unorthodoxology

unorthodoxology is closing ...

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 15:15:00 +0000

Dear friends and readers,

Thank you all for your readership over the last several years as I've wrestled with faith, church and God. There may not have been throngs of us in conversation on this blog, but your input has helped to form who I have become. I started this blog in the throes of deciding whether I could still classify myself as a Christian and whether I still fit within its umbrella, hence the name, "unorthodoxology."

For almost a year now, the title of this blog has bothered me as I no longer thought it appropriate for where I am on my faith journey. Still, I am sad to leave the word behind, seeing how I kind of invented it. But as a postulant for ordination in the Episcopal church and a youth minister now, I have decided to shut down the blog and move my writing elsewhere.

Please update your links to point to my new site on Wordpress here as well as any feeds and subscriptions you may have. I will be posting blogs every Tuesday and Thursday. And I do have news I am excited to announce in the coming weeks. I hope you find something meaningful in this new iteration.

Peace and blessings,
David

god is in the freckles

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 22:59:00 +0000

I've got a new post up on Google Plus, that you can find by clicking here, about freckles and how my three-year-old son has a better meditation practice than I do.

moving ... perhaps

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Fri, 22 Jul 2011 00:05:00 +0000

I'm going to try something new over the next couple of days. Since I am about to have vastly less time to maintain social networks and blogging (which has been flagging here anyway since Easter), I am going to shift blogging over to Google Plus.

If you're interested in continuing to follow this blog and my journey toward ordination in the Episcopal church, please click over to my G+ profile (http://gplus.to/davidhenson) and follow me there. The G+ platform will allow me to do social media and blogging all at the same time.

best of church signs for the rapture

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Sat, 21 May 2011 13:26:00 +0000

As promised, here are the best of the Rapture Church signs. This little project started over at Religion at the Margins and has quite a few people chuckling around the blogosphere. With something as absurd as Harold Camping's end-of-times prediction, I think perhaps one of the best responses is humor like this, to use absurdity to reveal absurdity. Camping's theology and prediction are dangerous and proof-positive of the power of marketing and media that something so fringe can generate response from so many, even respected theologians like N.T. Wright. Personally, I think giving Camping and his ilk that kind of response legitimizes his theology and gives it a respectability it does not deserve. That's why I think mockery and ridicule is the best way to respond to such theology because it is ridiculous.

(This photo is from the sign in front of my home parish.)

So here's the best of the best, beginning with the pithy sayings that started it:

Ted Troxell, ftw: If God raptured the Episcopalians, no one would be more surprised than the Episcopalians.

“Free Rapture Parking, Saturday 5:30 p.m. Leave the keys.”

“After rapture, please come here Sunday. We have wine.”

“Rapture Helmets – $500. Don’t let those birds hit you on the way up.” — Tony Hunt

“In case of rapture we accept post-dated checks.”

“Left behind and loving it.” — Ted Troxell

"Wait, where did everyone go? Oh, damn."

“If you can’t take it with you after the rapture Saturday, please leave it with us.”

“We thought they’d never leave.” — Ted Troxell

“In case of Rapture, play the lottery, with better odds.” — J. Keen.

“After the rapture, beware of zombies. We have holy water. Inquire within.”

“After Saturday, leave a message.” — Jeromy Johnson, Mending Shift

“Post-rapture celebration this Sunday: 8 a.m., 9:30 and 11:30″

"Jesus loves you if you're Left Behind."

"Rapture Saturday; Sunday: Self-Service" — Ben Ball

"If you're still here 5/22, you're welcome in our church" — church sign in Baltimore Co., Md, submitted by Cynthia Horn Burkert & Piney Grove UMC:

"What if they gave a Rapture and nobody came?" — David Ross

"What if they gave a Rapture, and nobody left?"— Richard W. Fitch

"Post-Rapture Singles Night Sunday. Your spouse would want you to be there." Andrew Chow

"Does this mean we can buy beer on Sunday?" J. Keen (for those in Dry Sunday States)

(Below were submitted at Religion at the Margins)
"Due to high winds this Saturday’s Rapture Event may be postponed."

‘If you’re still here 5/21, you’re welcome in our church!’

Thanks for all those that played along. If you aren't tired of these yet, or still have some snark to share, put it in the comments!

man angers parish by praying for bin laden's soul

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Wed, 18 May 2011 16:22:00 +0000

A South Florida man has sent shockwaves through the American Christian nation this week for following the Bible literally.

Clearly a deluded and divisive Christian, Henry Borga asked his Catholic parish to pray for its enemy and persecutor, Osama bin Laden. The request broke with thousands of years of church tradition which holds that Christians should, in fact, kill those that hate and persecute them and love only their friends. Exceptions have been made in the past for loving enemies, but only if loving those enemies yield strategic assets to the church or to Western interests.

Other parishioners bravely fought back against the request. Some believe it was a tasteless joke. Others suggested praying for American soldiers instead.

Sadly, the priest yielded to the extremist, fundamentalist request which hewed so closely to Jesus' own teaching, a perilous and unforgivable show of cowardice. He said the church had never turned down a request for prayer.

But, then, how far can we go down this slippery slope of apostasy, of breaking with Church history so clearly? Praying for murderers who kill innocents and turning the other cheek? Praying for the poor and indigent, the least of these among us, who are nothing but a drain on hard-working American's resources?

I can do no better than to echo one blogger who wrote:

You've got to wonder why someone would make a request that would upset, divide, and alienate other parishioners at a time when so many are already hurting. There's no logical explanation other than perhaps he wanted the attention that such a contentious appeal would instigate.

Why indeed? Why would someone pray for one's enemies, for those that persecute them, for those that wish them harm? Why would someone do something so upsetting?

It just makes no logical sense.

Which I suppose is the point.

the passion of joan of arc

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Wed, 18 May 2011 15:33:00 +0000

After a tongue-in-cheek conversation with a friend recently, I cannot get this film out of my head. It remains the most moving, haunting and beautiful film I've ever seen. The story behind the film is even better: censored by governments and lost to history, an uncensored reel was discovered in a closet in a Danish mental asylum. Set to a new score, the Passion of Joan of Arc shows that, in the right hands, true filmmaking is timeless and soul-shattering.

jim wallis, sojourners, divided justice and homosexuality

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Tue, 10 May 2011 23:33:00 +0000

During the past week, Sojourners, which bills itself as a progressive Christian organization, refused to run an add endorsing same-sex relationships and marriage equality, much to the consternation of many of their supporters. A small firestorm erupted among bloggers and via social media, with a number condemning both Wallis and Sojourners for shirking their own call for justice and equality in society.

Of course, no one should be too surprised. Sojourners has long had a policy that refuses to stand up for full equality for LGBTQ persons. I am tempted to think this is merely a financial issue. In fact, I could forgive Sojourners and Wallis much more easily if it were true that they wanted to avoid a fissure in a tentative coalition built around economic and racial justice, or if they feared they would lose too much money or support if they came out in favor of same-sex relationships.

But Sojourners has taken fractious stands before on issues such as abortion that have caused them to lose financial support. As Wallis told Patheos in a 2010 interview:

Our books are totally open, always have been. Our money comes from Christians who support us and who read Sojourners. That's where it comes from. In fact, we've had funding blocked, this year and last, by liberal foundations who didn't like our stance on abortion. Other liberal groups were happy to point out to them that our stance wasn't kosher on abortion, so our funding was blocked.

Obviously, some stances are worth not only the loss of funding but also worth taking a divisive stand on despite "major differences of theology and biblical interpretation in the church." Wallis argues that advocating for LGBTQ equality is beyond the scope of Sojourner's mission and work. But Sojourners is not known for a narrow focus, but a rather sprawling one that includes anti-war activism, anti-death penalty activism, global and national economic justice, racial justice and a more. In other words, it is willing to advocate about almost every hot-button issue in our nation — war, taxes, race, government's role — except marriage equality.

Given that Sojourners has before taken stands it apparently deemed important enough to alienate allies and funders (abortion), the Sojo stance on LGBTQ equality isn't, at its heart, about Christian unity and not offending people with different theologies. Given that Sojourners has actively advocated for a variety of only loosely connected issues and has a sprawling justice agenda, the Sojo stance on LGBTQ equality isn't, at its heart, about too few resources or an issue of justice beyond its mission. Given that Sojourners has consistently refused to take a stand on LGBTQ equality, one might easily deduce that Sojourners does not think such equality to be either consistent with its mission to advocate for equality, justice and and an end to discrimination or that such equality isn't important enough to warrant much attention.

It is a criticism I've heard before: that LGBTQ equality isn't as important as race and economic equality. Indeed, many marriage equality advocates are not poor and are not hungry. In the U.S. at least, they are not specifically targeted by the government for prosecution as many racial minorities are.

Yes, issues of race and poverty are extremely important and require a great deal of effort. But we must be careful, in terms of justice, to go straight to the invidious comparison, the race to bottom of who has to deal with more injustice in the world. To divide issues of justice into competing camps is exactly what the powers that be desire, and messages like Wallis', that believe that work for justice and equality need to be limited so as not to offend, play directly into the hands of the powers that be.

Our nation, however, was built on pitting injustice against injustice, and dangling shreds of equality before humanity to turn them into beasts. In the late 1600s, the Bacon Rebellion shattered rich, wealthy landowners delusion that the poor would be content to remain that way. The rebellion united poor blacks and whites — largely treated in the same brutal fashion as subhuman beings — and caused wealthy whites to rethink their strategy of subduing the poor. To accomplish this, they gave nominal authority to poor whites to police and oversee poor blacks, creating a racial division that largely hadn't been there before. Further, white landowners began importing more slaves from Africa who didn't speak English to further drive a wedge between poor whites and poor blacks, creating competition for bread crumbs and dismantling any hope of an uprising for equality.

Wallis' statement this week echoes this strategy implicitly. In effect, Sojourners positions creates a competition for recognition for equality and justice. As a recognized leader nationally in religious justice causes, Sojourners holds incredible power, and they have used this power to separate systematic injustices into two categories of worthy of advocacy and of unworthy. It is these kinds of statements that make advocates of racial and economic equality seem superior to other causes, and denigrates advocates of LGBTQ equality as inferior.

It validates and legitimates the pervasive belief in much of Christian America that LGBTQ persons are not as important as others, that their cause is not significant, that they should wait until other more pressing injustices are resolved. That attitude, of course, is a fool's errand, because injustice is injustice and is exceedingly divisive because it pits two allies in the work of justice against one another.

In fact, I'd argue that Sojourners, on this issues, stands in contradiction to its own mission statement "to articulate the biblical call to social justice, inspiring hope and building a movement to transform individuals, communities, the church, and the world." In other words, either Sojourners has failed, deeply, to live up to its own mission or it does not in fact believe that LGBTQ justice is part of the "biblical call to social justice."

That, I'd argue, is more likely, because one of the largest loci for LGBTQ discrimination and injustice is in churches, and many of these churches are represented on the Sojourners board of directors, such as the Evangelical Covenant Church, which resolved in 1996 that homosexuality was a sin, the Christian Reformed Church, the Reformed Church in America, Fuller Theological Seminary and North Park Seminary. All of these denominations and organizations, while committed to racial and economic justice, remain resolved to LGBTQ injustice.

This is the real reason that Sojourners will not take a stand on the side of equality for LGBTQ persons, because its ranking leaders and agenda-setters belong to and lead within organizations that actively discriminate and take a religious stand against homosexuality. It has nothing to do with money, with the limited scope of Sojourners work or with a concern for diluting its work.

It has to do with the fundamental belief of ~~many~~ a number of Sojourners' leaders that homosexuality is a sin. And one does not work for justice in defense of a sin. It has to do with basic discrimination and religious bigotry masquerading as religious piety.

the (non)violence of holy week: a bonus track

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Wed, 20 Apr 2011 15:30:00 +0000

This week Patheos has been generous enough to feature a series of five Holy Week meditations I wrote (Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, Easter Sunday and Bright Monday). I hope you will check them out and I hope they help you experience this week with fresh eyes.

But here's bonus track of sorts, an additional meditation on the entirety of Holy Week to whet your appetite.

Death hung in the air, but only he saw it. In spite of his warnings, the twelve others sitting around the table were oblivious, as they always were. In a way, he envied their ability to live in the present moment, fully and alive, without the weight he now felt. Amid the raucous laughs, his mind drifted, wondering what would become of this rabble whom he had come to love. Without him, would this fellowship slowly fracture unrecognizably? Would they run scared and try to erase from their minds all they had shared? Would that same fear lead to an anger quenched and fueled by vengeance?

The religious law certainly would be on their side. Blood-for-blood. The people certainly wouldn't mind another attempt at an uprising to do away with the occupiers. Already, some in the room were ripe for revolution, thinking he was to be crowned king and lead the triumphalist parade through the streets. Yes, they would likely forget his teaching to do good to those that do evil. They would seek justice at the edge of blade. This is how they would remember him.

"Friends," Jesus said. The room grew quiet. He had not spoken for some time. "My time here is short. Deep down, you know it in your hearts. My time with you will soon end. I am dying. I am being put to death."

The Twelve shuffled uneasily.

"I don't want you to forget me. I want you to remember me and to honor my memory," he continued. He tore off a piece of bread and passed it around so the 12 could follow his lead. "This is my body, given for you. Do this to honor my memory."

With his usual passion, Jesus ate, letting his saliva moisten the bread and slowly chewed it, intent on savoring every last taste.

He picked up his goblet and topped it off with wine. "This is my blood, which will be spilled for you. Do this to honor my memory."

Jesus upended the cup into his mouth, his gulps embarrassingly audible. Wine stained his beard. He felt the pleasant burning of the alcohol, followed by the lingering finish of the wine.

Jesus went on to tell his disciples that he understood they would be heartbroken and angry at his death. They would curse him, betray him. And Jesus was okay with that. Just don't, he was telling them, use his death as an excuse for more bloodletting. Instead of unsheathing the sword, eat and drink with one another. Instead of retaliating with violence against his death, host a party. And invite your enemies. Lay down the claim to vigilante justice. Instead, drink wine, eat bread. Together. And remember him.

Of course, the disciples didn't get it. Just a little later, when the mob came to arrest Jesus, a sword was drawn and the high priest servant's ear was cut off. It was chaotic and it wasn't clear who did it, exactly, but everyone later suspected Peter, even though he denied it. Regardless, Jesus called out in the darkness for the violence and vengeance to stop. He healed the servant's ear and blocked off the way of revenge for his followers.

"Do this in rememberance of me."

The miracle of the crucifixion is that the disciples didn't rise up against Rome violently after the death of their lord. The miracle of Jesus is that his followers didn't band together with the zealots and try to overthrow their oppressors with violence. The miracle of all this is that, for once, the disciples got something right.

Maybe they remembered his teaching about how to resist Rome and their oppressors, with creativity rather than violence. He instructed them to turn the left cheek after being backhanded on the right, and force their attackers to strike them as equals; he told them to go an extra mile when conscripted by Rome and force the soldier to beg them to stop carrying their paraphernalia of war in public; to give their cloak and tunic to their oppressor and shame them by walking naked, unashamed. He instructed them to strike back with nonviolence, aggressive creativity, public theater.

And with what did the disciples eventually respond? A faith that included all, slave and free, man and woman, Jew and Roman, everyone willing to hammer a ploughshare out of a sword, anyone willing to throw a party and celebrate in the face of darkness, violence and oppression, those willing to see the beauty of life in spite of the famishing violence all around, those who would swear allegiance to the Reign of God's love rather than the Reign of Rome's terror.

So it is no surprise that so often the disciples don't believe the resurrected Lord to be in their presence until he breaks bread, chews a bite of fish, drains a cup of wine.

Until he joins the party of humanity again, the festival of love.

80 years and counting: modern prison, the scottsboro boys trial and the search for racial justice

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Wed, 13 Apr 2011 04:01:00 +0000

The first roll of film I ever shot came on a crisp Christmas day when I was in high school in a little town in northern Alabama. I knew exactly where I wanted to go with my new camera with freshly loaded film, to an aging railroad bridge in an even smaller town nearby. The images I snapped those days I still count as some of the best I’ve ever captured, expressing the very best of the beauty of the weathered, Deep South.

But that bridge had a secret, only I didn’t know how to hear it as a young, white male.

On that same stretch of railroad in that same town, 80 years ago this month, nine young black men were rounded up by an angry, racist mob of white men, ready to lynch them after two itinerant white women claimed that the black men had gang raped them. The accusations were, of course, false. But it was April 1931, and so great was white Southern fear of a black man raping a white woman that no one could hear the lie in the transient women’s charges. Neither could they hear the truth in when the accused proclaimed their innocence.

What transpired next is one of the greatest and most blatantly racist miscarriages of the American justice system. In the span of a week, all but one of the so-called Scottsboro Boys were convicted and sentenced to death. The tragic events spawned international attention, and even after a letter surfaced in which one of the women, Ruby Bates, denies she was raped, the Alabama Supreme Court upheld the convictions. Even after Bates appeared in a retrial to deny the accusations she originally made, an Alabama jury convicted two of the Scottsboro boys and he is sentenced to death. After much back and forth, convictions are upheld, and the Scottsboro boys are sentenced to prison for between 75 and 99 years. One is sentenced to death. Charges are dropped against four.

Only one was ever pardoned. In 1976.

Nearly 50 years.

My first professional job was as a writer a small daily newspaper in Scottsboro, Alabama, the city that hosted the trial where I had the dubious honor in 2003 of witnessing a Ku Klux Klan rally there at the Jackson County Courthouse in downtown Scottsboro. I was given only one instruction, one rule, when I walked through the doors of that newspaper on my first day: to never, ever write about the Scottsboro Boys. I had free reign to follow and report any other story in the entire county. In other words, I could write about anything except for the most important event in the city’s history and the most important issue — race — that continues to plague not only Scottsboro, but also the entire South.

White ears apparently still weren’t ready to hear the truth about themselves and the truth about the criminal justice system in the United States. But if white people had the courage to listen to people of color, they might quit mistaking something as ugly as our criminal justice system for something beautiful, as I once did that railroad bridge in a town where nine black youths had become victims of the criminal justice system.

Those nine black youth, I have since learned, are not the only persons of color that are victims of American justice. In fact, the entire modern prison system in this country came into popularity as an end-run around the abolition of slavery, when white landowners and politicians criminalized being black, converted plantations into prisons, and transformed slaves into prisoners. Of course, in modern America, there are more African-Americans are in the criminal justice system — behind bars or on parole — than were enslaved in 1850, according to Michelle Alexander’s book The New Jim Crow. It is already common knowledge — if you are listening, at least — that American prisons are beloved investments by corporations — whether through contracting or private prisons — and giving our justice system a financial incentive to keep people — specifically African-Americans and people of color — in jail. To say nothing, of course, of the millions employed the prison industry — now booming as prison populations skyrocket in spite of lower crime rates nationwide. But Alexander argues in her book that the racism in the American criminal justice system is even deeper than its historical roots in slavery. The primary culprit is the so-called War on Drugs, which is focused primarily in urban, nonwhite areas of the country, even though white and black people use illegal drugs equally. As a result, one in 14 black men are incarcerated and, in some communities, as many as four in five black youths are funneled into the criminal justice system while only one in 106 white men are. What’s more, studies show that white people use and sell drugs as much or above black people. The law is not applied equally, with longer sentences for nonwhites for the same crimes. The law is not applied equally, with poor and nonwhite communities being targeted at significantly higher rates than others. The law, if it is not unjust, is being used unjustly.

So, in short, in modern America, with our biracial president and “progress” on race relations, we nevertheless find a systematic miscarriage of justice, in many ways, far worse than the case of the Scottsboro Boys. Because the racists in Alabama made no attempt 80 years ago to hide their refusal to listen to truth from nonwhites, today, many white people refuse to listen to the endemic, pervasive and racist miscarriages of justice that continue unchecked and unnoticed.

Almost 15 years ago, that bridge had something important to tell me, but I couldn’t hear it. Almost 10 years ago, I had a chance to say something important, but wasn’t allowed by the managers of my newspaper because the community wasn’t ready to hear it. Today, the communities of color in our nation have something to tell us (whites) about our justice system, and all we have to do is listen. But listening, especially for we white people who love to chatter and “solve” problems in communities of color, problems of course we are party to, can be so hard, so uncomfortable, so painful. No wonder Jesus so many times is caught shouting to those around him, “LISTEN! LISTEN! Those that have ears to hear, LISTEN!”

I pray that we have courageous ears.

why martin luther king, jr., was a failure

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Wed, 30 Mar 2011 14:09:00 +0000

photo © 1963 The U.S. National Archives | more info (via: Wylio)

It ended with a pillow fight.

Moments before Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated by a sniper's bullet, the radical prophet picked a raucous, uproarious pillow fight with his buddies in their Memphis motel room. Such was the mirth and glee that spilled out of the room that when the shot rang out, his friends assumed he was clowning around as he stumbled through the door.

King had just asked a young saxophonist to play his favorite gospel song, "Take My Hand, Precious Lord."

King died, lying in his own blood, in the arms of a friend, a failure.

King died marginalized from many of the very people who lauded him during his height of popularity during the Civil Rights Movement. He died with ever-decreasing popularity among black and white Americans alike for his theological and political stands. He died without ever coming close to realizing his dreams.

And this is exactly what made him so great.

With King at the cultural forefront of the Civil Rights Movement, African-Americans put an end to overt Jim Crow segregation, and this is nothing to downplay. Nor would it be right to downplay what a watershed the Civil Rights Movement proved to be in the United States. But, equality has yet to be achieved and the fires of racism still throw dark shadow puppets on walls in our economic and political systems. To paraphrase King, African-Americans may be able to sit at lunch counters with whites, but what good does it do them if they can't afford to buy a hamburger.

King failed. But not achieving true racial equality wasn't his greatest failure. His greatest failure came when he returned to his roots, his radical gospel roots, for in his final years, his positions on the Vietnam war and ending poverty pushed him into closer to obscurity and unpopularity. When King returned to his gospel roots, steeped in the biblical narratives of justice and exodus, he began to preach for equity between the rich and the poor, and for solidarity between the poor of all races.

And he damned America, fiercely, for her violence and for her injustice.

Two weeks before he was assassinated, King preached this, "You know, Jesus reminded us in a magnificent parable one day that a man went to hell because he didn't see the poor. And I come by here to say that America, too, is going to hell, if we don't use her wealth. If America does not use her vast resources of wealth to end poverty, to make it possible for all of God's children to have the basic necessities of life, she, too, will go to hell."

Nowhere is King's failure more apparent than in this sermon, preached in Memphis to rally striking public employees (of the American Federation of State, County and Municipal Employees) during the Memphis Sanitation Strike. Today, we hear King's words against the backdrop not of Memphis but of Wisconsin, where public employee rights are again under siege, and we realize just how little we have traveled down the road of justice and freedom, how very much we still dwell in the wilderness, if not Egypt.

We hear King's strident condemnation of the American war against the backdrop of our own protracted war efforts, deep in the heart of oil country, and against new efforts in Libya.

We hear King's words echoing as we peel off billions of dollars in aid to the poor while dropping billions of dollars of bombs across the world.

If we are not aware of King's failures — and ours — then we have co-oopted King's legacy to make us feel better, to give us a day off from work in January and to decorate our postage stamps. If we are not quickened by King's words, then America has successfully sanitized as a civil saint this nation's most dangerous man of the late 20th century.

It might seem odd to speak of King's failure on the anniversary of his death, when we should perhaps be more given to memorializing him. But, I suspect, he probably knew he would fail, too. Calling on a consumeristic culture to change its ways, to redistribute the wealth, to care for the least of these leads to two places: failure and death. One cannot confront the bedrock of a nation without that nation's leaders taking notice. Jesus teaches us that. King, I think, knew that, and some say he could feel the assassin creeping closer in his last years of life.

But what makes a prophet is not success. It is the person whose feet move in the morning towards an ideal despite knowing that it can never be attained and that its pursuit leads to a cross. The power, the success is that those blessed feet still moved.

The Christian faith, like King's quest, is ultimately a futile, for it too calls for an end to oppression, the abolition of all slavery and the uplift of the poor. Like King, Jesus too called for turning the establishment on its head. Like King, Jesus too was assassinated by a political machine that didn't blink twice to do so.

I doubt whether any of these men's goals are indeed possible, completely. But such futility does not impinge on the hope for the future. Facing the futility is what makes success so sweet and defeat bearable. Acknowledging that the task is insurmountable doesn't undermine the value of the task itself.

In the end, King, I think, teaches us that, about the power of facing futility. And his call, like Jesus', can be irresistible, and scary as hell, if we have ears to hear.

Sadly, though, through the battles over public employee rights throughout America and the unchecked wars this nation is conducting throughout the world, it seems like King's legacy is ending, like his life, with a pillow fight.

the god who flirted: a lectionary reflection john 4:42

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Wed, 23 Mar 2011 13:52:00 +0000

He plopped down on the wall of the well, sweat dripping under the oppression of the Palestinian sun. He was parched and exhausted to the point of fainting.

But Jesus was not too tired to flirt.

This was Jacob's Well, after all. Hundreds of years ago, Jacob watched Rachel saunter up to the well. Maybe it was the water, maybe it was her walk, but Jacob became enchanted with her, so much so that he worked 14 years before he ever got as close to her as he did that glorious day amid the stench of grunting animals.

Maybe it was the sexual, overtly feminine image of a well. Maybe it gave the woman, at least for a moment, a change at holding power over a man by playfully refusing him a drink when he first asked. Maybe it was just a place far away from prying relatives. Whatever the reason, wells were the locale of choice for men in search of a young woman of marrying age. Whatever the case, the mothers and fathers of ancient Judaism frequently found one another around wells.

So with all this historical and cultural expectation swirling around the well, Jesus and a Samaritan woman find themselves alone at Jacob's Well. It was noon, and typically, no one comes to the well to lug water back to the village at this time of day. Usually, the women visited the well in cooler parts of the day, together, turning work into a social occasion. And that is probably why this Samaritan woman is here.

For whatever reason, she is avoiding this communal time of gathering water. Now, perhaps there's a bit of unfortunate gossip surrounding her many marriages like there is today. Perhaps she has been abused and would rather the other women not see the bruises her partner has left on her. Perhaps the other women simply don't like her. There's no way to know why she's come at this uncommon hour without the company of others, but it's likely her circumstances aren't ideal.

And to Jews of the time, she would have been considered of lesser race, lesser gender and lesser reputation.

And this odd rabbi flirts.

He asks for a drink of water. She remarks in genuine surprise at how this Jewish teacher can speak with a Samaritan such as herself.

Jesus responds with what the woman must have considered the worst pick-up line she had ever heard. Jesus starts blabbering to her about how he has this "special" water that's so totally awesome that if she drinks it she'll never get thirsty again. Surely, this Samaritan woman must have rolled her eyes. She had had five husbands and no doubt each did his fair share of talking about himself, puffing up himself like a rooster. All too likely, she had also been divorced or thrown out by each of them — forced destitution — and now was living with a relative. So, I don't doubt, she'd thought she had heard it all. But here she is with a rabbi, sitting at Jacob's Well with its legendary marital history, while he offers her his very, special eternal water that never runs out, this notion that one cool taste of him and there'd be no going back.

Here she is with a Jewish rabbi who flirts with a Samaritan. And I imagine her responding to Jesus with a sarcastic groan. Or, at the least, I couldn't blame her if she did.

"Oh, sir, please, give me some of this water," she says. "Then, I'll never have to return to the well again."

Jesus responds, "So, where's your husband? You married?"

"I have no husband," she responds. Or, at least, no one she thinks of as her husband.

Jesus' voice softens with compassion. "How true. You have had five husbands, none of which you have had a choice in. You've been passed around like property between men. The man you have now isn't your husband either. Just someone who feeds you."

Jesus has seen through her, and perhaps, for the first time, sees something more than just Jesus' flirting. She responds by calling him a prophet. She asks him about the separation between Samaritans and Jews, a bitter ethnic divide, returning to a more formal version of her first question about why a Jew (now a Jewish prophet!) would be speaking with a Samaritan woman.

Jesus then drops the bombshell. "I am the Messiah," he tells her. "And God doesn't care if you are a Samaritan or a Jew."

Eventually, she leaves to tell the village about Jesus. She returns to the well, but this time, she is not alone. With her, come the village leaders, former friends, children, everyone. They invite Jesus to stay for a few days. He does.

What started as a playful flirt ended in the woman's redemption — redemption not from sin but from ostracization. Once seen as the tragic woman of many husbands and few, if any, friends, the woman who fetched her water alone at the worst part of the day, now she is viewed as an apostle of sorts, a bringer of the good news to the town. Jesus doesn't offer her forgiveness. He offers her new social power. Jesus doesn't berate her for an unfortunate life enacted upon her by men. Rather, he empowers her to be the teacher of the town, the light-bearer for the town, the woman who bridged the divide between Jews and Samaritans, who brought the Christ to their small town.

The following day, she will probably make a point to fetch the water with the other women rather than by herself. They might even ask with envy what it was like to speak to the Messiah alone.

And she'll respond with the scandal of God.

"He was flirty," she will reply.

This post originally appeared on this blog in 2008 and has been updated and edited. It works pretty well in youth groups, too.

an all-consuming faith: rob bell, marketing and mammon

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 17:00:00 +0000

In light of all the hoopla surrounding Rob Bell's new book Love Wins, I've yet to hear many talk about what is probably the most important issue surrounding the controversy, the elephant in the room so to speak.

That issue has nothing to do with Bell's discovery of a kind of Christian universalism, or his mealy-mouthed kind-of-sort-of-I'm-not-a-universalist-but-kind-of-am defense on television and in print around the country. Rather, it has everything to do with consumerism, and Bell's wholesale sell-out to the cultural gods of consumption and the (brilliant) marketing of an old theological concept as a new discovery and innovation. (Tripp Fuller beat me to the punch as I was writing this!)

Now, as a disclaimer, I think Bell does a lot to introduce certain theological concepts to evangelicals who otherwise might not venture out of that literalist subculture. But Bell's real gift isn't theology — it's marketing. And that's fine, but I think a number of us in the blogosphere have gotten so caught up in the existence-of-hell controversy that we've forgotten that the whole issue is the result of and the epitome of manufactured, marketed controversy (as opposed to manufacturing consent).

Only in a consumer-driven, media-saturated environment can a concept as old as the Christian church (see: Origen, etc) become the hottest topic in Christian circles. Only through brilliant marketing can a concept that came into relative mainstream acceptance outside of the evangelical subculture (see: Barth) some six or so decades ago become a new source of passionate debate that can get people, my friends, fired!

Rob Bell isn't a theologian or a great Christian thinker like Origen and Barth. Rob Bell is a brand, and a brand we've bought into, no matter which side of the debate we are on. Nowhere is this more painfully clear than in Bell's refusal to give an honest, straight, theologically coherent answer to interviewers questions about his belief. Bell doesn't want you know what he believes, because he needs to protect his mystique, his big, black-rimmed glasses brand.

Because if he tells you what he thinks in an interview, you won't buy the book. And that's what matters the most in this whole affair.

Unlike some of my friends, my introduction to Rob Bell came not through a theological lens but through a consumer one when I was working at Cody's Books in Berkeley, California where Bell was speaking on then-controversial book Sex God (a brilliant title for a terrible book). And, it soured me.

At that event, the line for the books started the moment my razor blade first plunged through the packing tape. No sooner had we stacked the first dozen books on the table than a group of teenage girls and boys from the suburbs lined up with fists full of their parents' cash, including one young lady who unfurled a crisp $100 bill.

"Every couple of seconds someone dies from hunger. How much change do you have on you?" Bell intones in the Nooma video titled "Rich" (posted above).

The irony of the two images of Bell — book-hawker versus moralizing jeremiad — is comical. Working Cody's events for more than a year, I had never actually come across a $100 bill. Ever. Nor had I ever encountered a more frenzied group of people so willing to fork over their cash so quickly with barely a glance at a book's inside pages. Things got so bad with folks crushing in on the table that I had to ask them to give us at least 10 minutes to get set up. My coworker, unfamiliar with the consumerism of Christianity -- where merely owning the right books can give you street cred in a congregation or make you feel closer to God -- was, to put it mildly, freaked.

At one point, one young college student who spent a good 15 minutes tentatively thumbing through the pages of Bell's new book, asked to purchase one. In her hand was a wadded up $10 bill. She asked how much the book was, clearly pleased that she had made the decision to draw nearer to God in her book choice. I said $20.

"How much money do you have on you right now?" Bell says in the video "Rich."

It's the question Bell is asking you right now. It's the same question Bell has been asking through this whole Love Wins debacle. He's not asking you where you will spend eternity, or if a permanent hell is a reality. Rather, he is asking you, and me, as every writer does, "How much money do you have on you right now?"

The young college student crumpled the bill up in her hand and dipped her head. She attempted to stuff her cash back into her jeans pocket discreetly, offered a "maybe later" demurral and went through the doors to the event.

I had never felt so dirty selling books.

This was my introduction to Rob Bell. I frankly couldn't tell much difference, in form, between these guys and their book brands and these guys and their book brands. Their books may be vastly different, but the underlying gospel they contribute to is an all consuming faith. (see here).

Where does that leave me in this ordeal? Yes, Love does win. I agree wholeheartedly. I don't want to take away from that, even if Bell won't go as far as I'd like him in his affirmation of universalism. But I think at the same time it's important to step back from all that a bit too. I think Bell means well, but I also think he has been consumed by a consumerist culture.

And to a certain extent, we're being played by a brilliant, calculated marketing plan.

Maybe he's playing the consumerist culture in order to subvert the culture with the message of Jesus, but that's a dicey proposal to be honest. Maybe this is the only way he can get a hopeful message across to a new audience, though with these kinds of books, I think there is more preaching to the choir than proselytizing going on. Maybe this is simply what it's like to be a Christian and an author in a consumer-driven culture. Live by the sword, die by the sword and hope somewhere in between you make a difference, dance before the two masters of God and Mammon, and see which one responds with fire from heaven for your cause.

Basically, I just want Bell to ante up and put his cards on the table, to stop dancing for pocket change and start marching for justice.

But, I can't shake the feeling in every interview and in every book, he's mostly just selling something.

And I'm not buying it.

when god is the enemy

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Mon, 21 Mar 2011 13:43:00 +0000

I've got a new post — an inverted meditation — up at Religion at the Margins. If you haven't checked out this site yet, (I'm a semi-regular contributor there), please do so. It's got some terrific writers like Thom Stark and Ted Troxell (Irritable Reaching).

As an aside, this post is inspired, in part, by Mike Morrell's post from a year ago on I Corinthinans 13 and from reading Daniel Ladinsky's renderings of the Sufi poet Hafiz.

land & lent

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Thu, 17 Mar 2011 17:57:00 +0000

Lent seems like the perfect moment in the Christian calendar to reflect on and repent of our often abusive relationship with the Earth. This is a video I put together for the youth group I'm leading (also why I've had little time to post these last few months). I hope you enjoy it. The song is by Ben Sollee, and, to my mind, plays with the idea that humankind has so rearranged creation with its consumptive lust that God no longer recognizes God's own creation.

the great thanksgiving

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Mon, 22 Nov 2010 21:16:00 +0000

I love feasts.

Not so much the eating part, but the preparing part. For the past three years, since becoming a stay-at-home dad, I have done most of the cooking, especially around the holidays, planning, preparing, and cooking festive feasts. Some years we experimented with new rubs for the turkey or nontraditional side dishes. By now, our family has its own traditional dishes, without which the table would seem bare: garlicky kale with dried cranberries, or swiss chard with golden raisins and pine nuts; mashed potatoes, always a different way each year; green bean casserole (nothing from a can); fresh orange-cranberry relish; mulled apple cider; glazed cornish hens instead of a full turkey; and a pumpkin-bourbon cheesecake to complete the meal.

And wine and bread.

When I think about the meal, and shop for the ingredients, I get a rush of nostalgic emotion and envision all the past year's perfect feasts, forgetting of course the reality of it. It's difficult work. I sweat a lot. I swear a lot, especially when the turkey hasn't thawed or is obstinate in cooking. I get a little stressed when my timing is a little haywire, if the mashed potatoes require a microwave warm-up before serving. I always long for a second oven. But, when I arrange the hens on the serving platter, glistening with the tart raspberry balsamic glaze, and set them in the center of the table, and I see the eyes of my family and friends widen in excitement, in hunger, in expectation, in anticipation, I feel, deep within me, fed by something greater than food. When we pass the bread, pour the wine and toast, I see a feast, and echoes of a feast that has little to do with food.

photo © 2008 kevin rawlings | more info (via: Wylio)

In these moments, Thanksgiving becomes something more like the Great Thanksgiving, or in Greek, the Eucharist.

I am sure there will be someone who complains about this holiday being one in which Americans overindulge in food and eat in excess, as they are wont to do. And I suppose there might be a valid criticism in that. There will be someone who calls us to remember that many, many people will be hungry on the day of feasts. There will be someone who reminds us that this day of thanksgiving has a shadow of the slaughter of Native Americans. And they should, because we should remember these things, and hold that tension of sorrow with our elation of thanksgiving.

The same can be said of the Great Thanksgiving, that as Christians we can overindulge in our own ritual and faith. That there are many, many people who hunger for this feast but are turned away, and that there are many, many people who simply hunger. That this Great Thanksgiving has been used as a battering ram, a bargaining chip and a bloody battle cry. And we should be remind of these things so that when we dip a wafer into wine, the blood of Christ mixes with the blood of martyrs and heretics who were all executed for their beliefs, the emaciated wafer reminds us of those who have been denied what we take for granted.

But Thanksgiving is also a day in which Americans remember to be thankful, and this is no small feat in a culture in which everything is not enough, in which the day after being so thankful we slam ourselves into malls and forget what it means to be thankful. The Great Thanksgiving is a moment in which Christians are reminded to be thankful, and that is no small feat in a religious culture that pops peppermint gum to erase the taste of wine in the morning and waits impatiently for restaurant doors to open for lunch.

But many progressive Christians fear being thankful for what they have because it has echoes of the prosperity gospel in which God's favored find wealth in spite of what the Gospels actually say. So, many of us go around moping on Thanksgiving, conflicted about whether we should thank God for our blessings or pound our chests because we have so much. We slake our guilt with one-time offerings to food pantries and homeless shelters, or we rail at the dinner table about politics and religion, or we eat our turkey but promise to have indigestion later for embracing such bad karma.

But, I wonder what would happen if we let ourselves be genuinely thankful on Thanksgiving, thankful for the turkey that dried out, the cornish hens that burned, the lumps in the mashed potatoes, the spilled wine on the floor, the heated argument, smoke alarm that erupts and wakes up a toddler, the passing of bread over strained relationships, the extra glass of wine, the stack of dishes to do in the sink, that we ate too much while others ate too little, thankful for all that we have and the eye of the needle standing between us and heaven. The reality of the feast is that being thankful in the midst of it can be difficult, because in the feast, in the coming together at the table, we are made human and messy, as wine dribbles on chins, gravy spills on the floor, the body of Christ broken and stained red. Before it, after it and in the idea of it, thankfulness is simple. In the midst of it, the setting of the table, the breaking of the bread, the sipping of wine, the Thanksgiving can be difficult. It is always the same, more or less, and always so different, more or less, and always so mundane, and, if we pay attention, so sublime.

And, if all else fails, pour another glass of wine. It is a feast, after all, and the wine should never be wasted.

marriage, covenant and contract

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 18:31:00 +0000

I have always wanted to be married.

When, as a child, my army of G.I. Joe figures marched to war against evil Cobra forces, I always made sure two figures fell in love. On the eve of battle, the two, soon-to-be star-crossed lovers, would always find a way to share a few gooey parting words. And, I would always awkwardly fit their cupped hands, molded for holding weapons, into each other's hands.

I have been married for seven years. It's nowhere near as dramatic, but no less awkward at times. But I love being married. I have two adorable sons and a gorgeous wife, (click here for all you stalkers out there). Even on bad days, our marriage and family is still the best thing I have going for me. I always tell my wife that I can get everything wrong, so long as I get us right. (Still, I'm wrong a lot.)

Married. It means something. It is one of the most treasured words in my vocabulary.

Which is exactly why I think the time is long overdue for America to ban marriage outright.

Ban marriage, all of it.

I understand that marriage, in civil society, is technically little more than a legal contract. I understand that the history of marriage has less to do with religion and more to do with property and civil society. But in today’s world, marriage for many is a sacred covenant to have and to hold, a bond made of God that no one should put asunder, even though half the time, American Christians do just the opposite.

This is the disconnect in the debate. Same-sex marriage is a fool’s errand, a red herring in the search for equality under the law. Instead of “promoting” same-sex relationships from civil unions to state marriages, we should “demote” heterosexual relationships from state marriages to civil unions. If the issue is over a religiously-coded word, remove the religiously coded word. All relationships, in the eyes of the state, would therefore be civil unions, and all would have the same legal protections and benefits under the state law. Let the pious hash out the particulars of sacred marriage in private. There will always be a bold priest prophetic enough to marry a couple — already covenanted between themselves — with the communal sacrament of matrimony.

Will D. Campbell, a Baptist civil rights activist and self-described bootleg preacher, makes a point during every marriage ceremony to sign the certificate of marriage before the service begins. Then, he reminds the couple and those gathered that his signature and the service and sacred covenant that they are about to enter have nothing to do with one another. In other words, he separates church and state.

For too long, the debate around same-sex unions has hinged on a sacrament exercised by the state, not the church, and the church has been all too willing to go along and get along, piping up here and there like a harpy polarizing the debate on both sides with different interpretations of Scripture. But I do not want a senator to offer me the bread and wine on Sunday. I do not want a governor to sprinkle water on my children’s heads for baptism. I do not want the mayor to put her hands on my head in confirmation.

Why would I want the state to have any say in my marriage?

If you want to get married, don’t go to the courthouse. Go to a church, a synagogue, a mosque, a Mormon temple. That’s where you go for religious ceremonies.

Get the state out of the marriage business where it doesn’t belong. The civil government only has the power to proclaim civil unions, binding legal contracts of property. Get the church back into the marriage business where it belongs. The church only has the power to proclaim sacred unions, covenants that bind with a power greater than property.

This is part of the October synchroblog on same-sex marriage. If you've written for it, post your link below so I can add it at the bottom of the post.

Kathy Baldock at Canyonwalker Connections – Marriage “I Do” For Who

Dan Brennan at Faith Dance – Sexual Difference, Marriage and Friendship

Steve Hayes at Khanya – Same Sex Marriage Synchroblog

Sonja Andrews at Calacirian – In Defense Of Marriage

John C O’Keefe – Exactly What Is Gay Marriage

Liz Dyer at Grace Rules – Nobody knows why or how same-sex marriage is harmful

Herman Groenewald at Along The Way – Same Sex Debate

Margaret Boelman at Minnowspeaks – What Have We Done

David Henson at unorthodoxology – ban marriage

Erin Word at Mapless – Synchroblog: Legalizing Same Sex Marriage

Joshua Jinno at Antechurch – The Church Is Impotent

http://hensonadventures.blogspot.com/

can anybody find me somebody to love?

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 13:15:00 +0000

I have no enemies.

How am I to love them?

No enemy curses me. No enemy raises fists at me. No enemy persecutes me. No enemy hates me. I doubt anyone in the enemies of my state — Taliban or Al-Qaeda — care much about a stay-at-home dad living in a suburb of nothing in Texas. Frankly, I’m not important enough to have enemies in this world, and I’m not doing anything important enough that might make me any, either.

I want so desperately to love my enemy, but I’ll be damned if I can find any. To love my enemies would require an exercise in delusional imagination, the conjuring of ghosts to hate so that I might be able to love them. To love an enemy I would have to envision conflict, create it and exacerbate it to transform those with whom I disagree into enemies.We do this more than we should, inventing scenarios in which we play the maligned, the victim, the oppressed, all while we run to the medicine cabinet for an ibuprofen every time a muscle aches, the faucet to quench the slightest thirst, the grocery store for an ice cream craving.

To love an enemy would be daring, costly, painful. American lives are not generally built on these characteristics, so all the martyrdom and suffering Jesus tells his followers to expect at the hands of the powerful have been bent in our world into pithy sentiments about playing nice within pluralism. But Jesus rarely played nice with the true enemies of humanity, those wild beasts that would stampede the poor like weeds under foot and those that would drive love from religion as if it were a demon hoard. To Jesus, loving an enemy did not include ignoring injustice.

But where does one find an enemy of humanity to love? Where does one find someone who eats at perpetual banquet tables while the rest of the world starves for a handful of rice ? Where does one find someone who sleeps softly while the world burns? Where does one find someone who steals birthrights from the poor and gives them pottage in return?

If I can find no enemies to love, perhaps I am the enemy, and that my life — just in every day chores and errands — consumes more of the Earth than one person should be able to lay claim.

And that even if I were to do all I could to live justly on this Earth, the privileged nature of my birth — the system I am inextricably caught in — requires me to be an enemy of humanity. And then it is I who must endure the love of an enemy, the good done to the life that curses, the shame of having heaps of coal burn blisters on my head.

But if I am the enemy, all is not lost, but found, because in this, I fall upon the knowledge — the grace — that I am loved as an enemy. And that kind of love can be transformative, enough even to make enemies.

This is part of a synchronized blog organized by Tia at Abandon Image. More information on the blogs and on the Bless Those That Curse You Day can be found on the facebook page here.

reflections on big tent christianity

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Mon, 20 Sep 2010 12:48:00 +0000

The measure of an event is what sticks with you a week later. When the event is fresh, it is easy to critique for all it wasn't, especially all I didn't expect it to be, and it is easy to praise all the thoughts and ideas that seemed important but are destined to fade as life catches up.

Generally, there are three things that have stuck with me from the conference.

The first is the obvious critique, that it was celebrity-driven and leader-focused. But it was celebrity-driven partly because it had to be for the kind of macro-conference it sought to be. I was just as excited, I'm sure, as others to hear well-known authors speak and discuss their ideas. But the celebrity nature of the event was further highlighted by sequestering the speakers away to a kind of shadow conference at another location for a conversation among themselves, outside the purview of the plebeians in attendance. So, the event, in my opinion, became a series of 10-minute cameos, which I think argued against the very purpose of the Big Tent concept. There was less discussion and conversation involved in the event than I had expected, so I wound up with a great sense of what the speakers think (which they've already written about in books) but very little of what any of the attendees were thinking.

But that is a criticism of the conference's form, which I'm not sure is fair, given how much work goes into planning, funding and creating such an event -- and how little I know about the process of how that structure came to be. In all honesty, this criticism didn't dawn on me until I went home. I rather enjoyed my time there, even if it was a bit exhausting to have so much packed into two days.

The second takeaway was Bill Leonard's engaging discussion during the Big Tent Denominationalism panel. His proposal is that, given the erosion of denominational identity in American Christians, congregations should embrace an ethic of localism in identity formation. His point is well-taken. Unless one is a cradle denominational member, many in my generation move between denominations with great fluidity, without a second thought to theological differences and unconcerned with the theological skirmishes that formed them. In a sense, this is a page straight out of the local food movement, which emphasizes the decentralization of how and what we eat. The emphasis, while not ignoring outside or non-native fruits and vegetables, is on the historic regional fruits, vegetables and modes of production. In looking to the local, we are able to pay better attention to the lived histories and traditions of people. It would center churches in local issues rather than national ones and better root parishes in the specific injustices and circumstances of a place that they might be called to address.

For liturgical churches and those with high denominational structures, this is a difficult critique, and I'm not sure exactly what to do with, even though it resonated strongly with me. How does an Episcopalian look toward a local parish for the formation of identity creation? It will take a better empowered laity, I suspect, for it is the laity who carry with them the flavor and concerns of a place generally more so than the clergy who often are hired from outside. It will take clergy who listen to a place rather than superimposing a seminary education in place that might have more immediate concerns that discussed in the halls of academia.

At the same time, however, the Episcopal church would lose a great portion of its denominational and local identity if it were to eschew its macro-identity formed by its liturgies, prayer book and unifying worship. So, for an Episcopal, the question is how to integrate the regional and national identity while developing a strong local identity and ethic of localism. It is a hopeful tension, and one with which I resonate, given my low-church upbringing and my present-day high-church allegiances, my belief in the value of the priesthood of all believers and the value of the sacramental priesthood.

Author and Episcopalian Phyllis Tickle offered some solutions through either Anglimergent or through the fresh expressions in the UK. Personally, at first glance, I resonated with fresh expressions more and Stehpanie Spellers reflections on spirituality and justice in her Boston, Mass., parish. The examples in fresh expressions seem to integrate local identity and Anglican identity seamlessly, while Sellers' congregation sounded genuinely unique to her locality while remaining authentically Anglican.

I think Leonard's talk also has implications for the Big Tent project, and this ethic has already taken hold with some groups. Big Tent, driven as it is by celebrity, might do better to be more locally driven, with regional ministries, concerns, issues and injustices highlighted rather than general theology and injustice. The conference did a good job in certain aspects of this, by featuring Tim Conder, a pastor from North Carolina, Hugh Hollowell of Love Wins ministries and Christina Whitehouse-Suggs of CBF South Carolina and a number of local theologians and speakers. The complaint, as always with these conferences, is one of homogeneity. It strikes me that an even larger emphasis on localism might yield some fruitful diversity. I can't imagine there aren't local African-American, Hispanic or female ministers who wouldn't have jumped at the invitation to highlight their ministry. Such publicity is hard to come by otherwise.

Third, it was nice to be someplace where I could disagree -- even with such lofty names as Brian McLaren -- and it not be perceived as a threat, but even be re-tweetable(!) and have the same sentiment echoed independently by another speaker. It was nice to hear some unaffected salty language and encouraging to see non-mainline LGBT leaders speaking. Fundamentally, I am a pessimist who loves tragedies, which is why I embrace a religion where the founder gets crucified. But here was a place where it was okay to be that person, where it was even valued. As a result, it ironically made me feel a bit more optimistic and hopeful.

Which I suppose was the whole point in the first place.

the feet of a grasshopper without a leg

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 19:23:00 +0000

One of my favorite authors, Frederick Buechner, once wrote that "if you want to know who you are, if you are more than simply academically interested in this or that mystery, you could do a lot worse than look to your feet for the answer. ... When you wake up in the morning, called by God to be a self again, if you want to know who you are, watch your feet. Because, where your feet take you, that is who you are."

Of all the things I have read, this idea of following my feet has stayed with me and embedded in my soul. And when I follow my feet during the course of a day, a week and a month, it becomes clear I'm not the sort of person I like to think I am, for better or worse. I do a lot of the academically interested posturing of this mystery and that on this blog, but, in real life, these ideas are not where my feet take me. I'd like to think I follow Jesus radically, that I live my life in passionate service to others, but mostly, I just walk, not knowing whether I follow or whether I'm simply wandering through my life.

Every day, when the morning is still dark and refusing to shake off its heavy slumber, my feet hit the floor, kick a few toys, orphaned from the day before, not yet put away, and stand in the shower. While the house is still dark, my feet step through my clothes and stand before the stove, broken eggs, a piece of toast, buttermilk and flour, the daily bread, eucharist for a day of work and of school.

My feet carry me to my children, where still slumbering in their rooms, I rouse them so we can breakfast before the day runs away from us like a madman on fire. It is in these dark moments of the day, when dreams still seem real, before a rising sun burns them away with its harsh light, that I entertain an ethereal peace that I can never quite seem to hold onto, shattered by the key that turns the ignition, the vacuum cleaner that roars to life or a toddler that erupts.

My feet carry me to grocery stores and playdates, dishwashers and caches of household cleaners. More often than not, if I can bear to look down, to pause and see where it is my feet are, it is in the kitchen, cooking, cleaning and praying that the coffee will keep me pleasant, or, at least, awake.

My feet do not take to any place where my theology lives. But I hope that they take me places where God, of some sort, can live. I know that there is holiness in the mundane, but, if I'm honest, I don't really see it all that much. Occasionally, my feet will arrive at a holy moment, perhaps a little late, in the second reel, and I can see a fleeting moment of the divine, but my feet do not give chase because I have ghosts and toddlers to run after around the house, in the yard.

But then, there are the moments, the ones where my feet lead me to, where they arrive at the right time, agreed upon, without my knowledge, by my toes, ankles and God to surprise me with the simplicity of a grasshopper missing a leg.

It had been hanging around our back porch for a few days, mostly glued to our window, peering in our home. We stared at it for awhile, tried to make it fly by rapping on the window. It never budged, perhaps just as interested in us as we were in it. But then we saw it again yesterday, fumbling around an old coffee cup I'd forgotten to throw in the dishwasher.

One-leg missing and lame it didn't even protest when I picked up, but rather wrapped itself around my finger and held tight. I showed him to Brendan before the insect halting tried to flutter away. It didn't make it far. Then we saw it, limping back toward the coffee cup.

Unaware of what I was doing, my feet moved to where I had left a watermelon rind, then carried me back to the grasshopper. Before I could process my actions, I had set it down in front of the grasshopper, which probed it curiously.

I shrugged, and little embarrassed, said to my wife, "I don't even know if grasshoppers eat watermelon."

I felt utterly foolish at that moment, my feet having caught me off-guard with the absurdity of feeding a grasshopper with a watermelon wedge three times its size. And I felt sheepish because I couldn't help seeing the image of the St. Francis statue, cradling a bird, in my old parish courtyard in Fairfield. And I felt like a fool for entertaining the nonsensical idea that this might just be one of those rare holy moments for wounded grasshopper and for me, that this might be a kind of eucharist -- a great thanksgiving -- in the truest sense of the word.

But then, the grasshopper dived in, face first, eating with abandon, or what I took for abandon in an insect. And what I felt wasn't what I'd expected. It didn't make me feel happy or proud or spiritual. And it didn't -- and still doesn't -- make me feel any less foolish that it had taken to my offering. Instead, as I watched him, I felt a simple peace, that same vapor-thin feeling I have in the darkness of morning.

This afternoon, the grasshopper is nowhere to be seen, after three days of visiting us. The offering of watermelon sits on the porch, dried out and overrun by flies and ants. But I can't seem to bring my feet to move to go throw it away.

book review: evolving in monkey town by rachel held evans

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 03:36:00 +0000

I'm slowly catching up on the reviews of books I had piled up before I cut my finger and had to grind my blog down to a near-stand still. So, months after I should have I'm finally getting to this. Sorry, Rachel.

Rachel Held Evans' spiritual memoir, Evolving in Monkey Town, has just been sent to the printer for a second run. And it's well-deserved, because the book is well-written and cuts to the core of one of the growing issues for many young Christian adults, particularly those with evangelical heritages. In her book, she writes primarily of how she doubted her faith and learned to evolve to a deeper spirituality that could handle the big unanswerable questions about God and Christianity.

Evans is at her strongest when she roots her book in her hometown of Dayton, Tenn., and when she lets her readers see and feel what it is like to be a doubter in a tiny town where everyone knows your business and everyone knows that good Christians don't doubt. In one episode, Evans recounts how word got out in the small Appalachian community that she had some serious doubts. Suddenly she was receiving unsolicited phone calls and unasked for prayers for her. I didn't want that anecdote to stop because I resonated with it so much. I wanted to read about it for pages and pages. It remains, in my mind, the most compelling story in the book. Or the emotional moment she suddenly realizes that she is asking spiritual questions not even her father, a theologian, is ready to ask. I just wish there was more of this. And that is not meant as a critique, but a commendation, really, about just how vivid these episodes are.

Evans' writing and wit shine throughout the book, no matter the topic. She can turn a good metaphor or simile as well as anyone. As a metaphor junkie myself, it made the book a pleasure to read.

There were some conversations, recounted in too much detail, that could have been paraphrased with more impact. Typically, I haven't seen pages of continuous dialogue in a memoir There could have been fewer quotes from famous theologians. It's not so much that these were bad to include, but when I read a memoir like Evans, I'm looking more for an emotional pay-off to go along with these episodes, something that makes me laugh out loud or causes my eyes to water.

This got me to thinking about exactly what Evans has accomplished in this book. It's technically categorized as a spiritual memoir, but in it, she wrestles with theology pretty heavily and its implications. And she finds connections between this theology and her own, and lets readers see how she is developing a new theology. So, sure, Evans is a memoirist, but she is more than that. She is a thoroughgoing theologian.

After reading and then re-reading her book, I came away both times with a better feeling for what she thinks about God than I did about who she is and what she feels, which isn't something I typically find in memoirs. I felt like I knew her theology, not necessarily her. The other voices in her book aren't there to tell us about Evans, but about her faith. They are signposts that have marked the path on her faith journey. Her book isn't simply another memoir among the glut of spiritual memoirs on the market. Sure, she is telling a story, but throughout the book, it is clear that this is a story about her faith, not necessarily her. Evans' main character in the book is her faith.

Again, this isn't meant is a critique, though some might read it this way. I think this book is sold short when thought of strictly in terms of memoir. Evans' book is a work of narrative theology, which in my opinion, is among the only honest ways to do theology. And it is compelling as theology precisely because she shows readers how it grew from her unique history, her hometown and compelling circumstances. Maybe she's pointing a finger in a direction that more spiritual memoirists should go, to transition into narrative theologians.

Personally, I disagree with Evans' conclusion on doubt, that it "is a difficult animal to master because it requires that we learn the difference between doubting God and doubting what we believe about God. The former has the potential to destroy faith; the latter has the power to enrich and refine it. The former is a vice; the latter a virtue" (219). Honestly, I think this pretty clever and a great turn of phrase, but I also think it is a false dichotomy, and it certainly doesn't resonate with my own experiences with doubting my beliefs and doubting God. But, then again, my experiences aren't likely normative, either. But I don't think anyone is meant to or can master doubt, nor is it helpful to quantify it into "good" doubt and "bad" doubt. It is a part of the faith journey that must be experienced in whatever form it takes. Often, we don't have a choice in the matter.

But, I think for many, many people this reasoning is immensely moving, helpful and true. Just because I don't agree with it, doesn't mean I can't appreciate it or respect it. It can offer a lamp to light the dark pathway, some reassurance in times of need. Obviously, Evans' book has resonated with lots of people, hence the second printing. She has put a welcome face for many I'm sure on the doubts and questions they are struggling with. Whereas Jason Boyett (whose doubt-themed book was featured a few months ago) will try to make you laugh on the doubters road, my guess is that Evans is the one who would hold your hand when you need some help. If you are in a period of questioning or doubting, read Evans' book. It might just be what you need. And if it's not, then at least, you've read a good book. Also, she's got one helluva closing line for the book.

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Self-Promotional Bonus Trivia Even The Author Might Not Know: Incidentally, I'm almost, inadvertently, quoted in the book, which took me quite by surprise. She writes of her online interactions with "Adele the Oxymoron," also known as Existential Punk, a name you might recognize from a guest blog here a few months ago. Evans writes, "I followed the link to her site, where she described herself in her profile as being "a doubter, a betrayer, a traveler ... redeemed by the grace and beauty of God." Of course, if you follow the link here to Adele's site, you'll see that this is actually a bit of a misquote and that Adele was actually quoting me. It comes from the poem in my About Me section, and was the first thing I wrote for this site, though I wonder how much of it still applies. So Evans' book might be the closest I ever come to having my writing published. And that'd be okay, since Evans has written a pretty great book, all told.

hallowed ground: the 'ground-zero mosque' and the self-immolation of America

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 19:17:00 +0000

Once upon a time, there was a religious community that was worshipping God right in the middle of a city's downtown area. Eventually, this community wanted to improve the dilapidated exterior of their worship space and remodel the inside as well. But, when certain folks in the city got wind of their plans to make their worship space permanent, they led a huge political protest to try and block the community's application for permanent residency downtown.

It's not that they don't have a right to worship, the opponents said. It's just that their desired location was unforgivably inappropriate, essentially hallowed ground that should be forbidden to a religious community. Move the project just a few blocks away from their proposed location, and the opponents promised there wouldn't be a whiff of protest anymore. The towns leaders seemed to agree, and some of the most influential people in the city led the protest.

It sounds familiar, I know, but this is not a story about the Cordoba House (Park51 or Ground Zero Mosque or whatever it's currently being called). This is not a story about New York City and the echoes of the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks.

This is a story about a small town in California and a Pentecostal church, a story I covered in my former life as a journalist.

Fortunately for the church, the law was on their side, even if the entire city wasn't. Their location, a long-abandoned movie theater on the tiny town's two-block downtown, was eventually approved, after threats of a lawsuit the church was sure to win.

Sure, there is the First Amendment, which protects Calvary Chapel's and the NYC Muslim center's religious freedom. But the issue in Dixon and in the Big Apple is over location not expression. But another law, an extension of the First Amendment protections, covers both religious communities. It's a relatively obscure, wonky bit of legislation passed in 2000, called the Religious Land Use and Institutionalized Persons Act.

The law, in unequivocal terms, states:

"No government shall impose or implement a land use regulation in a manner that treats a religious assembly or institution on less than equal terms with a nonreligious assembly or institution. ...

"No government shall impose or implement a land use regulation that discriminates against any assembly or institution on the basis of religion or religious denomination. ...

"No government shall impose or implement a land use regulation that-- totally excludes religious assemblies from a jurisdiction; or unreasonably limits religious assemblies, institutions, or structures within a jurisdiction."

In other words, it doesn't matter how inappropriate a location might seem to some -- even a majority.

I have been quite frankly baffled by the number of people, who on any other issue will fight tooth-and-nail over the Constitutional originalism and against advocates who would erode the power of the Bill of Rights (think guns), are ready to light the First Amendment on fire because they suddenly realized it covers more than just Christians. Perhaps one of the best responses to such irrationality is brilliant satire.

Anyone with a shred of logical thought can look at this issue and see what's at stake for a country colonized by a bunch of folks seeking freedom from religious tyranny and persecution: everything. The issue of the so-called Ground Zero mosque reveals an American public willing to sell the soul of their country -- their birthright to worship, or not worship, anything conceivable -- for a messy soup of pottage, a sickening gruel of fear and hate, spiced with deliberate lies and half-truths.

People will say that the issue is that it is insulting and disrespectful to build a Muslim community center so close to Ground Zero. Perhaps this is true, but our country protects such disrespect. It simply calls it a different name: freedom.

People will say that the issue is that this community center will be seen as a triumph of Muslims over the infidels, that it will embolden our enemies, recruit more to their terrorists campaigns. Perhaps this is true, but our country has long had a history of making enemies through unjust economic policies and unjust wars, such as the ones we are now fighting. I'd rather make enemies through tolerance than weaponry. I'll take my chances with the ethics of acceptance than with the ethics of torture, rendition and shock and awe.

People will say that the community center might be a nexus of radical terrorist activity. Perhaps this is true, but our country presumes innocence, particularly when the supposed terrorists practice Sufism, a mystical, open-hearted form of Islam, and are paid by the American government to try to convince Middle Eastern countries of the compatibility between America and Islam.

People will say that they simply don't like Muslims. And this is perhaps the real truth of the matter.

People will say that Ground Zero is hallowed ground so it must be given special consideration. But what makes it so hallowed? That two buildings fell? That people were incinerated by jet fuel and hate? That its gaping hole in the center of NYC -- undeveloped after almost a decade! -- continues to serve as a potent symbol that fuels unjust wars, unjust policies and unjustifiable attitudes toward fellow Americans?

No, it is not Ground Zero that is hallowed ground. But the Muslim community center a few blocks from it is, for the most hallowed ground in America is where difference abuts, yet peace and fellowship abounds, where, from the ashes of intolerance, love and acceptance can bloom. The Muslims have been worshipping there for months and sought to repair the damage done to that building and to NYC during the 9/11 attack. It is hallowed ground, for it represents the best of America and who we believe ourselves to be. But we have trampled on that hallowed ground with angry feet, sullied it, profaned it. We have taken what is great about America and set it aflame, no different than the real radicalized Islamic extremists have done in setting alight the American flag in protests around the world.

In our reaction to the Muslim community center, Americans have stood in protest of our own values, our own laws, our own founding documents. Nearly 10 years ago, a handful of extremists flew planes into the World Trade Center towers, hoping to destroy America and all she stood for. Little did they know, it would be her own citizens who would try to finish the job for them.

Perhaps, then, it isn't Muslims we so loathe. It is our ourselves.

a quest for understanding ourselves: a daddy issues encore

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 19:54:00 +0000

By Jonathan Brink

Why do we search for God? It’s an intriguing question and one that I have spent way too much time pondering and wrestling with. The word theology, broken down can mean God logic. We’re trying to understand who God is because if we are created in God’s image, the purpose of our search is to inform ourselves of our own humanity. We’re looking to understand who we are as human beings.

A little while ago, my son and I were playing a wrestling game. During the game he inadvertently hit me and it hurt. I voiced my displeasure and instead of staying in the game, he ran to his room. As I approached him, I could see that he was afraid. He wouldn’t look at me. I could tell that he was afraid that my image of him had changed and that it was possible I didn’t love him. He was captivated by what I would call a lie, and his fear was driving him away from me. I spent the next twenty minutes just sitting with him to convince him that there was nothing he could do to make me stop loving him. And when he finally let go, he crumbled into my arms and started crying. He had discovered that the lie it was untrue.

I get that moment. I often wonder if the tension in our search includes the possibility that maybe we’re just not cut from the same cloth as God. Maybe we’re the one exception to the story. We’re the one individual that is part of the story that God leaves on the outside. We see the evidence in our lives that suggests, “How can I do THAT, and still be a child of God? How can God love me when there’s just so much evidence to the contrary.” What if the problem is not God’s capacity to love humanity, even when it does something evil, but our capacity to love the self when we do something evil?

In Discovering The God Imagination: Reconstructing A Whole New Christianity, I explore this tension as the central question of the human experience, one that disconnects us from our father. We see the fruit in our lives and wonder, how can I be good? How can God love me when I’ve done that? How can I be a child of God when I am capable of doing something so counter to who God is?” And in the process of questioning, we run. And if we run, we lose our capacity to understand our dignity, our identity, and our purpose.

I also wonder if we’re afraid to be children of God. If we are created in God’s image, we also hold the capacity to create a reality. And in this capacity we also hold the capacity to construct a false reality, one that captivates us in a lie and makes us run. To be children of God means we are powerful. So the capacity to create also means we can get it wrong. We can judge ourselves as wanting and even worthless. And when we run, we perpetuate the lie.

One of the more provocative notions in Scripture is how Jesus reframes God not as a distant and uncaring God, but as a Father. Jesus actually commands us to call God, “Father.” It’s right there in the story. And it’s easy to see this shift as something new. But what if it’s instead really old. If we go back to the beginning of the story, Adam and Eve had no parents. God was in essence their Father. And so Jesus’ command is to rediscover the perspective that has always been true. It’s not something we make true, but something we discover is already true.

And when we do, when we open ourselves to a new reality, a new way of seeing God, we don’t find a father that can’t get over our sin. We find a Father that has always been able to get over it. We find a father waiting at the edge of the porch for us to come home so he can embrace us. God never loses site of who we are, even when we do. And that is salvation.

Jonathan Brink is an author, coach, speaker, and consultant, and offers on heck of an encore to the Daddy Issues series.

the samaritan in the big tent: (synchroblog for big tent christianity)

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 11:00:00 +0000

Wrong place, wrong time, I believe, is the phrase most folks would use to describe my present predicament. Not that I can tell you much about how I came into my present predicament. There was a violent hot pain on the back of my head, then warm and sticky on my neck. Then peaceful dark.

I awake, terror and pain clawing me into consciousness and then rocketing me blissfully back into the dark. Later, the first thing I am aware of is the taste of burnt iron on my lips. The one eye that can still open open and the arm that isn’t broken quickly inventory my injuries. Most of the blood has dried, which means I have been out for awhile. I can’t move my legs without rending pain tearing through them. I also notice my pants are missing, which probably means my wallet is as well.

At some point, all the movement wracks me waves of uncontrolled nausea. Once the vomiting stops, it is apparent I am, for all practical purposes, paralyzed, and quite likely, this prickly grass, slick with my own bodily fluids, will be my death bed.

Like I said, wrong place, wrong time.

But then the right person passes by. I hear him before I can see him, singing a u2 song to himself. When he comes into my field of vision, he is singing loudly, earbuds dangling stylishly, carrying an End This War placard and sporting a LGBT pride flag. He is definitely the right person. I, myself, am an organizer to the very demonstration he is headed for and a card-carrying member of the Gay-Straight Alliance. If anyone will have sympathy for a victim of violence it will be a fellow pacifist.

He is the right person, but he fails to even see me, and he certainly can’t hear my cries for help.

Despair began to creep in, until I overhear a voice I recognize from interfaith gatherings. It is the local Episcopal priest, who, horrified, comes to my side. At last, the right person. I mumble for help, and he lifts a cup of cold water to my lips. With great regret, though, he explains that he must leave immediately for he is late for a flight to a massive disaster area in an impoverished country. He is to aid in the relief efforts, and a local newspaper reporter is meeting him at the airport. But he will make sure to call for help as soon as he makes it through security. Hold tight, he says, and then offers a quick prayer for safety, traveling mercies and the disaster victims. I assume he includes me among the victims.

He is the right person, but has a greater, more visible good to do.

I have never been a fatalist, but there’s nothing like an unexpected fate to change one’s outlook on life. And death. I’d like to report that at the edge between this life and the next reveals some fantastic truths and deeper meanings about life. But all I can think about is how I forgot to mow the lawn. And that the dishes are dirty.

My end-of-life reverie is interrupted by a song from my childhood with some atrocious theology. So it is my grandfather who will meet me at the gates, singing about being washed in the blood of the lamb, an ironic welcome give that my garments do indeed seem washed in blood.

But I do not die. Instead, two very real hands are gently probing my body. He thinks he can move me. He is wearing a TEA Party shirt and a Glenn Beck button. He asks if it was the blacks; he hears they are all in gangs, those that aren’t just mooching off the government. Then wonders whether it might have been the Hispanics. They are just as bad he says. I can’t speak, but my brain screams, “Wrong person!”

He takes me back to his home, where Fox News is constantly blaring, except when he switches to the 700 Club. He cooks and feeds me, while regaling me about divine judgement through natural disasters for national sins from socialism to homosexuality to women’s lib. He explains everyone’s agenda. And how I would never have been beaten up like this had these un-American and un-Christian agendas never infiltrated our God-inspired culture. I must listen to this for two days, fuming in silence because speech causes so much pain.

My first words are the only two words I can think to say, after two days of listening to his sacralized hate speech.

“Fuck you,” I manage to say.

Wrong place, wrong time, wrong person.

The language shocks him, and I’m glad for it. But after a moment’s pause, he holds up some homemade soup to my lips. I open them and sip. He doesn’t talk much, but continues to care for me. I think he senses how agitated I am.

When I am well-enough to move, he offers to take me to the doctor and drive me home. He says he thinks I’ll heal better some place else. I don’t have health insurance. He drives me to the doctor. When I am finished, the receptionist explains that I will need to be seen again soon. When I begin to protest, she explains that my brother has offered to pay all the bills. He’s not my brother, I retort.

I catch a bus to my house, eager to avoid the charitable bigot. When I open the door, I walk into the kitchen. A note on the counter has his number and the hope that I will come to Jesus one day.

The dishes are clean. I look out the window. The grass has been mown.

*******

At one point or another in my life, I have looked like each character in this story (see the god samaritan and the imperialistic samaritan). And I have hated each character in this story. Most recently, I have hated the political and religious conservative of my youth, recoiling at memories of my former self. My angry and strident debates I have with conservatives stem from this self-loathing, this abjection, of myself as much as my desire to advocate for a more equal, more just, more loving and accepting Christian faith.

It is my suggestion that I can never discover what Big Tent Christianity is until I come to terms with that part of me I most loathe. It isn't until I can see the value in who I was, until I can see the Samaritan in that person, until that person can be the hero, the teacher that I can understand the demands of Big Tent Christianity.

But the truth of the matter is that I have learned more about unconditional. self-sacrificial giving from the ultra-conservatives with whom I passionately disagree but who mow my grass and wash my dishes than I have from the progressives and liberals with whom I agree on everything. I will still disagree and stand up for gay marriage, social justice and peace, but I will also not be afraid to listen, learn and be inspired by my conservative brothers and sisters.

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This is part of the Big Tent Synchroblog:

David Adams, “Big Tent Christianity”

Shawn Andrews, “Fruitful”

Greg Bolt, “Big Tent Christianity – Part 1″

Joe Carson, “Big Tent Christianity and ‘ground level truth’”

Julie Clawson, “Big Tent Christianity – A Place Without Fear”

Philip Clayton, “Is Big Tent Wimpy or Radical?”

Roy Donkin, “Big Tent Christianity”

Mark Eikost, “Peace”

Kathy Escobar, “recovery under the big tent”

Rachel Held Evans, “Small Town, Big Tent”

Scott Frederickson, “‘Big Tent Christianity’ and Prairie Table”

Chad Holtz, “Big Tents, small gods and Knotted Brides”

John R. King, Jr., “Our Common Faith!”

Amanda MacInnis, “Big Tent Christianity”

James F. McGrath, “Thank God My Opponents Are Pharisees!”

Tim Meier, “Assumptions”

Bert Montgomery, “Going Inside the Big Tent with Charlie Manson”

Josh Mueller, “Dreams of a Big Tent Christianity”

Joe Paparone, “Big Tent Christianity – Synchroblog”

Lesley Paparone, “Being The Church”

Dyfed Wyn Roberts, “Big Tent Christianity in Wales”

Daniel Rose, “Big Tent Christianity 1″

Daniel Rose, “Big Tent or Single Issue?”

Ellen Ross, “Big Tent Christianity, Part One: What Faith Is Not”

Arthur Stewart, “A Tale of Two Tents”

Nathan Wheeler, “Wishful Thinking”

my daughter is a prophetess

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 02:54:00 +0000

This is the final post in the Daddy Issues. I can't thank all the contributors enough for helping out as I've been recuperating from hand surgery. They have offered this blog's readers with better quality posts than they are used to.

By Arni Zachariassen

I’m a slow learner apparently. When my daughter, Lý Kastalag Zachariassen, was born in October 2008 I dried my eyes with one hand while cutting the umbilical chord with the other. So I cried. But I remember speaking to other dads at the time and feeling a bit jealous when they described how their lives had been instantly redefined, indeed revolutionised, as soon as they saw their new-born babies. I certainly loved my daughter as soon as I even heard about her (from my wife, quite distraught about this unplanned ruffle in our plans), but it only dawned on me gradually and much later how my life had after all been redefined and revolutionised. What I’ve find is, yes, my life has gained a new purpose and motivation that’s deeper than any I’ve known before (sorry, Jesus!). But at the same time, I think I’ve gained a clarity about what life is and always has been after becoming a father. I’d like to make share some thoughts about this, if I may.

Hauerwas wrote somewhere that disabled people have a prophetic role in the church. By simply being disabled, they expose structures of value, undetected and unquestioned by us more able bodied, and force us to face the things we try so hard to forget. By being so dependent on others for help, they reveal the uncomfortable fact of how dependent and helpless we all are. They need us like we all need us. That’s why our culture of independence, autonomy and individualisation hates disabled people and wants to forget all about them. And that’s why the church should reserve for them a special place.
Babies, at least for a time, do exactly the same thing. When I was little I used to be jealous on behalf of the human race of the animals that could walk only seconds after birth. But I’m not jealous anymore. The utter helplessness of babies forces us parents and maybe especially us dads to surrender our ideas of independence and autonomy. I mean this both practically and more existentially: We have to give up a lot of things, both financial and recreational, in order to fulfil our parental duties, and if we’re reflective enough, we realise the prophetic role of our children in our lives.

My daughter is a prophetess in that sense. When I feed her or dress her I realise how dependent I am on the earth, on animals, on technology, farmers, factory workers and supermarket till workers, not to mention my employer (and, this being socialist Europe, the state) for my daily bread. When I hold her I realise that she’s holding me just as much. During those moments when I first check up her in her bed at night, when I can’t quite see if she’s breathing or not, she reminds me of the fragility of life. Her dependence upon me reminds me of my (sometime frightening and always humbling) dependence upon, ultimately, God.

Eventually, Lý will grow up and gradually grow less dependent on me and her mom. But I will never forget the lesson her prophetic presence in my life has taught me. My life is not about me and not because of me. Sometimes, it’s in spite of me. We are all helplessly dependent upon each other, inextricably bound together in this interconnected web of life. And, when all is said and done, we are, all of us, completely dependent upon God.

Arni is the self-described Jesus' little brain cell. His post also officially makes unorthodoxology a multi-national blog!

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Daddy Issues I: Tony Hunt of Theophiliacs reflects on the similarities between being a monk and a house-husband.

Daddy Issues II: Brad Landry discusses what happens when an egalitarian marriage suddenly appears very traditional.

Daddy Issues III: Chad Holtz confesses to be a crappy dad and invites you to do the same.

Daddy Issues IV: Irritable Reaching investigates spiders at night and the existence of Big Other

spiders at night and the big other

noreply@blogger.com (David Henson) — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 19:12:00 +0000

By Irritable Reaching

I lied to my youngest son the other night. He was trying to go to sleep but had seen a spider -- we live in an old farmhouse and basically cohabitate with spiders -- and he wanted me to get rid of it. So I looked around his room for the spider in question and didn't see it. Having no luck, and knowing that my attempts to convince him that he was not in any imminent mortal danger would fall on deaf ears, I did what any dad would do: I bluffed. But I took it an extra step and nabbed a spider from elsewhere in the house so that I might present evidence to the little guy. Some nights are like that.

What's funny, at least to me, is that about 5 minutes later he came back down to tell me that I'd gotten the wrong spider and the real one was currently on his wall. There was no sense of scolding in this; he wasn't on to me so much as he just thought I'd gotten the wrong one. This time I saw the culprit and scooped it up along with one of its arachnid compatriots -- a bonus. The next morning I woke with what I'm pretty sure is a spider bite on my foot. Karma's a bitch.

What I find interesting about all of this is that, lie or no lie, I'm pretty sure that the spider population in our house is such that my removal of any or all of the three I dispatched made little statistical difference in my son's experience of spiders. Some of them do bite, which is unpleasant but otherwise harmless, and he was just as likely to get bitten before and after either the claim of spider removal or its actual performance.

The real deception, then, was allowing him to believe that his situation vis-a-vis spiders was somehow improved -- a deception on which the entire exchange was predicated and that did not change when I dispatched the "real" spider. My assigned role was not really that of spider-killer but reality-buffer. I was allowed (called, really) to step in and protect my son from the crushing reality that our house is, most likely, crawling with spiders. As an adult, I recognize this but don't think about it overmuch, not to mention I happen to find the spiders a welcome alternative to whatever insect population the spiders are keeping at bay. As an 8-year-old, he just needed know that the damn thing was gone so he could sleep.

As parents, we act as buffers all the time. "Life is not fair; get used to it" is a frequent refrain at our house, but even so we're not prepared to catalog all of the precise ways in which life fails to be fair. We absorb what we think they're not ready for and dole it out in manageable chunks. This only goes so far: I am leery of the insipid Veggie Tales ethics in which doing the right thing always works and always feels good. We couldn't quite bring ourselves to convince our children that a real man in a real sleigh was really delivering presents on Christmas Eve (which does not stop us from enjoying this cultural mythology in other ways, or from furtively putting presents out that night ourselves).

But buffers we are. If you're a parent, there's a line somewhere that marks the boundary of your willingness to essentially lie to your children, to offer them a picture that is rosier on some level than you perceive it to be. You do this because you love them and don't think they're ready for what you know, or what you've seen. Your line may be different than mine but I'd bet real money it exists.

I'm not sure there's a difference in this between fathers and mothers in a generalizable way. In most cases one parent or the other is probably more likely to buffer, and whether it's Mom or Dad may well vary among families.

I can only speak for fathers, myself. And it seems to me fatherhood really is an ascesis, a discipline, a path. Something that, if done well (which is not to imply that any of us can do it right), can take us out of ourselves, or transform us. Something that, in its own way, involves conversatio, or perpetual conversion, and promises a kind of redemption.

I'm not a source of reliable advice on either spirituality or fatherhood. My suspicion is that doing it well means letting it open you, learning from your children as they teach you, embracing them as the Other and allowing yourself to be undone. The converse is to forget that you are there for them and not the other way around, to make them simply an extension of your ego, to ascribe to them all your misguided wish-fulfillment. We see it all the time.

There's also a Lacanian element here. For Lacan (as least as I understand Lacan through Žižek and Caputo), we're tempted by the Big Other. The Big Other, like Derrida's transcendental signifier, is a kind of epistemological gold standard that backs all our other attempts at meaning-making. For a lot of people, the Big Other is God, but it can also be nation, or party, or ideology. Atheism can be a Big Other. Sometimes it's an amalgam of things -- God gets fetishized as country which gets fetishized as the flag which gets turned into somebody getting punched in the mouth for not taking their hat off during the "Star-Spangled Banner." That sort of thing.

It's something that we allow to become the sine qua non of our identity -- something that without which we do not know who we are. People fight bitterly to protect their Big Others. They experience cognitive dissonance when faced with new data or new experiences that challenge their particular Big Other. And as Žižek explains it, the psychotheraphy is only over when you realize there is no Big Other. There is no foundation. There is nothing that guarantees your meaning-making, nothing that's going to come over the hill and rescue you, as Caputo likes to say.

As parents -- and maybe, in our patriarchal culture, particularly as fathers, though I don't want to make too much of that -- we are the Big Other for a period of time in our children's lives. We help the world make sense to them just by being there. We come over the hill and save them. I think this is why children of divorce (and I'm one of them) experience their parents' breakup not just as tragedy but as trauma. There's a whole world, a whole system of meaning that gets lost.

Eventually, if we're transparent and honest, we stop being the Big Other for them, simply because it's a role we're not big enough to play. They see our frailties and our failures, and we ease them onto whatever our Big Other is. We raise them to believe in our gods, to march against the forces of darkness that populate our own mythological landscape. They eventually create their own, but they do so in response to ours.

But I think there's a third step, if we're prepared for it: we should also be the ones to help them come to terms with the unreality of the Big Other itself -- assuming, of course, that we have. Hopefully they'll be comfortable enough, and feel loved enough, that they'll come to us someday in the throes of what is almost always some kind of crisis of faith and confess their sense of loss, their grief, their confusion to us, and we can look them straight in the eye and say:

"Yes, I know."

Irritable Reaching blogs on condition of anonymity, and not even Jack Bauer could torture his secret identity out of me. Most people aren't as smart as him, either. And are worser writers than he is.

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Daddy Issues I: Tony Hunt of Theophiliacs reflects on the similarities between being a monk and a house-husband.

Daddy Issues II: Brad Landry discusses what happens when an egalitarian marriage suddenly appears very traditional.

Daddy Issues III: Chad Holtz confesses to be a crappy dad and invites you to do the same.