some black citizens thanking him for what he did to free the slaves, the African-Americans are portrayed very stereotypically. This seems painfully shameful given the excellent details in the drawings of Lincoln himself and of his family and friends. The African-American faces reminded me of black dolls that children might have played with back when this story was written, each of them round and simple and dark without the wonderful details of character we see in Lincoln's face. It made me want to cry out to the artists (long gone, I'm sure) that they should have looked long and observed better so they could have drawn the beautiful humanity in their brothers and sisters of other races (the one Native American character doesn't fare much better).

What an odd and strange legacy we Americans have, so mixed. So much of our history is rich and worth studying, and yet it seems in all corners, even in children's books (we've encountered it here, we've encountered it in Laura Ingalls Wilder) you see the early and lasting effects of racism on people's thoughts and imaginations. I'm NOT (please hear me here) calling Wilder a racist. Her books do report some painful words and actions of some of the adults in her life when she was a child in ways that recall those times truthfully, and yet so many other scenes in her books (which were, after all, written many years later) seem to poignantly undermine them. One thinks of the long, sad trail of "Indians" that the Ingalls watch leaving the Praire, and the way Laura can't take her eyes off of the face of the little baby riding on his mother's back. We are made to feel the sadness and yes, the injustice of that moment, even if the squatting of white settlers like Pa and Ma were part of the problem, and part of what forced the Indians out of their land. The books are worth reading, not only for their ability to capture the pioneer experience of European settlers in this country, but for the very uncomfortable truths they point to about the fact that other people were here first and we pushed them out.

Well, I've wandered far afield...though perhaps not too far, as we celebrate Wilder's birthday in February as well (it was the 7th!).

But I need to keep thinking and wrestling and thinking some more about how to present American history, in all its wonders and all its mess, to the sweet girl. If I wonder aloud here from time to time, don't be surprised.

In the meantime, does anyone know of a more recent biography of Lincoln for young people in the 5-10 age range? I'd love to hear recommendations.

The Legacy of Walter Rauschenbusch

Apparently it's my day to cite the Wall Street Journal. And that's a sentence I have never uttered before in my life!

My pastor emailed a link to an opinion piece in the WSJ online, one that I understandably found fascinating because it deals with the legacy of Walter Rauschenbusch and the Social Gospel.

I wrote my master's thesis in 2001 on Rauschenbusch's theology. So much has happened since then it feels like an age ago. Still, my academic/theological/church history juices still get jumping when I read reflections about Rauschenbusch and this whole era in American history.

The piece, by Joseph Loconte, can be found here. It's brief, but sound and worth reading. I was especially glad to be reminded that it's the 100th anniversary of Rauschenbusch's book Christianity and the Social Crisis, which will probably mean a small flurry of new scholarship. Apparently there is a new centennial edition of Rauschenbusch's book with introductory essays by Tony Campolo, Stanley Hauerwas and Jim Wallis (now there's a trio!). Loconte says it's "just published" by HarperSanFrancisco but the only thing I'm seeing that looks close is still a pre-order on Amazon with a release date of August 1.