“For you always have the poor with you,
but you do not always have me.” —Jesus
This saying of Jesus has elicited a fair amount of comment over the centuries. The woman, remember, had anointed Jesus’ head (feet, in John) and had spent a small fortune doing so. Some disciples (Judas, in John) took umbrage at her extravagance and chided her for “wasting” the ointment when it could have been sold and the proceeds given to the poor.
Perhaps our first clue to Jesus’ saying is the near parallel in Deuteronomy 15:11: There will never cease to be poor in the land. Therefore I command you, You shall open wide your hand to your brother, to the needy and the poor, in your land. Although it offends our ideas of “War on Poverty” (LBJ) and “Freedom from Want” (FDR), it seems that Deuteronomy is right; there always will be poor, in every land. For the Bible, however, this does not produce some philosophical theory that the poor are suffering from bad karma, or that they have been predestined to destruction, or that their poverty is necessary in order for the rest of the world to prosper. In biblical terms, that’s garbage. Since there will always be poor in the land, we must always open wide our hands, always be prepared to be generous, always give alms, and never imagine that our duty to do so is finished.
Jesus’ saying has often been used to justify large expenditures on church ornamentation even though we all know Jesus was poor. I don’t think that we can draw that sort of parallel; our expensive vestments are not quite the same as the woman’s precious spikenard. Yet, there is an argument to be made for beautiful worship. Imagine someone were to say, “You’ve got a million dollar stained glass window here. You could sell it and give the money to the poor! Wouldn’t that be what Jesus wants?” A good first response might be: “You don’t think the poor are uplifted by stained glass? The window, available to the sight of all worshippers, rich or poor, performs a valuable service to the poor by being in a church rather than in a gallery. What’s more, the window does not stop you from giving to the poor, does it? So give!” I would be inclined to add that gifts “to the poor” quite often fund large bureaucracies. This is to some extent necessary, but we should be clear that money to a program may or may not actually benefit real poor people.
The eloquent John Chrysostom, Patriarch of Constantinople in the fifth century, has left us fiery sermons about the Christian’s obligation to serve Jesus in serving the poor. This becomes the best argument of all. We imitate the woman of the Gospels precisely by caring for the poor since Jesus makes himself tangible to us in the poor. Here’s some of what John said:
Would you do honor to Christ’s body? Neglect him not when naked; while you honor him here with silk garments, do not neglect him perishing outside from cold and nakedness. For he who said, “This is my body,” and by his word confirmed the fact, also said, “You saw me hungry, and fed me not;” and, “Inasmuch as you did it not to one of the least of these, you did it not to me.”
So honor him with this honor, which he ordained, spending your wealth on poor people. Since God has no need at all of golden vessels, but of golden souls.
Do you make Christ a cup of gold, while you give him not a cup of cold water? And what is the profit? Do you furnish his table with cloths bespangled with gold, while to himself you afford not even the necessary covering?
And these things I say, not forbidding munificence in these matters, but admonishing you to do those other works together with these, or rather even before these. Because no one was ever blamed for not having done these, but for those, hell is threatened, and unquenchable fire. Do not therefore while adorning his house overlook your brother in distress, for he is more properly a temple than the other.
Wednesday, April 03, 2013
Monday, March 25, 2013
Passion & Bach
The common name for today is Palm Sunday. The four tellings of the story of Jesus (the “Gospels”) that we have from the first century all agree that before Jesus was arrested, crucified and buried, he entered the city of Jerusalem in a procession on a donkey and that he was greeted by excited disciples, with lots of children, who laid down their cloaks and blankets on the road before him and waved tree branches in the era’s version of a ticker-tape parade. The Gospel of John tells us that the branches used were palms.
Today is, however, also Passion Sunday. It is the day when many Christians listen to the long story of Jesus’ final 24 hours, the period from his Last Supper on Thursday night through his death and burial on Friday. These final events in Jesus’ mortal life are called his Passion because he passively accepts the hatred, the blows, the unjust execution that is rained upon him. “Passion” is a word connected with suffering, with “passible,” “patient,” and “pathos.”
Over the nearly 2000 years of retelling Jesus’ Passion, believers have developed traditions of singing the story. Music always touches us deeper than words alone. Often, different singers took the various roles in the story—Pilate, Peter, Jesus—while another sang the narration. Later, choirs and orchestras were added.
We like to recognize greatness. Recently, I saw that the movie Vertigo overtook Citizen Kane as the Best Movie Ever by some collection of experts. I think that The Brothers Karamazov is the Best Novel Ever. And many would argue that Bach’s The St. Matthew Passion is the finest musical composition in history.
Bach’s work is undeniably a Passion. That is, the story beginning with the woman in Bethany who anoints Jesus (actually more like 48 hours prior to his death) through the assignment of guards to watch Jesus’ tomb is sung, word for word, as it is found in the Gospel of Matthew. But there is much more. Bach has a chorus (which could even be the congregation itself) sing hymns—chorales—which express the Church’s love and affection for its Lord Jesus. These were well-known and predated Bach. He arranged them for his work and selected them carefully. We still know them today in various English translations. Here are some sample stanzas:
“Commit thou all that grieves thee and fills thy heart with care / to him whose faithful mercy the skies above declare, / who gives the winds their courses, who points the clouds their way; / ´tis he will guide thy footsteps and be thy staff and stay.”
“Hope on, then, broken spirit; hope on, be not afraid: / fear not the griefs that plague thee and keep thy heart dismayed: / thy God, in his great mercy, will save thee, hold thee fast, / and in his own time grant thee the sun of joy at last.”
“In thy most bitter passion my heart to share doth cry, / with thee for my salvation upon the cross to die. / Ah, keep my heart thus moved to stand thy cross beneath, / to mourn thee, well-beloved, yet thank thee for thy death.”
“My days are few, O fail not, with thine immortal power, / to hold me that I quail not in death’s most fearful hour; / that I may fight befriended, and see in my last strife / to me thine arms extended upon the cross of life.”
Joined with the music, these chorales are heartbreakingly beautiful.
There was still more to The St. Matthew Passion. Bach inserted arias for soloists written by the otherwise obscure poet Picander to great effect. In this excellent achievement, we hear the bare story of the Passion, the response by chorales of the Church that was formed for praise and community out of that Passion, and the confession of the single believing Christian—via the solo arias—who has given his or her heart to Jesus and received Jesus’ broken heart in return.
Today is, however, also Passion Sunday. It is the day when many Christians listen to the long story of Jesus’ final 24 hours, the period from his Last Supper on Thursday night through his death and burial on Friday. These final events in Jesus’ mortal life are called his Passion because he passively accepts the hatred, the blows, the unjust execution that is rained upon him. “Passion” is a word connected with suffering, with “passible,” “patient,” and “pathos.”
Over the nearly 2000 years of retelling Jesus’ Passion, believers have developed traditions of singing the story. Music always touches us deeper than words alone. Often, different singers took the various roles in the story—Pilate, Peter, Jesus—while another sang the narration. Later, choirs and orchestras were added.
We like to recognize greatness. Recently, I saw that the movie Vertigo overtook Citizen Kane as the Best Movie Ever by some collection of experts. I think that The Brothers Karamazov is the Best Novel Ever. And many would argue that Bach’s The St. Matthew Passion is the finest musical composition in history.
Bach’s work is undeniably a Passion. That is, the story beginning with the woman in Bethany who anoints Jesus (actually more like 48 hours prior to his death) through the assignment of guards to watch Jesus’ tomb is sung, word for word, as it is found in the Gospel of Matthew. But there is much more. Bach has a chorus (which could even be the congregation itself) sing hymns—chorales—which express the Church’s love and affection for its Lord Jesus. These were well-known and predated Bach. He arranged them for his work and selected them carefully. We still know them today in various English translations. Here are some sample stanzas:
“Commit thou all that grieves thee and fills thy heart with care / to him whose faithful mercy the skies above declare, / who gives the winds their courses, who points the clouds their way; / ´tis he will guide thy footsteps and be thy staff and stay.”
“Hope on, then, broken spirit; hope on, be not afraid: / fear not the griefs that plague thee and keep thy heart dismayed: / thy God, in his great mercy, will save thee, hold thee fast, / and in his own time grant thee the sun of joy at last.”
“In thy most bitter passion my heart to share doth cry, / with thee for my salvation upon the cross to die. / Ah, keep my heart thus moved to stand thy cross beneath, / to mourn thee, well-beloved, yet thank thee for thy death.”
“My days are few, O fail not, with thine immortal power, / to hold me that I quail not in death’s most fearful hour; / that I may fight befriended, and see in my last strife / to me thine arms extended upon the cross of life.”
Joined with the music, these chorales are heartbreakingly beautiful.
There was still more to The St. Matthew Passion. Bach inserted arias for soloists written by the otherwise obscure poet Picander to great effect. In this excellent achievement, we hear the bare story of the Passion, the response by chorales of the Church that was formed for praise and community out of that Passion, and the confession of the single believing Christian—via the solo arias—who has given his or her heart to Jesus and received Jesus’ broken heart in return.
Monday, March 04, 2013
Don't Miss Holy Week
Twice in the week a “Passion” is read in place of the Gospel. Since our Sunday Bible readings are on a 3-year cycle, the Passion read on Passion Sunday (also known as Palm Sunday) is from Matthew or Mark or Luke. This year it’s Luke’s. The Passion is the story of Jesus’ final hours of mortal life beginning with his prayer and arrest in a garden outside Jerusalem’s walls and ending with his burial in another garden, also outside the walls. John’s Passion is never read on a Sunday; it is always read on Good Friday.
Palm Sunday changes to Passion Sunday partway through the service so the Gospel reading is at the beginning, recalling Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem to popular acclaim. It is always a question in our climate whether we can conduct an outdoor procession recapitulating the joyous Jerusalem crowds, but we try. Do join in; it greatly helps sustain the overall story.
As I write this, I cannot confirm that our Organist, Jonathan Embry, will play a concert interspersed with hymns at St. Mary’s at 8 p.m. on Palm Sunday, March 24, but it looks promising. Passiontide music, especially Bach, is very moving. Don’t miss it!
The emphasis at our 7 p.m. service on Maundy Thursday is Jesus Last Supper with his disciples when he washed their feet in humility. The bond of forgiveness that ties us together as his one Body—the Church—is affirmed by the powerful forgiveness ceremony among us all before the Holy Table. At the conclusion, the elements of the Eucharist are transferred to the Prayer Altar, transformed into a “Altar of Repose” to resemble the gardens of Jesus’ betrayal and burial. The main Altar is silently “stripped” to signify Jesus’ utter exposure to the hatred of the whole world. We leave this service in total silence, or we stay and pray. In fact, the Church is open for silent meditation all night long and coverage is assured by a sign-up sheet we’ll post on March 17. Please plan to visit, reflect, pray and give thanks.
There is no Eucharist celebrated on Good Friday, however participants in the noon service may receive Communion from the elements reserved at the Altar of Repose. That liturgy also includes a series of profound prayers and the dramatic entrance of a single, wooden cross. This, with most of the Holy Week practices, can be found on pages 270-282 in the Prayer Book.
Palm Sunday changes to Passion Sunday partway through the service so the Gospel reading is at the beginning, recalling Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem to popular acclaim. It is always a question in our climate whether we can conduct an outdoor procession recapitulating the joyous Jerusalem crowds, but we try. Do join in; it greatly helps sustain the overall story.
As I write this, I cannot confirm that our Organist, Jonathan Embry, will play a concert interspersed with hymns at St. Mary’s at 8 p.m. on Palm Sunday, March 24, but it looks promising. Passiontide music, especially Bach, is very moving. Don’t miss it!
The emphasis at our 7 p.m. service on Maundy Thursday is Jesus Last Supper with his disciples when he washed their feet in humility. The bond of forgiveness that ties us together as his one Body—the Church—is affirmed by the powerful forgiveness ceremony among us all before the Holy Table. At the conclusion, the elements of the Eucharist are transferred to the Prayer Altar, transformed into a “Altar of Repose” to resemble the gardens of Jesus’ betrayal and burial. The main Altar is silently “stripped” to signify Jesus’ utter exposure to the hatred of the whole world. We leave this service in total silence, or we stay and pray. In fact, the Church is open for silent meditation all night long and coverage is assured by a sign-up sheet we’ll post on March 17. Please plan to visit, reflect, pray and give thanks.
There is no Eucharist celebrated on Good Friday, however participants in the noon service may receive Communion from the elements reserved at the Altar of Repose. That liturgy also includes a series of profound prayers and the dramatic entrance of a single, wooden cross. This, with most of the Holy Week practices, can be found on pages 270-282 in the Prayer Book.
Spirituality and Social Media
It started with Phil Donohue, this baring of one’s sins in public. Where will it end? The trail of tears moves through Oprah and her imitators, through Jerry Springer and the television judges with one demeanor: brash. Reality shows follow, where the secrets of the heart are regurgitated without celebrity prompting. There’s some sense to this. Why let Dr. Phil pocket the money for my griefs? I’ll do my own show: “Sorry and Pitiful Homewreckers,” “Self-Important Drunks,” “Lonely Louts with Hearts of Gold.”
But it does not end with TV. Memoirs flood the book market. The President, for instance, has already written two. Religious memoirs, too, sell briskly. St. Augustine wrote his Confessions in the 4th century so this is not a new phenomenon, but few authors are as piercingly honest as he, nor as interesting.
An explosion of guts-spilling has now occurred on Facebook. There we get the full monty, the expletives bleeped out on television, the tender and outraged consciences alongside avenging fury. Are we witnessing a fundamental transformation of society, or merely an electronic version of gossip over the back fence?
I think I’m in the “fundamental transformation” group. True, sharing one’s inner thoughts and feelings is not new. It’s been done for centuries in love letters, or therapy, or in sacramental confession. But those venues are guarded. God (in the case of the latter) and the beloved (in the case of the first) both love you. The shocking, the passionate, the angry, the vulnerable pieces of our lives can be caught in the lap of love. In therapy, you are at least guarded by strict professional codes. But what happens when people’s insides go outside, for everybody to inspect?
When our interior lives are made into an exterior display, I think, we begin to lose the ability to inhabit our own lives. An openness that claims to be authentic and “real” actually robs us of our integrity. In a way, we become “others” even to ourselves; we take up a position as observers of our own lives (our “timelines,” as Facebook puts it.) I sometimes wonder whether our constant photo-snapping (think of the “selfie” pictures we take of ourselves) are vain attempts to find assurance that we still are real. Of course, these photos are vain in two senses: vain meaning self-centered and shallow, and vain meaning empty and ineffective.
Jesus spoke about putting our lives on display. He warned his followers not to contribute to charity, or pray, or fast in such as way as to “be seen by others.” Instead, they were to do these things “in secret.” He promised that God, “who sees what is in secret, will reward you.” He even suggested that our actions were not to be watched even by ourselves. “Do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.”
The three actions Jesus mentioned—almsgiving, prayer, fasting—are all acts of love. Try to imagine what it is like to love without watching oneself, without grading oneself, without evaluating oneself. Love expressed directly, sincerely, without affectation or pretense, without peeking around to see who’s watching.
Such a life, completely lacking any social media, would be almost heaven, for it would be without media, that is, im-mediate. Instead of putting our insides on display, what is inside would be translated modestly and effectively into simple acts of love.
Perhaps what is driving so many today to dump their passions in public is loneliness. Families are smaller, schedules tighter, yes. And life without someone to share our hearts with is nearly unbearable. Sadly, though, trying to solve loneliness by publicizing our private selves is like drinking seawater to quench our thirst: it makes it worse. Unless our secrets can be received by love, we will soon find ourselves naked and cold. Our everyday hurts and desires will begin to look boring to others and, soon enough, to ourselves.
It might be wise to listen again to Jesus’ words. Three times he repeats, “Your Father who sees in secret will reward you.” There is a God, a Father even, who sees my secret heart? Who does not unfriend me or sideline me, but who receives all my thoughts and feelings with love? Who gives me some reward when I reveal my deepest self to him in private? And what might that reward be? That reward is his love, not just his acceptance of us but his love in us, the power of God’s love given to us to overflow through us to others. No longer shall we need to display ourselves before others, still less to market ourselves. We shall instead inhabit our own priceless lives and give them with love.
But it does not end with TV. Memoirs flood the book market. The President, for instance, has already written two. Religious memoirs, too, sell briskly. St. Augustine wrote his Confessions in the 4th century so this is not a new phenomenon, but few authors are as piercingly honest as he, nor as interesting.
An explosion of guts-spilling has now occurred on Facebook. There we get the full monty, the expletives bleeped out on television, the tender and outraged consciences alongside avenging fury. Are we witnessing a fundamental transformation of society, or merely an electronic version of gossip over the back fence?
I think I’m in the “fundamental transformation” group. True, sharing one’s inner thoughts and feelings is not new. It’s been done for centuries in love letters, or therapy, or in sacramental confession. But those venues are guarded. God (in the case of the latter) and the beloved (in the case of the first) both love you. The shocking, the passionate, the angry, the vulnerable pieces of our lives can be caught in the lap of love. In therapy, you are at least guarded by strict professional codes. But what happens when people’s insides go outside, for everybody to inspect?
When our interior lives are made into an exterior display, I think, we begin to lose the ability to inhabit our own lives. An openness that claims to be authentic and “real” actually robs us of our integrity. In a way, we become “others” even to ourselves; we take up a position as observers of our own lives (our “timelines,” as Facebook puts it.) I sometimes wonder whether our constant photo-snapping (think of the “selfie” pictures we take of ourselves) are vain attempts to find assurance that we still are real. Of course, these photos are vain in two senses: vain meaning self-centered and shallow, and vain meaning empty and ineffective.
Jesus spoke about putting our lives on display. He warned his followers not to contribute to charity, or pray, or fast in such as way as to “be seen by others.” Instead, they were to do these things “in secret.” He promised that God, “who sees what is in secret, will reward you.” He even suggested that our actions were not to be watched even by ourselves. “Do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.”
The three actions Jesus mentioned—almsgiving, prayer, fasting—are all acts of love. Try to imagine what it is like to love without watching oneself, without grading oneself, without evaluating oneself. Love expressed directly, sincerely, without affectation or pretense, without peeking around to see who’s watching.
Such a life, completely lacking any social media, would be almost heaven, for it would be without media, that is, im-mediate. Instead of putting our insides on display, what is inside would be translated modestly and effectively into simple acts of love.
Perhaps what is driving so many today to dump their passions in public is loneliness. Families are smaller, schedules tighter, yes. And life without someone to share our hearts with is nearly unbearable. Sadly, though, trying to solve loneliness by publicizing our private selves is like drinking seawater to quench our thirst: it makes it worse. Unless our secrets can be received by love, we will soon find ourselves naked and cold. Our everyday hurts and desires will begin to look boring to others and, soon enough, to ourselves.
It might be wise to listen again to Jesus’ words. Three times he repeats, “Your Father who sees in secret will reward you.” There is a God, a Father even, who sees my secret heart? Who does not unfriend me or sideline me, but who receives all my thoughts and feelings with love? Who gives me some reward when I reveal my deepest self to him in private? And what might that reward be? That reward is his love, not just his acceptance of us but his love in us, the power of God’s love given to us to overflow through us to others. No longer shall we need to display ourselves before others, still less to market ourselves. We shall instead inhabit our own priceless lives and give them with love.
Monday, February 04, 2013
Want to Break Out of the Crowd? Keep Lent.
I don’t mean fish fries. They’re charming, of course, and perfectly allowable at any time of year, but eating fish is not keeping Lent, not anymore, not in our world. And it’s not giving up chocolate, or snacks, or smoking. These are fine, too, but that’s not keeping Lent. Here’s a rule: if it’s more like Jenny Craig than Jesus Christ, it’s not Lent. I gave up talk radio last year. That was hard for me; I was better for it because I came to love the classical station. I’ll probably do it again this year to sharpen my senses. But that’s not Lent. Here’s another rule: if “I was better for it” is the goal, it’s not Lent.
Here is Lent: truly and earnestly to repent of our sins. But we live in a sentimental society in which to feel holy is a substitute for being holy and to feel generous is a substitute for being generous and to feel justified is a substitute for Christ himself. The old spiritual manuals defined sentimentality as “being satisfied with pious feelings and beautiful ceremonies without striving to obey God’s will.” They imagined church people lapping up gorgeous Ash Wednesday liturgies and beating their breasts with great solemnity and then returning next day to their everyday sins. Today, sentimentality has gone mainstream. Meaningless shout-outs to God are everywhere from inaugural addresses to locker rooms to prison cells to self-help groups.
I’m shocked that I just wrote that. Who am I to judge that these mentions of God are “meaningless”? I’m the worst offender of all, that’s who. Nobody talks more about God than the preacher does, and where is my holiness? Where is yours? We can judge others exactly the way we ourselves deserve to be judged—by our fruits. “By their fruits you shall know them,” says the Lord. To rewrite the old definition just a little, we are “satisfied with spiritual feelings and beautiful words without striving to obey God’s will.”
So here’s what I want us all to give up this Lent: self-improvement. It’s our default position, you see. It’s the simplest way for us to understand Lent. Surely, we say, God wants the best for us, so he must have set up this discipline to make us better, happier, more whole people. We’ll follow some Lenten guideline in order to become better people. And won’t God be happy for us if we succeed!
Let’s get adventuresome here and break from that self-centered assumption. Abandon the idea of God doing something for us this Lent and take up the challenge of doing something—anything—everything!—for God. Our goal is not self-improvement; our goal is to love God and to give our lives as offerings, holy, undefiled, on the altar of God’s love in communion with Jesus our Lord. Forget betterment. Seek holiness.
[ADVERTISEMENT: Our Wednesday Lenten class, How To Forgive, proceeds along these lines: forgiveness is not for us to feel better; it is for the glory and kingdom of God. Join us.]
O thou who camest from above the fire celestial to impart,
kindle a flame of sacred love upon the altar of my heart.
There let it for thy glory burn with ever bright, undying blaze,
and trembling to its source return in humble prayer and fervent praise.
Jesus, confirm my heart’s desire to work, and speak, and think for thee;
still let me guard the holy fire and still stir up the gift in me.
Still let me prove thy perfect will, my acts of faith and love repeat,
till death thy endless mercies seal, and make the sacrifice complete.
~Charles Wesley (hymn 704)
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Trees
We can easily see why trees often take leading roles in ancient religion. Along with mountains and the sea, trees are bigger than we are; they stand when we fall and they endure when we pass away. Yet, unlike the sea and the hills, we can muster the power to overcome trees. We can chop them down and put them to use. (We can, of course, chop them down and discard them, an act which is sinful and stupid. Sin is always stupid, but that’s for another day.)
I want to reflect on the meaning of trees in the Bible, but first we should just think about trees. One of our problems in biblical interpretation lies in our inability to see the world as charged with the power and glory of God. We decide that, for example, the “tree of life” means such-and-such. Then we pretty much discard the actual tree and proceed to its “meaning.” In our world, things have lost their enchantment, their glory, and are just things. To us, a star is just nuclear fusion; a snake is just a reptile; a baby is just an arrangement of cells. We cannot see the inside—the interiority—of things. All is not lost, though, for we do experience wonder. I think of visiting the giant sequoias once in California. High definition television cannot capture that awe. I have seen magnificent mahoganies in Honduras, and felt there the horror of tree poaching and its resulting deforestation. I have seen myriad evergreens and understood why the Black Hills are “black.” Nor is seeing our only access to arboreal wonder. We can feel trees and smell them. Did you know the sequoia has spongy bark? Oh, yes, we can taste trees, too, apricots, mangos, tangerines. Shel Silverstein’s title, The Giving Tree, is exactly right: trees give shade and lumber and fruit and beauty. But is that just a lucky draw, or does someone give the tree? Is giving built into the universe, or is taking the only way?
“And out of the ground made the LORD God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil.” When we read these words in the second chapter of the Bible we see a set-up for the plot. The second named tree which God commands the humans not to use they do use. Why? Well, “the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise.” Returning to the first quotation, we notice that God’s creation of the trees involved two goods: first, trees were pleasant to the eyes—beautiful. Second, they were good for food. Eve reverses God’s order. For her, food is first, beauty second. God had given, we are told, every tree in the garden for food save one. They were not to eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. That tree, apparently, was good only for its beauty, not for its use. The woman was deceived: it is not wise to set aside beauty for food. Beauty comes first; any old animal can eat, but only we humans can adore. (Remember? Sin is stupid.) Yes, giving is built into the fabric of the universe, but we can only achieve our destiny if, before we take, we adore the giver and his gifts.
Fruit from the Tree of Life is a kind of antidote to death, a fountain of youth, so to speak. After Adam and Eve fail their test, human beings are barred from the Tree of Life. This is a good thing since unending consumption without adoration is more or less a definition of hell. Trees then continue to play their role in the biblical story. We have fig trees and sycamores, the cedars of Lebanon (today mostly destroyed) and the shoot that grows out of a stump. Of special interest is the grapevine, not exactly a tree, yet functioning as one when Jesus tells his followers, “I am the vine, you are the branches, and my Father is the gardener.”
When we arrive at the Bible’s final chapter, we hear of a new city: “In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.” God’s beautiful tree of life reappears at history’s end to heal us with her beauty, bestowing fruits of the Spirit. Our hunger for that tree which towers over us gives us hope.
I want to reflect on the meaning of trees in the Bible, but first we should just think about trees. One of our problems in biblical interpretation lies in our inability to see the world as charged with the power and glory of God. We decide that, for example, the “tree of life” means such-and-such. Then we pretty much discard the actual tree and proceed to its “meaning.” In our world, things have lost their enchantment, their glory, and are just things. To us, a star is just nuclear fusion; a snake is just a reptile; a baby is just an arrangement of cells. We cannot see the inside—the interiority—of things. All is not lost, though, for we do experience wonder. I think of visiting the giant sequoias once in California. High definition television cannot capture that awe. I have seen magnificent mahoganies in Honduras, and felt there the horror of tree poaching and its resulting deforestation. I have seen myriad evergreens and understood why the Black Hills are “black.” Nor is seeing our only access to arboreal wonder. We can feel trees and smell them. Did you know the sequoia has spongy bark? Oh, yes, we can taste trees, too, apricots, mangos, tangerines. Shel Silverstein’s title, The Giving Tree, is exactly right: trees give shade and lumber and fruit and beauty. But is that just a lucky draw, or does someone give the tree? Is giving built into the universe, or is taking the only way?
“And out of the ground made the LORD God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil.” When we read these words in the second chapter of the Bible we see a set-up for the plot. The second named tree which God commands the humans not to use they do use. Why? Well, “the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise.” Returning to the first quotation, we notice that God’s creation of the trees involved two goods: first, trees were pleasant to the eyes—beautiful. Second, they were good for food. Eve reverses God’s order. For her, food is first, beauty second. God had given, we are told, every tree in the garden for food save one. They were not to eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. That tree, apparently, was good only for its beauty, not for its use. The woman was deceived: it is not wise to set aside beauty for food. Beauty comes first; any old animal can eat, but only we humans can adore. (Remember? Sin is stupid.) Yes, giving is built into the fabric of the universe, but we can only achieve our destiny if, before we take, we adore the giver and his gifts.
Fruit from the Tree of Life is a kind of antidote to death, a fountain of youth, so to speak. After Adam and Eve fail their test, human beings are barred from the Tree of Life. This is a good thing since unending consumption without adoration is more or less a definition of hell. Trees then continue to play their role in the biblical story. We have fig trees and sycamores, the cedars of Lebanon (today mostly destroyed) and the shoot that grows out of a stump. Of special interest is the grapevine, not exactly a tree, yet functioning as one when Jesus tells his followers, “I am the vine, you are the branches, and my Father is the gardener.”
When we arrive at the Bible’s final chapter, we hear of a new city: “In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.” God’s beautiful tree of life reappears at history’s end to heal us with her beauty, bestowing fruits of the Spirit. Our hunger for that tree which towers over us gives us hope.
Monday, January 07, 2013
The Bleak Midwinter
C. S. Lewis marvelously catches a perfect definition of despair when he writes that the fantasy world of Narnia, when it has forgotten about its Christ, is a place where it is “always winter but never Christmas.” Weather-wise, I feel that Christmas comes too early here—right at the start of our real winter rather than smack in the middle of the cold and snow. So when Christmas is over we are still facing months of winter.
A couple of caveats should be made. First, Christmas is a season that actually extends until January 6. In some traditions—Poland, for example—the Christmas decorations stay up all the way until the feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary on February 2. Now there’s a dry Christmas tree! Second, winter is beautiful in its way, and is much more enjoyable if one undertakes it with relish by skiing, snowmobiling, sledding and such.
Having said that, though, we must admit that in Central New York, from here on, it seems as though we’re stuck somewhere where it’s always winter and never Christmas. It can be discouraging, especially for the frail ones who know that it’s unwise to try walking on icy sidewalks and parking lots. As I’ve said in previous years, we never cancel Church; however, do not come if it is unsafe to do so.
One of the ways that weather works on our souls is by mirroring our inner state. If we are already feeling gloomy, the dark days of winter can magnify our sadness. If we are questioning God’s goodness, the world without flowers seems to whisper, “God is not good.” When we are burdened with many duties and worried by difficulties, having to slog through slush every day can push us to the breaking point.
This can heal us, and here’s how: Life is hard much of the time; the consolations of this world can never truly set us free; others of God’s servants in our time and in times past have suffered much worse than harsh winter, and God delivered them; our help is not in springtime or in good fortune; our help is in the name of the Lord. As Christians, we are not to fear or push away feelings of sadness or distress or even fear. Roosevelt was wrong: he said we have nothing to fear but fear itself. In fact, fear is a perfectly healthy response to danger. We are not to fear fear. We rather should fear only this: loss of God. So, come and praise God with his Church when you are angry, or sad, or grieving, or stressed, or afraid. The one who came to save us knows our feelings: he is called, after all, the Man of Sorrows. Worship him. Praise him.
A prayer for preservation through life’s ups and downs that you may find especially welcome in winter is seldom used in public worship. It is the Collect for the rare Eighth Sunday after the Epiphany:
Most loving Father, whose will it is for us to give thanks for all things, to fear nothing but the loss of you, and to cast all our care on you who care for us: Preserve us from faithless fears and worldly anxieties, that no clouds of this mortal life may hide from us the light of that love which is immortal, and which you have manifested to us in your Son Jesus Christ our Lord; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.
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