Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Old English Sounds Good Read, But It's Even Better Sung: Caedmon's Hymn

While studying Old English under the tutelage of Robert Stanton at Boston College (yes, there are people that do that, and no, Chaucer isn't old enough!), I discovered some great texts just begging to be sung.  One of these, "Caedmon's Hymn," is a 7th-century hymn praising the Creator.

According to the Venerable Bede, Caedmon was a 7th-century monk who learned to compose liturgical poems in a dream.  "Caedmon's Hymn" is his only surviving manuscript.  While I can't claim the same mode of inspiration as Caedmon, I can say that Caedmon's text inspired me enough to set it to music.  And so I did.

Thanks and praise to Prof. Stanton, too.  
You're one of the most wonderful teachers I've ever had.

Please comment and share if you like what you hear, and check out my other posts!

"Caedmon's Hymn" (Lyrics below)
MaryAnne Mathews and Maria Morris, Soprano
Mary Lynn Isaacs and Betsy Henessey, Alto
Paul Schutz and Jamie Morris, Tenor
Mark Valenzuela, Stephen McCallister, and Joe Birkhead, Bass


The West Saxon version reads:

Nu sculon herigean       heofonrices weard,
meotodes meahte          and his modgeþanc,
weorc wuldorfæder,      swa he wundra gehwæs,
ece drihten,                   or onstealde.
He ærest sceop            eorðan bearnum
heofon to hrofe,            halig scyppend;
þa middangeard            moncynnes weard,
ece drihten,                   æfter teode
firum foldan,                 frea ælmihtig.

(That doesn't look like English at all, does it?)

Here it is in modern English:


Now let us praise the guardian of heaven
the might of the Creator, and his thought,
the work of the Father of glory, how the Eternal Lord
established each of the wonders in the beginning.

He first created for the sons of men
Heaven as a roof, the holy Creator,
then Middle-earth the keeper of mankind,
the Eternal Lord afterwards made,
the lands for men, the Almighty Lord.

Monday, April 28, 2014

Ave Maria for Winds and Chorus

Happy Monday, everyone!

Somewhere in my parents' house in Indiana, there's a video of this performance.  Unfortunately (or fortunately, given that I was in my freshman-50 days), I don't have it to upload here.

But I do have the audio, and so I invite you to use your imagination as you listen to this, my setting of "Ave Maria."  After composing and test-recording the original version (for organ, piano, and chorus) with musicians from Evansville, IN, I offered the piece up at the desk of Sebastian "Seb" Bonaiuto, Director of Bands at Boston College, in January 2002.  Although I'd been a member of the Concert Band - which Seb conducts - for my first two years at BC, I only really knew him at a distance, as a member of the group.


Seb took to the piece, and he encouraged me to expand it to include a full wind ensemble and chorus.  He said that if I did, we could possibly perform it at BC.  Needless to say, I was elated, and over the next few months, I met with various members of the BC music department and with Mike Burgo, my vocal coach and liturgical music mentor, to discuss the piece.  But it turned out that along with Mike, who helped me assemble what came to be known as "Schutz Choir," the best advice I got came from Seb himself (this seemed to be the case with me and the BC music department; we just never could get along!).  So, in the fall of 2002, I asked Seb if he'd work one-on-one with me in theory, composition, and conducting.  He agreed, and one of the most fruitful academic and personal relationships I've ever had began to form.

I clearly remember the night of the first rehearsal of "Ave Maria," when I told the ensemble that we'd "Sightread the piece and see what happens."  After the rehearsal, Seb took me aside and told me, very sternly, to never, never to say something like that again.  "If you're going to put an original work in front of a group," he told me, "the least you can do is be confident in it.  Saying you'll 'see what happens' isn't going to make anybody excited to play your music."

Truer words were never spoken, and it's wisdom like that that has led me through the musical work I've done in the past years and that will guide me in the years to come.

So, thanks Seb, and thanks, Mike.  I couldn't have asked for a better pair of musical mentors.

Friday, April 25, 2014

Another Batch of Wedding Music from Scratch

Here's part two of the wedding music posts.  These two pieces were actually the first I wrote, for my cousin and her husband, Yvette and Paul Andrejczak.  Yvette and Paul wanted a Medieval-sounding entrance and a recessional inspired by a combination of Yvette's Lebanese ancestry and Paul's Polish ancestry.  What emerged was a dance written in a Lebanese style, but undergirded by the oom-pah two-step of the Polka.  I hope you enjoy!

Please check out my other music on my YouTube Channel.

Performed by:
Rachel Long Arrington, Flute
Sarah Bielish Moor, Cello
Paul Schutz, Piano

Six Festive Hymns:  II.  Courtly Dance



Six Festive Hymns:  IV.  Raqs Arabi

Thursday, April 24, 2014

Wedding Music From Scratch

Over the years, I've had the great opportunity to compose original processionals and recessionals for the weddings of relatives and friends, which have been very fun to write and have meant one less weekend spent with Canon in D and Trumpet Voluntary (which are great - don't get me wrong - but you can get tired of playing them!).

After I'd written six such pieces, I combined them into one work, "Six Festive Hymns."  Below are movements I and VI, written for the wedding of Michael and Beth Mohr.

You can find the rest of the pieces on my YouTube channel.  Please share!


Big props go to my fellow performers, as well:
Rachel Long Arrington, Flute
Jonathan Dowell, Violin

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

"The Lord's Prayer"

One of my favorite original works from my time at St. Mary Catholic Church is my setting of "The Lord's Prayer."  Check it out here, performed by the St. Mary Octet, with Maria Morris soloing.

This setting is meant to evoke both the quiet spirit of prayer and the majesty of the prayer's words.  I hope it can lead you more deeply into reflection on these familiar words.

Check out my other posts and visit my YouTube channel for other pieces.

 

"Deposuit Potentes," from Bach's Magnificat

Last spring, I had the opportunity to perform this great piece with the Fordham University Choir and Bronx Arts Ensemble here at Fordham.  Enjoy!

 

Fordham University Choir, Robert Minotti, Conductor
From Magnificat, by J.S. Bach

Easter Sunday and Easter Monday

Easter Sunday is a day of confusion. As the certainty of death's power over life is shaken, we are shaken. We stand awestruck, speechless, and perplexed as we search for the living one among the dead. But we find no one there. There is no stability in the empty tomb; there is only confusion - the confusion of a deep hope that what we think has happened might actually be.


On Easter Monday, the dust settles. We awake from our confusion renewed, hearts stilled, to a world suffused as with the wondrous quiet of burning incense, of something we cannot speak but surely know. The birds sing as they always have, the sun still shines and - in other parts of the world or in our own - rain and snow still fall, but the world has changed. What once was certain is not so certain anymore. And in that quiet, an ungraspable peace: of life renewed, of another chance, of a new heaven and new earth before our very eyes.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Jesus and the Universe: Holy Saturday, 2014

We're in the tomb.

"What nice weather we're having!" said no one in New York this year.

It's been a long winter. It's April 19th, Easter Eve, and buds still lie hidden beneath the earth or on the end of stems longing for a few warm days, afraid of yet another polar vortex or arctic shockwave or the detonation of a subzero freeze bomb. Or something. In any case, these plants and flowers and tree buds sure are struggling, straining to show their faces - to open their eyes on the branches where they hang.

And come to think of it, a late bloom, a bloom that comes right after Easter, isn't so bad, at least as metaphors go. It's not comfortable, of course (I've been waiting for spring since Punxsutawney Phil ruined things for us all a couple of months ago), but as a metaphor for Easter, it works.

It works because death is a part of life, like my good friend and mentor Stephen said at so many funerals during his time at St. Mary Catholic Church. But beyond human death, evolutionary biology shows us that the growth of new species is based on the death of prior ones. Without extinction, there is no new life. Without death, emergence is impossible. While things are dormant like the body of Christ in the tomb, we are reminded of the possibility of new life. In light of the resurrection, we are reminded that life grows out of death like flowers from the ground. And new life is open to new possibilities. The tomb will again be empty. Flowers will again bloom.

It works because of blood and iron, although not in the way that might come to mind at the crux of the cross and resurrection. Why is blood red? Because it's packed with iron. Why is it packed with iron? Because it nourishes us, as it has nourished living and non-living things from the beginning of time. Where does the iron come from? The very first seconds after the Big Bang. Our blood and bones and bodies are made of the same particles of matter that have existed since matter came to be. We are connected with the stars, the planets, the plants and trees. And we share in the life of the universe, as participants in the life of God - the power of the Holy Spirit - that enlivens and sustains all things.

It works because Christ, as a human born of a human, is made of that same stuff. Christ could, as some theologians have said, be a "new emergent," the first sign of humanity's next radical evolutionary leap. To me, that's stretching the data a little to far. But in any case, the death of Christ accords with the death of species, and the resurrection of Christ, with its sanctifying power of grace, shows us that life will indeed triumph over death. What's more, the whole universe - not just humanity but ALL THINGS - are taken up into the life of grace in the death and resurrection of Christ (look up 1 Cor. 15:20-28). Salvation extends to the corners of the earth, to the full diversity of life, known and unknown. "The earth" - and indeed the whole cosmos - "is charged with the grandeur of God," as Gerard Manley Hopkins so beautifully wrote (full poem below, in the comments).

But when we impose ourselves on creation in a way that ends life before it has the chance to run its natural course - through abortion, yes, but also capital punishment, deforestation, denial of healthcare and welfare benefits, the destruction of our earth, and so on - we make ourselves gods, forgetting the "little less than" of the Genesis narrative. We make "dominion" into "domination" and forget that we are indeed created parts of this beautiful, fascinating universe from which we have emerged. The love to which we are called extends to all things, and Holy Saturday calls us to hope for that love in all things, to recall God's presence with us in all things, and to make God present in all things as we await the fulfillment of the life that awaits us outside the tomb.

So yes, we're in the tomb.  But in one more day, new life will bloom.

Here's the poem, which gets to the heart of so many of the themes I've been rambling about yesterday (see my Good Friday post) and today:

"God's Grandeur"

THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Also this, John Paul II on Evolution in 1996, to the Pontifical Academy of the Sciences.


Why Did Jesus Die? Good Friday, 2014

Why did Jesus die?

Good Friday asks this question of us.  The table isn't set.  It looks like nobody's home.  Like walking into no place and waiting for no one.  

Good Friday asks us to reflect upon the life of Jesus called Christ, the man from Nazareth whose life and works led him to death, who loved his own in the world and "loved them to the end."

I say "life" and not death, because we need to start from history.  

If we read the Gospels from the beginning to end, setting aside for a moment the idea that the cross was part of a "divine plan," it's pretty clear that Jesus' crucifixion was the result of his society's inability to deal with his life - the way he lived, the things he taught and did.  For much of the Jewish ecclesiastical hierarchy (the Scribes, Pharisees, Sadducees, etc.), Jesus' teachings and practices - like healing on the Sabbath - challenged comfortably enshrined, age-old, hierarchical and authoritarian interpretations of Mosaic law.  To the Jewish nobility (i.e. Herod), Jesus charisma and charismatic authority pointed to the hidden instability of arbitrarily-instituted power.  People liked him and wanted to hear what he had to say, and that was more than could be said about them!  To the Roman Empire, Jesus appeared as a force that unsettled the status quo that soldiers and governors worked so hard to maintain for the one they called "divi filius," the Son of God:  Caesar Augustus.  Read that way, it's no wonder Jesus died as he did.  In the words of Destiny's Child, the people of his time "weren't ready for that jelly," so they did what they had to in order to preserve the order that was so comfortable, so easy.

Plus, Jesus just wouldn't shut up.  He spoke the truth that he embodied, and he did so "to the end," not only to the end of his life in a chronological sense, but to the end, or to the nth degree, to the greatest extent possible.  So, it's easy to understand without needing a divine plan why this man from Nazareth would be condemned and executed as a criminal, a revolutionary against the state.  

What does asserting a divine plan do to the story, anyway?  Would a loving Father, such as the one given to us in Luke's story of the forgiving father and prodigal son, subject his son to death?  Would a woman who spend all day searching for one lost coin throw that coin away?  Must we say that God willed Jesus' death, or would the God who loves the world so much be equally horrified by the injustice of the execution of an innocent man?  

Most importantly, does an all-powerful, all-loving God need to "plan" things in this way (in OUR way)?  Is the system of exchange through which we understand the world somehow "in God," or is our understanding - our interpretation - of the concrete historical events the source of the plan?  

If God's eternal will to "give life to all things and make them holy," to sanctify and forgive and unite infinitely, and if Christ's life, death, and resurrection radically reveal not just some vague God but THAT God to us, then it seems right for us to understand Christ's death as part of God's plan for salvation.  But it's also right to remember that God's ways are not our ways, and that God's wisdom is not our wisdom.  Just because we see Christ's death as part of God's plan doesn't mean that God "planned it" in the way we understand it to be.  Sometimes it's worthwhile not to have the answers, to say with the Psalmist, "Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, far too lofty for me to reach" (Ps. 139:6), and to sit and reflect on the wonder of God's saving action - but at a proper distance and in awe of God's might works.

Yes, "the Bible says," especially in Paul, that Jesus died for the fulfillment of God's plan, but the point I'm making here is that all scriptural language is later interpretation of events.  Nobody was there taking notes.  This doesn't mean it's NOT true that God had a plan; it simply means that we're interpreting God's plan from our side.  So, to impose our understanding on God, as if we know the unknowable beyond God's self-revelation to us, is speculation.  It's deciding that we humans have the resources to know the mind of God.  I'm pretty sure that's what Jesus was on the Pharisees for.  

Again, this doesn't mean that it's not true.  It means that it's interpretation and that aside from knowing that God desires for us to be saved and to live IN A PARTICULAR WAY as demonstrated by the Spirit and Christ, we really can't know just why God made it happen.  For us, the best we can do is say that Jesus died because he was a criminal.  

This doesn't mean that later interpretations about Jesus being the Son of God or part of a plan or divine from the start aren't right or are unimportant.  These are vital, indispensable, and unmistakably true parts of our tradition, and they have and continue to serve the church.  Maybe I'll have a chance to talk about that later.  For now, I want to encourage us to remember that these aspects of the story are imaginative interpretive moves, not details that were evident from the start.

Further, it means that It does mean, though, that to take Good Friday seriously is to remember the radically contrary, the revolutionary, the destabilizing in the mystery of Jesus the Christ, the definitive revealer of the love of God.  It also means that we must have the humility to approach God with wonder and to recognize that to stand before God is to be confronted with ultimate mystery.  

And so what?  Who cares how we approach the question of Christ, anyway?  

To put the historical Christ first is to recall that as participants in the life of Christ and - as saved people - participants in the life of God, we are also participants in God's action with and in the world.  Being saved by Jesus isn't the end of the story.  It's the beginning.  We must work with God and with all creatures of our God to make God's kingdom radically present HERE in the world - even and especially when it means transgressing boundaries of thought and practice and confronting unjust power structures, no matter how self-evident or solid they seem.  

Salvation is present tense, and past tense, and future tense.  God's presence is with us yesterday, today, and forever in the memory of Christ and the power of the Holy Spirit.  Heaven isn't just some otherworldly realm.  It's an action, something to be made present here and now.  Because yes, salvation HAS come in the cross and resurrection.  But that doesn't mean the story is over.

After all, we're still here.

And God is indeed with us, even as we bear our crosses in this messy, messy world.

My YouTube Channel

Many of you know I'm a musician and composer.  Tonight, I uploaded a bunch of videos (or audios) of my work.  Please check out my pieces here!

Please like, comment, and share!

Thanks!

Mixed Metaphors: A Katy Perr-ody of "Dark Horse"

A ridiculous song deserves a ridiculous parody, so I present

"Mixed Metaphors,"

a parody of Katy Perry's "Dark Horse"

Please like, comment, and share!

Anna and Dan: A Wedding Video

A wedding video I shot and edited for Anna and Dan - Congrats, guys!

Please like, comment, and share!

Honesty: A Poem

"Honesty"

A smiling face
Unblinking eye
The colors of sunrise
Warming, infusing
The letters of a moment
Until, red-hot,
They boil over

Spill into the ineffable space
Between two persons
Who have nothing to hide
Nothing to hide
Because all that can be known
Is known
And all that can’t be known
Is embraced for what it is:
The heart of faith
Of spirit of trust
A wordless recognition
That all is well,
All is well:
That truth has indeed brought freedom
From fear
And opened a space
So great and wide
That this sunrise love
Can light the dark places
And show forth the truth
That makes shadows fade
Until there is only light,
Only light.

The Saga of Doctor Inanos

Chapter 1:  

A man walks into his psychologist's office. No, maybe it was his psychiatrist. I can't remember. Anyway, he walks into an office for a regular therapy session.

"Good morning, Sarah," the doctor says. "Today we're going to try a new diagnostic. It's called a Rorschach blot test. It's simple. I'm going to show you a picture, and you tell me what you see. Ready?"

"Yes," she answered. He held up the first image.

"What do you see?"

"Nothing," replied Sarah.

"And now?"

"Nothing." The doctor jotted down some notes.

He continued, "Now?"

"Still nothing."

Perplexed, the doctor said, "Sarah, you seem to be very depressed. Obsessed with nothingness."

She answered, "You would be, too, if you were blind. And by the way, I'm a woman." She left, never to return again.

Chapter 2:

Light filters through drawn blinds, casting yellow stripes on the heavy cherry desk of psychiatrist - or psychologist - Doctor Inanos (he's Greek). Across the desk sits his patient, Sarah.

"Good morning, Sarah," the doctor says. "Today we're going to try a new diagnostic. It's called a Rorschach blot test. It's simple. I'm going to show you a picture, and you tell me what you see. Ready?"

"Yes," she answers. He held up the first image.

"What do you see?"

"Nothing," replies Sarah.

"And now?"

"Nothing." Deja vu strikes. The doctor jots down some notes.

He continues, "Now?"

"Still nothing."

Annoyed, the doctor says, "Sarah, are you blind?"

"What? No!" she answers, a bit exasperated.

"Then tell me why you keep saying you see nothing. Are you depressed?"

"I can't see. I've got my eyes closed," she says, smiling. She might've stuck out her tongue, too. I can't recall.

Chapter 3:

Yesterday afternoon, Dr. Inanos met his patient, Sarah. It was raining outside.

"Good morning, Sarah," he said. "Today we're going to try a new diagnostic. It's called a Rorschach blot test. It's simple. I'm going to show you a picture, and you tell me what you see. Ready?"

"Yes," she answered. He held up the first image.

"What do you see?"

"Clouds," replied Sarah.

"And now?"

"Clouds." Dr. Inanos was livid.

He shouted, "NOW?"

"Still nothing."

Furious, the doctor said, "My God, Sarah, what is wrong with you?"

"Nothing!" she shouted back. "Or if there is, you should tell me! You're the doctor!"

"Then tell me why you keep saying you see clouds."

"It's blurry. I'm squinting," she said. The rain continued.

Chapter 4:

Dr. Inanos (the Greek) tore his hair.

"Why are all my patients named Sarah?!" He couldn't take it. So he jumped. Maybe out the window. Maybe in place.

I can't remember.

Chapter 5:  


You thought it was over? It's not over. That's the thing, isn't it? It's never over.

At least not for Dr. Inanos (who, if you haven't yet heard, is Greek).

The jump wasn't the end. In fact, it wasn't even AN end. It just was. And once again, here he is, facing his patient, Sarah.

Struggling to stay calm, he closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. "Good morning, Sarah. We're going to try something new today: a Rorschach blot test. I'll show you an image, and you tell me what you see. Okay? Ready?"

"Yes, doctor," Sarah replies sweetly.

"Alright, tell me what you see."

She begins, "A street, populated with two children, their pet zebra, and hundreds - no, thousands - of ants."

Dr. Inanos is stunned. Eyes still closed, he smiles. "That's good, Sarah. And now?" He hears a small rustling sound.

"Nothing."

"WHAT?! Nothing?!" His eyes shoot open.

Sarah sits across from him, a bag covering her head.

"Nothing," she says.

Dr. Inanos leaps from chair. Raging, he rips the bag off Sarah's head.

Her eyes are closed.

"Still nothing," she says, a wry smile touching the corners of her mouth.

Dr. Inanos falls to the floor. He might be dead. I don't remember. But he never practiced anything again. Except piano.

But he never was very good.

Corporate Cowardice, 'Christian' Calumny: An Open Letter to A&E on Phil Robertson

Dear A&E,

For several weeks now, the Internet has been abuzz with debate about Duck Dynasty star Phil Robertson's comments on homosexuality.  News outlets and public figures of all stripes have spoken out for and against Robertson.  The online version of the GQ interview boasts a whopping 5,567 comments (and counting)! In case you haven't read it, please read it here:   http://www.gq.com/entertainment/television/201401/duck-dynasty-phil-robertson - before moving forward.  Wielding the First Amendment and the Bible, conservative commentators have waved Phil Robertson like a flag in support of their beliefs, while liberals have proclaimed him the most heinous of villains, the face of political incorrectness and bigotry in the new year.

But is all this really about the Bible or the Constitution?  Or is this situation just another example of people seizing upon a moment to 'prove' something or make judgments on the basis of evidence that, when twisted in a particular way, seems - like Baby Bear's porridge - "just right."  

At the risk of overextending the metaphor, I'll take a moment to remind you that in the "Goldilocks" tale, one reason the Bears know someone's come calling is that Baby Bear's chair cracks under the weight of Goldilocks' behind; she leaves behind not only an empty bowl, but also a pile of spindles and legs.  And come to think of it, this metaphor doesn't seem all that overextended.  Because when we look closely at Robertson's comments and A&E's response in both a scriptural and constitutional light, we find just what the bears found:  a pile of useless junk that points to deeper problems, to cowardice, calumny, and the theft of what is sacred in the Constitution and the Christian faith alike.

Now, if you've already where decided where I stand and are already ready to dismiss everything I say, I ask you to step back, take a breath, and read carefully.  I'm not just going spout off about what I think ancient books and documents say, and I'm not going to paraphrase Robertson.  I'm going to look at what was really said.  And while I acknowledge up front that my readings are particular interpretations (as are his readings of scripture, for example), we can at least agree to start from what was really said.

From the interview:  

"...in Robertson’s worldview, America was a country founded upon Christian values (Thou shalt not kill, etc.), and he believes that the gradual removal of Christian symbolism from public spaces has diluted those founding principles..."

It's so commonly argued that the United States was founded upon Christian values that for many people, it's a foregone conclusion.  But many of the Founding Fathers - including Thomas Jefferson - were Christian Deists.  Yes, they embraced Christian values, but Jefferson himself opposed the traditional Christianity of his day, largely because he had trouble with the historical accuracy of the Bible.

Jefferson wrote, "To the corruptions of Christianity I am, indeed, opposed; but not to the genuine precepts of Jesus himself. I am a Christian, in the only sense in which he wished any one to be; sincerely attached to his doctrines, in preference to all others; ascribing to himself every human excellence..."  This last bit is important.  For Jefferson, Jesus is a model of perfect human behavior; Jesus is a model of human excellence, but he's not exactly a religious figure, at least not in the sense used in mainstream Christianity.  

Some might say that point is debatable, but Jefferson also wrote this:  "...it is not to be understood that I am with him [Jesus] in all his doctrines. I am a Materialist; he takes the side of Spiritualism; he preaches the efficacy of repentance toward forgiveness of sin; I require a counterpoise of good works to redeem it. Among the sayings and discourses imputed to him by his biographers, I find many passages of fine imagination, correct morality, and of the most lovely benevolence; and others, again, of so much ignorance, of so much absurdity, so much untruth, charlatanism and imposture, as to pronounce it impossible that such contradictions should have proceeded from the same being."

Jefferson even wrote his own version of the Bible, which excluded all miracles and supernatural occurrences.  Jesus was, for Jefferson and for many of his fellow founders, a model human being.  Further, Jefferson rejected the idea of angels and did not believe that an immaterial Creator made the universe (he rejected what's known as Creationism, the belief that God created the universe as told in the Bible).

So while Robertson is quite right to say that the United States is founded upon valuesfound in Christianity, it's not quite right to call them Christian values, and it's certainly not right to say that the U.S. is a "Christian" nation.  The constitution is clear:  the name of the game in the U.S. is nonestablishment - that means there's no official religion, and there never will be.  So, values, sure, but any sort of official Christianity?  Not ever.

Taking this as his point of departure, Robertson continues:

'Everything is blurred on what’s right and what’s wrong,' he says. 'Sin becomes fine.'

What, in your mind, is sinful?

'Start with homosexual behavior and just morph out from there. Bestiality, sleeping around with this woman and that woman and that woman and those men,' he says. Then he paraphrases Corinthians: 'Don’t be deceived. Neither the adulterers, the idolaters, the male prostitutes, the homosexual offenders, the greedy, the drunkards, the slanderers, the swindlers—they won’t inherit the kingdom of God. Don’t deceive yourself. It’s not right.'"

So, Robertson is using the Bible to make his point about homosexuality.  Nothing new about that.  Without going too far into Corinthians, I want to flag this passage as just plain debatable.  To put it simply, what Robertson was taught - that this passage mentions "homosexuals" is in fact a bad reading of the passage.  Even Roman Catholic bishops, who we know to be less than accepting of homosexuals, agree.  Their footnote on 1 Cor. 6:9 reads, "The Greek word translated as boy prostitutes may refer to catamites, i.e., boys or young men who were kept for purposes of prostitution, a practice not uncommon in the Greco-Roman world. In Greek mythology this was the function of Ganymede, the “cupbearer of the gods,” whose Latin name was Catamitus. The term translated sodomites refers to adult males who indulged in homosexual practices with such boys."

Hey, that's pretty specific.  It's not homosexuals; it's adult males who had sex with boy prostitutes in temples.  Do people still do that?  The last time I checked, nope.

But I digress.  That's not really what this is about.

If the U.S. were indeed a Christian nation, or if A&E had somehow tried to silence Robertson, firing him would be problematic - a violation of his basic rights as a citizen.  But that's not the case.  The U.S. is not a theocracy; our nation is founded on a fundamental division between church and state.  

And this is where your cowardice becomes apparent, A&E.  Because while the Constitution guarantees Robertson the right to say what he said, it also guarantees you the right to respond freely, in your own way, and if the heads of your network choose to fire Robertson because they disagree with him, they have every right to do so.  Because what's been overlooked in so much of the back-and-forth lambasting that's gone on in the wake of the GQ interview is that A&E is a private entity with its own rights to free speech and free enterprise.  If the U.S. were indeed a Christian nation, we could fault A&E for criticizing the "official" beliefs of the nation.  But they did not do that.  Not in the slightest. 

That's what makes A&E's later retraction and reinstatement of Robertson an act of cowardice.  Whether for ratings and the bottom line or for fear of retaliation of the religious right as a result of Robertson's firing, in reinstating Robertson A&E sacrificed its own right to free speech and its own right to act according to its values.  And that's just plain cowardly.  Aren't we a nation of people with the right to stand up for what we believe in?  Does religion now dictate the way in which private corporations function?  Have we effectively forgotten the nonestablishment of religion?  

Or worse still, have we allowed ourselves to believe that the religious right somehow has a monopoly on truth - or a monopoly on what it means to be American?  Whether we are conservative or liberal, these are our rights.  And that's why in my opinion, A&E's retraction amounts to nothing more than an affront to what it means to be a citizen of the United States of America.

And what about this, the follow-up to Robertson's now infamous quotation?

"As far as Phil is concerned, he was literally born again. Old Phil—the guy with the booze and the pills—died a long time ago, and New Phil sees no need to apologize for him: “We never, ever judge someone on who’s going to heaven, hell. That’s the Almighty’s job. We just love ’em, give ’em the good news about Jesus—whether they’re homosexuals, drunks, terrorists. We let God sort ’em out later, you see what I’m saying?”

So, Robertson not only acknowledges at length his own sinfulness but clearly states that for him - as a Christian - it's not right to decide where anyone is going.  "We just love 'em," he says.  "We let God sort 'em out later."  This is a key point.  Because here, Robertson isn't, at least on the surface, preaching bigotry or exclusion.  Whether it turns out that way in practice is another question, but it's important to note here that Jesus always included the outcast.  We might even say that that's J.C.'s M.O throughout the Bible.  Lepers, prostitutes, tax collectors, sinners of all stripes.  Jesus welcomed them all.  And by the way, he never mentioned homosexuality.  Not once.

Now, all this talk of scripture points to one last point that went largely - and frighteningly - overlooked in discussions of the Robertson interview:

Phil On Growing Up in Pre-Civil-Rights-Era Louisiana

“I never, with my eyes, saw the mistreatment of any black person. Not once. Where we lived was all farmers. The blacks worked for the farmers. I hoed cotton with them. I’m with the blacks, because we’re white trash. We’re going across the field.... They’re singing and happy. I never heard one of them, one black person, say, ‘I tell you what: These doggone white people’—not a word!... Pre-entitlement, pre-welfare, you say: Were they happy? They were godly; they were happy; no one was singing the blues.”

WHAT?!  It's fairly common knowledge that there are numerous passages in the Bible that support slavery (try Eph. 6:5 and 1 Tim. 6:1-2), and Robertson's comments here don't seem to stray all that far from what these passages have to say.  In any case, it's easy to make the Bible mean what you want it to.  Just look at this.  Really.  Do you really think Jesus would support the abuse and trade of human persons?  Really?  It's selective reading, cafeteria Christianity, and it's abuse of the truth of the Christian faith.

In fact, all this twists the Christian message of inclusion and forgiveness and goodness and love and grace into a message of exclusion, a war between who's in and who's out, who's right and who's wrong, and most importantly in the United States, what to buy and who to vote for.  

When you mix religion with politics, you get politics.  Plain and simple.  

Jesus was not a republican.  In fact, I'd wager he's balk at every political platform that's floating around in the political sphere today.  But that's another fight for another day.  The point here is that what Robertson said wasn't all that bad, but it does point to the Christian twisting of scripture to fit political, social, and corporate agendas.  And that's the calumny of it all.  

All in all, this - like Goldilocks' eating of Baby Bear's porridge -  amounts to the theft of what's sacred in American politics and in the Christian faith, leaving behind nothing more than a pile of broken wood - spindles and legs that may indeed be beyond repair.  Let's recognize this pile of rubble for what it is and rebuild the chair.  Let's stop giving in.  

Let's give our children a new place to sit, a place that is, indeed, "just right."

Sincerely and respectfully,
Paul J. Schutz
Ph.D. Candidate, Systematic Theology

Fordham University

Why Do You Do What You Do?

Today in one of my classes, we did an exercise:  Our professor asked, "Why do you do what you do?"  This is my response.  What's yours?

I do what I do because I believe in love.  I believe that we possess the capacity to give radically, to act passionately, to know each other fully—in ways that demolish the walls that divide us.  When I say this, I mean it on every level.  I try—every day—and I fail—every day—to bring this love to the world.  It was probably in my time working at St. Mary that this drive took shape within me, though it was always present.  In my time in Teach For America, it was there.  And it came to be because I have such wonderful parents and have had such wonderful teachers and mentors in my life—people like John and Susan Michalczyk, Seb Bonaiuto, Michael Burgo, and Stephen Lintzenich (to name a few).  So, I owe it to them.  They loved me, and they showed me what it means to seek justice and to embrace the world and its potential with a radical openness and passion.  I didn’t ever think I’d study theology.  I wanted to be a musician and a filmmaker—to express visually and aurally this passion that I have (I do).  But something changed when I was working with the people of St. Mary.  They showed me the truth of sacramentality and drove me to seek more deeply the mystery I was encountering, a mystery that after some reflection I can say now is the God who is love—the God of Jesus Christ.

But don’t get me wrong.  I’m not out to proselytize or share “the truth” with anyone, except in so far as truth is the love that I have seen—and which motivates me to this day.  This love has, in the words of Maroon 5, taken control of me, and I have no choice but to follow it—though I admittedly fail to follow it every day.  So here I am studying theology.  Sometimes I question the decision; sometimes I wonder if it’d be better to be out in the trenches with people, and I have to admit that the jury’s still out on that decision.  But truth be told, there are still shining moments—moments with professors and friends—when I remember the love that called me to come to Fordham in the first place, and it’s in those moments that I continue to believe that theology can change the world, that we can through teaching and loving share the love of God with the world, and help the world understand the limitless power of the love that lies at the heart of all creation.  That’s what I want to do, and that’s what keeps me going on the hardest days.  With faith and hope, it’s love that dares me to move and challenges me to move others.  So, I try to live my life in a way that shows forth love, pure and simple, in the image of Christ and in the image of the God who is love.  I may not talk in those terms, but it’s there, just beneath the surface, prodding me on through this little thing called life.  “Seek justice,” it says.  “Seek peace.  Bring joy to the world.”

Why do you do what you do?

When Love Comes to Town

A little while ago, a close friend of mine told me he believes love is all-powerful.  I agree.

It may take a lot of faith and hope to support it.  The willingness to believe that love is indeed all-powerful and to hope with an audacity deep enough to take the risks associated with loving someone or something can strike fear in the strongest of hearts, but it's worth it.

I repeat:  It's worth it.

Otherwise, artists would have no reason to paint.
Singers would have no songs to sing.
Writers would have no stories to tell.

But don't think for a second that I'm going to go off romanticizing.  What I think is most easily overlooked is just how difficult love is.  I doubt most artists - much less those who seek justice and peace in the world (artists in their own right) - would tell you it's easy to do what they do.

So, although Hollywood artists may paint pictures of sunlit meadows replete with roses, sparkling streams, and bouncing bunnies - making love a sweet melody, a long walk on a moonlit beach, or a passionate night in a dim-lit Parisian hotel room (ah, l'amour!) - it's just not like that.

I repeat:  It's just not like that.

Here's why.  Love, when it's love, always involves risk.  It takes leaps and bounds of hopes and loves to span chasms of doubt and fear wider than the widest canyons.  It's not easy.  Ever.  It's hard.  Really, really hard.  Deadly hard, sometimes.  To get theological for a second, look at the cross of Jesus.  Sometimes, people just can't take goodness staring them in the face.  But that's what love is.  Goodness defying goodness, the best of the best of the best of things, and we humans have the capacity for it.  Get that!  (And do something with it.)

And if you ask me, it's in the risk, in the vulnerability, and in the uncertainty that the all-powerful nature of love becomes most clearly known.  Because here's the thing.  To believe love is all-powerful is to recognize that love involves surrender - letting go of the things that seemingly stand in its way and trusting that, because it's love, it'll overtake the challenges.  Love isn't something we can control.  It's not something we can put in its place.

Love explodes.
Love creates.
Love redefines.
Love blows up the box - or, perhaps, shows us that the box was never there to begin with.

So, to say that there are things that can stand in the way of love is a contradiction-in-terms.  If it's love, nothing can stand in its way.  As another more important Paul once put it, "Love never fails."

So, to wrap up this already-overlong post, I want to throw out three illustrations of the point:

1 John puts it simply:
"God is love."  This little sentence, copula(tion?) and all, makes love make sense.  Because if love is about surrender - about letting go of the things we fear, then to say that you have faith and hope in the all-powerful nature of love is to profess a faith and hope in the all-powerful nature of God.  What I mean is this:  if God is love - if we can in some way equate the two - then to let love in is to let God in, to let God guide take charge of our thoughts and fears and lives.  To love is to get out of the way and let God work.  To "Stop," in the words of U2 (though perhaps not at their finest moment), "helping God across the road like a little old lady."

In his story "Out of the Snow," Andre Dubus put it like this:
"His blue eyes watched her. That is what he did most of the time, when she was angry or sad or frightened: watched her and listened. He had told her he stopped believing in advice years before he met her, or stopped believing people wanted advice; they wanted to be looked at and heard and held by someone who loved them. She said: "Nice night, Ted."

"Yes." He smiled. "Nice night, LuAnn."

And U2 (the greatest rock band in history, if you ask me),
put it this way in "When Love Comes to Town":
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJ0WyPAELsk

So, go love someone or something.  We do, as Jefferson Airplane wrote, all want somebody to love.  Just be real about it.  Let Hollywood paint its pictures and rock stars sing their songs.

Change hearts.  Change minds.  Change lives.  Change the world.

To quote U2 once more:  "C'mon ye people / Stand up for your love."

The Great Equalizer: An Advent Reflection

Originally Written December 5, 2009

It’s Advent.

Supposedly a time of peace and hope, it’s also the time when the media bombards us with consumerist propaganda—“Buy this! You need this!” they say. These voices remind of one of my favorite lines from Assassin’s Creed II, a video game that I just finished playing. In the background of the gameplay, shopkeepers shout something like, “I have things you don’t even know you need!” This, among many other lines, humorously and sarcastically captures an element of contemporary culture that pervades the Advent experience—and simultaneously contradicts everything that Advent is all about.

What is this season about? We hear things all the time—watch…wait…be prepared…the light is coming…prepare the way of the Lord…make room for Jesus in your heart—but what do these things mean? At tonight’s liturgy—the liturgy of the Second Sunday of Advent—two elements of the readings struck me hard.

The first, from the fifth chapter of the Prophet Baruch, reads: “For God has commanded that every lofty mountain be made low, and that the age-old depths and gorges be filled to level ground, that Israel may advance secure in the glory of God.”

The second passage from third chapter of Luke quotes Isaiah: “Prepare the way of the Lord, make straight his paths. Every valley shall be filled and every mountain and hill shall be made low. The winding roads shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth, and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.”

So what is this season about? The standard messages of Advent, to watch and wait, to prepare and make room for Christ’s coming are all fine, but the fail to capture one vital element because they are all about us. These notions are about what we do. But if Advent is about Christ’s coming, then it must also be about what God is doing for and in and among us.

To me, these Scriptures define Christ as the Great Equalizer, the one who comes to make all things equal—to make all things ONE—to flatten mountains and fill in valleys, to straighten crooked roads and make the rough places smooth. To make all things equal. To make all things ONE.

So often, I think we think of these words as mere literary jargon, beautiful images—but just images—that describe the God’s power. But it can’t stop there if Scripture is truly the inspired word of God. For, God is the very essence of perfect self-giving, and the essence of self-gift cannot merely seek its own glory. What is implicit in these images is a call for each of us, a command that we must take to heart and live on this Advent journey and beyond.

For, the passage from Baruch says, “God has commanded” that the mountains be made low. Who’s going to do the making? Who’s going to fill the valleys? As I said, this isn’t all literary mumbo jumbo. Scripture itself is sacramental, and the command of God is revelatory; it tells us what we must work toward. Christ came to Equalize all things, to level all people, to “raise up the poor and tear down the mighty” as Mary says in the Magnificat, not because might is in itself flawed or evil, but because we are all called to this profound oneness, this profound Equalization—this unity in Christ Jesus.

As the hymn says, “In Christ there is no east or west / In him no south or north.” There is only Equalization—there is only oneness. So, we must participate in this Great Equalization that God has commanded—we must make the rough places plain; we must give up the mountains of certainty, wealth, power, and conviction on which we stand.

Even when we’re right, if what we believe keeps us from loving, from living in full union with all our brothers and sisters—whether rich or poor, whether they live in mansions or have no homes at all, whether they smell bad or are gay or straight or have had abortions or believe in God or not—we are not participating in this Great Equalization for which this Advent calls. We are the ones who by God’s grace reveal—in our LOVE—the “salvation of God.”

Why must we watch? Why must we wait? Why must we prepare? Because to do so is to change our own hearts and lives so that we may more fully serve God, that we may more fully make all things and all people ONE.

And why do this? Baruch tells us that it is so “Israel may advance secure in the glory of God.” If we as Christians to advance in God’s glory—in an Irenaean sense, to be fully human, to fulfill our humanity, to live in the glorious divine image in which we were created.

In practical terms, it’s easier to walk a straight, flat path than it is to try descending the steep paths into valleys—which might include rough ground, deadly dropoffs, and slick descents—and climb mountains—where we run the risk of being pinned beneath avalanches, falling off cliffs, or not receiving enough oxygen to our brains!

This symbolic language, then, provides a very real challenge for each of us. We who can walk the valleys and scale the mountains must raise the valleys, bring down the mountains, and straighten the paths, that all people—whether in the throes or anxiety, depression, sin, shame, guilt, glory, power, or selfishness—may be able to dwell together in full Communion with God and the fullness of life in Christ Jesus, who came that “we may have life, and have it to the fullest!” (John 10).

So what’s it going to take to get us there? It seems to me that emptiness is a place to start. We are often a people—in the midst of the voices of advertisers telling us what we need, commercials showing images of families that are perfectly happy all the time (beyond what’s really possible!), and the noise of malls and Christmas songs in our ears—who fear emptiness, fear spiritual and material poverty, fear silence, and fear being left alone. Yet those things are integral parts of Advent, integral parts of creating a world of unity, light, peace, and Equalization.

For the great kenosis, the great emptying of Christ, who took on the role of slave to Equalize all things (free us from sin, for sin is of excess), is the model we must follow, the straight path is that leads to emptiness, so that we may have the fullness of life in Christ, who makes all things ONE, who makes all things equal, who brings to fulfillment the plan of God that unfolds before our eyes each moment.

Let us watch. Let us wait. Let us give it away, tearing down the mountains, raising the valleys and straightening the paths that lead us to the fullness of life.

As Rory Cooney wrote, “When we stand together / to stand against hell / the name of this people / is Emmanuel.”

Remember. God IS with us. So hope. Trust. Live. Love.

God is Like a Slug

Originally Written May 28, 2009

Pentecost is this Sunday. So, naturally, I was thinking tonight about the Holy Spirit, about the Trinity, about God. And—also naturally—it occurred to me that God is like is a slug.

Pentecost is this Sunday. So, naturally, I was thinking tonight about the Holy Spirit, about the Trinity, about God. And—also naturally—it occurred to me that God is like is a slug.

Seriously. Bear with me, now.

Meet Sluggo the Slug. One night, Sluggo packs his slug suitcase and decides to go on a slug journey across the back patio. Being a slug, he thinks it’s quite the expedition, but really it’s just a quick jaunt across the pavement.

Sluggo has a point of origin, from which he begins his journey. And he has a point of arrival, where his journey ends. Everywhere in between, he leaves a trail of thick slime—sticky, gooey stuff—the evidence of Sluggo’s very existence, the telltale sign that "Sluggo Wuz Here," which he secretes as he goes from his origin to his destination.

And that’s where Sluggo is like God.

Just as Sluggo had his point of origin, in God there is the Origin, the Alpha, the Creator, God the Father, who made all that has been, all that is, and all that will be. And at the end of the journey lies our destination—the Firstborn of Creation—the Omega, the Christ, the Redeemer, God the Son, who in the fullness of time will retrace Sluggo’s slug trail and bring all of Creation back to its Origin. And the thick, gooey slime, the trail left behind when Sluggo moved from Point A to Point B is the very stuff of Creation; it's the trail—better said the sacrament—the sign left behind as God moves through our universe and penetrates our experience.

We dwell in the slime. But the slime isn't a bad place. It's not icky slime. The slime itself is a gift.

Still, in the dark, the slime is just slime, just gross goop on the patio. But when light hits the slime, it changes. It glimmers; it shimmers. And that sparkle in the slime, that glitter in the goop is the Holy Spirit, the light of the resurrection, the indwelling of God in Creation, the abiding presence of the Creator and the Redeemer in our very experience. The light is God’s transcendent, universal Love, and when Love is present, Creation shines.

As the light moves and the slime glitters, so God moves in the eternal perichoresis—the dance of love—and when God moves in us, the slime that is our experience twinkles with God’s presence, shines radiantly as we engender unity, as we cultivate peace, as we bound beyond boundaries and let Love—that is the essence of God—transform us.

Fully Human, Fully Divine - A Little Ditty on the Paschal Mystery

Originally Written April 2, 2009
N.B. My thinking on these topics has developed since I wrote this.

Delving Into Full Humanity
It’s easy to forget that Jesus was human. Really human. Fully human. Movies so often portray Jesus as a stoic, serious, overly dramatic man who stands apart from the rest of humanity, a sort of ultra-non-conformist who has little to do with the real experience of human life. These cinematic portrayals present a Jesus who is more a divine being in human form—someone ultimately conscious of his own divinity—than someone who actually lived the hurts, sorrows, fears, temptations, joys, and intimate moments that we experience. As we approach the great liturgies of the Triduum, which extensively celebrate the fullness of the Paschal Mystery, it occurs to me that the truest, deepest understanding of the Paschal Mystery lies in first understanding—as much as we can—that Jesus was indeed fully human and fully divine.

Although it might seem like a ridiculous point of departure, don’t forget: Jesus pooped. Jesus threw up. Jesus bled. Jesus wept. Jesus faced temptations, not only in a desert encounter with Satan, but in everyday life. Jesus probably had the flu, coughs, sneezes, diarrhea, you name it. Jesus might’ve broken a bone (he didn’t have magic Messiah bone tissue). Jesus walked around barefoot or in rough sandals through hot sand. He probably had blisters on his feet. And he probably smelled bad. He probably didn’t comb his hair. He did not have blond hair and blue eyes; he looked like a middle-Easterner. He suffered, not only the agony of Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ (double entendre, perhaps), but suffered the loss of friends to death, the betrayal of Judas, followers who didn’t “get it”—like Peter, whom he called both “Satan” and “Rock”—and much more. He drank and ate with his friends. Others accused him of being a drunkard. If we’ve experienced it, Jesus probably did, too. That’s full humanity. If we are going to enter fully into the Paschal Mystery, we have to start there.

And at the end of his life, in the fullness of fullness, Jesus died. Not a “natural death.” Not a painless death. Jesus was executed—it’s capital punishment. Jesus died at another man’s command and at another man’s hand, because of “crimes” he supposedly committed. We humans subjected an innocent man—our Savior—to capital punishment through a “system of justice,” and somehow, we have found the ability to turn a blind eye to the fact that we still do the very same thing when we execute others today. We might say, “Oh, at least lethal injection is more humane than crucifixion.”

But the underlying reality is that we do to others what we did to Jesus. How many other innocent lives have ended in the same way? And if the person is guilty, does it really make any difference? When we consider that we have one command: to LOVE, the act of intentionally ending of another’s life in punishment seems quite out of place. Condemnation is the enemy of love, for as John 3:17 says, Christ did not come to condemn, but to save. Now, before anyone argues that this article is really a rant against capital punishment, I’ll get back on track, but I felt compelled to mention this correlation, one that’s easy to overlook in our climate of politicized religion, one in which being Christian too often means belonging to a particular party or set of ideas (some of which might actually contradict everything we believe!). The important point here is that Jesus’ full humanity led to death, because if Christ had not died as we all will die, he could not have been fully human.

Christ, then, existed fully in the world, but he was not of the world. It’s what my friend Robert Feduccia has said so many times: “The glory of God is man fully alive” and “Jesus could only redeem what he took on.” Christ was “fully alive” in his full humanity, but he did not give in to sin. Why?

A Channel of God’s Love
So, what about the other part of Jesus’ nature? What about being fully divine? What does that mean? I don’t have the answer, but I do have a few ideas on what Christ’s divinity is all about—like everything I write, these are only ideas; they aren’t even necessarily what I think (most of the time, I don’t know what I think, I just think).

Anyhow, understanding Christ’s divinity is necessary if we are to understand the fullness of the Paschal Mystery we celebrate in the Triduum. For about a year now, I have been very interested in the question of Messianic Consciousness or Divine Awareness, the question of whether Jesus actually knew that he was the Messiah. Consider that for a minute. Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe, in spite of all the healings and works, words and wonders, he didn’t know that he was the Messiah.

But how could Jesus be the Messiah without knowing it? As the Son of God, perhaps Christ’s divinity manifested in one simple way: through loving surrender. “Surrender” is a popular word in modern Christianity; often, we talk of “surrendering” or “conforming” our will to God’s will. But often, this idea shows up when we talk about accepting things that we don’t want to accept. Like sudden death or national tragedy. “I guess it was just God’s will,” we say, as if God’s will is somewhere “out there” where we can grasp it, or as if God “lets things happen” so that we know him. Quite the contrary, God’s will is clear. Jesus told us what it is: to LOVE. We encounter God really and truly present in our midst every day, in love shared, in conversations, in creation, in the fullness of life. And when we experience that, we encounter what might be the very “stuff” of Christ’s divinity.

Because Jesus is Christ, the Son of God, perhaps the state of “surrender” in which he lived was not something he thought much about. Perhaps the nature of Christ’s divinity is that Christ dwelled in that state of full accord with God’s will of LOVE for our world. In such a state, temptation has no power; sin has no hold, for always choosing love means never choosing sin. Thus, Christ could dwell in the fullness of human experience but always choose God-love—without thinking about it, for he was what he was created to be! In short, he existed in love and called us to do the same.

This line of thinking could explain the so-called “miracles” of Christ, too. Jesus was not a magician. He was not a “miracle worker.” He didn’t say “poof! You’re healed!” Rather, Jesus says, “Your faith has saved you (or healed you)” or “Your sins are forgiven.” It is by the faith of those he encountered that miracles transpired; it is by the acknowledgment of the presence of God so truly in their midst that God was able to “break in” to human experience, to venture beyond the realms of what is rationally “possible” and allow the unexplainable to occur. This is important to consider, because we—as a product of God’s freely given love—have free will. Christ, in his surrender, always spoke and acted in love. But it is only when others could sacrifice their will and humbly and honestly say, “I need you. I want to be well, and I recognize God in you” that it could happen. God is all around us; Christ is the channel by which God breaks in; when we humbly say that we need God, we unite ourselves to God through Christ; perhaps that logical train of ideas explains how Christ’s miracles could have occurred.

By existing in oneness (full surrender) with the perfect love of God, Jesus carried that transforming love everywhere he went; when others recognized it and believed, God entered into our world and worked wonders. And maybe that’s what canonized saints—although sinners—sometimes encountered. Perhaps through their moments of total surrender, they allowed God to “break in” and transform human experience in inexplicable ways. They, for a moment, were as Christ—perfect channels of God’s grace in our world.

Sin, of course, is the antithesis of full surrender, the rejection of God’s will (choosing things other than love) and leads to separation, to anger, to anxiety, to fear, and to all those things that prevent us from living fully as Christ lived fully. When we sin, we create a barrier between ourselves and God, a barrier that prevents God from being able to “break in” as God broke in through Christ. This is the inevitable sin that I’ve written of before, the sin that is a natural byproduct of free will, which is a natural byproduct of love freely given.

And That’s the Paschal Mystery
So, then, Christ was fully human and fully divine, a person who lived as a human but by his divinity possessed the propensity to be sinless, for he lived always in the perfect love in which we were created. Jesus suffered. Jesus died. And he rose again to free us from our sins, to give us access to the sinless divinity in which he was born; he restored us to oneness with God, but our human propensity to sin obstructs that oneness. By subjugating that propensity, we—like so many before us—can become true channels of God’s love; we can be, and indeed we are, the means by which God continually breaks into our world.

The liturgies of Holy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday celebrate in absolute fullness the entirety of this, the Mystery of our Faith—the Paschal Mystery. At every Eucharist, the bread and wine—the fruit of the earth and work of our hands—along with our offerings of time, talent, and treasure, are not simply symbols. They are the very “stuff” of human experience. They are the work we do every day. They are the gifts that God has given us.

And when we return those gifts to God and pray over them, when those gifts become the Body and Blood of Christ, we consecrate not bread and wine but our very beings to life in the service of God and all of humanity. We dedicate ourselves to being channels of God’s perfect love.

A Little (or not-so-little) Theosophical-Cosmological Reflection on Creation

Originally Written March 18, 2009
N.B. My thoughts on Teilhard have changed since I first wrote this, but I still wanted to post it.

Today, I had a very interesting conversation with a friend and colleague about the three-fold Creationism-Intelligent Design-Evolutionism debate. We discussed the two sides at some length, and at one point he asked me, “So, if you believe God was involved in creation but don’t call yourself a Creationist, what do you believe?” It took me a few minutes to really process the question and formulate a response, but I eventually reached a conclusion that is perhaps a “both-and” reply to the question of God’s role as creator and the validity of scientific discovery, both of which I think are wholly valid.

To say that God “created the heavens and the earth” per the Book of Genesis limits God to so great a degree that God hardly seems Supreme at all. To say that God “spoke the word” of Creation and “made it so” is to entrap the mind of God in a box so small it could easily hold the scientific understanding present 6,000 years ago. If God is omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent, God transcends even the deepest or most brilliant mind, and so to put God "in a box" or acknowledge that there even is a box (even Scripture) is to deny God's transcendence - for God and the working of the Holy Spirit, there is no box, no specific framework. Once, in regard to the issue of creation, my cousin Todd said to me, “I want to be baffled by God.” I want to be—and am—baffled, too. God should be baffling. To interpret the story of creation literally is to limit the unlimited, to confine that which cannot be confined.

In response to this point, my friend pointed out, “Some theologians might argue that if you are going to say that the stories of Creation present in Genesis are false, you should just discount the entire Bible.” Admittedly, no theologians that I have studied have argued such a thing, but if someone were to argue this stance, I’d respond that to disregard the entire Bible because you disregard the stories of creation is just like saying, “Because the Greek myths aren’t true, there’s no validity to anything Aristotle wrote, either.” For, to argue that the Book of Genesis is fact flies in the face of centuries of research on the Bible, much of which has been dedicated to analyzing the Bible as a literary work and a spiritual work, one born of God and of human cultures. In teaching Scripture, I’m always surprised by how many people are unaware that there are two stories of creation that stand side-by-side in the book of Genesis, although numerous commentaries mention this literary fact. Because Genesis was created from four literary and cultural traditions of the ancient world, the “final” version of Genesis contains some duplication.

The first story of creation is the “seven day” creation story, in which God speaks the word and creation springs into being. God says, “Trees!” and there are trees, “Boids,” and there are birds, and “Fishies!” and there are fish. One commentary (in a Bible) states, “According to the highly artificial literary structure of Genesis 1:1-2:4a, God's creative activity is divided into six days to teach the sacredness of the sabbath rest on the seventh day in the Israelite religion (Genesis 2:2-3).” Note the words “highly artificial” here. This story is clearly not meant to be interpreted literally; rather, it is an etiological myth explaining how we got here and instituting the Sabbath as a day of rest. Notably, Adam and Eve are nowhere to be found in this story.

The second story of creation, which research states is much older than the first, focuses on the creation of humanity and features Adam and Eve as its primary characters. In this story, God somewhat humorously attempts to make a “suitable partner” for Adam and fails repeatedly before putting Adam to sleep and creating Eve from his rib.

So often are these two stories conflated that it’s no wonder so few people know that Genesis presents two distinct stories from two different time periods and born of two different cultural traditions. This alone discounts the use of Genesis’ creation stories as fact.

At this point, my Creationist friends who are reading this are probably ready to string me up and call me an atheist. But as I said earlier, I firmly believe in God’s involvement in creation, but my faith in God and God’s love tells me that the truth is bigger than anything a several-thousand-years-old, culturally rooted, divinely-inspired (see below for an explanation of that) etiological myth can present. What about Intelligent Design, then? Can we argue that certain aspects of creation (or perhaps all of creation) were made by some intelligent force (a.k.a. God)? To do so is to argue something only slightly different from a purely Creationist view. Numerous scientific watchdog groups have termed the Intelligent Design theory “pseudoscience,” an excuse for teaching Creationism. According to Wikipedia, The U.S. National Academy of Sciences has stated that "creationism, intelligent design, and other claims of supernatural intervention in the origin of life or of species are not science because they are not testable by the methods of science.”

So, where do we go from here? We’ve pitched the Genesis-is-fact argument out the window and briefly mentioned Intelligent Design. With what does that leave us? Simple evolutionism? The Big Bang Theory? Creation as an accident? Or is there a “both-and” viewpoint in which God is involved in and responsible for everything that science has revealed to be true?

Consider this: God is love. (1 Jn. 4:16)

No, really think about it: God is love. (Thanks, Robert, for emphasizing that.)

What is the intrinsic effect and nature of love? To create. Love creates unity, peace, joy, relationship. In an entirely transcendent and baffling way, love creates.

Visual artists create because of a transcendent love for interpreting the world in some medium. Composers compose because of a transcendent love of music and desire to create. Authors seek to capture human experience and emotion out of something transcendent. Two people join their lives and bear children out of the expression of their love. We’re not talking about saccharine, Valentine’s Day love here. We’re talking about something transcendent, something baffling, something that drives humanity to desires beyond words—we’re talking about love that is not of God but that is God most truly present.

Therefore, if God is love and the nature of this transcendent God-love is to create, then God’s very existence makes creation inevitable. God did not need to desire creation or plan it; the universe is simply born of this transcendent love that I believe is the true fabric of human existence, what Dan Simmons called the “Void Which Binds,” that which solely remains when all of creation is stripped away. Although many theologians would say that the trinity could have simply existed in perfect love, perhaps God could not have chosen not to create. For, to say that God "chose" to create or "acted" in creating is to deny the inherent creative nature of love.

When I envision what this "moment of creation" looked like, I do not think of God "doing" anything or "saying" anything. Rather, my mind goes back to what was one of the most important lessons I learned while studying conducting with Seb Bonaiuto. Seb taught me that stance and posture are more important than nearly anything else. "If a conductor holds his arms near his body, he looks guarded. If a conductor holds his arms out to the side, he looks defenseless or uncertain. But if a conductor raises his arms before him, as if to embrace the ensemble, he expresses love. He says, 'I welcome your music. I love your music. Let's share this love.'" And this is how I picture God, too. God did not "say" or "do" but opened his "arms" and "smiled" in a conductor's embrace, and creation simply "was."

If "Love creates" = "God creates," creation is an inevitability.

Within this argument, there is no need to argue whether the Big Bang was true or false, accidental or planned. It was simply inevitable. Some might attribute this to chance, to the unpredictable primordial chaos that was; but before anything was, love was. And love is. The true nature of God-love transcends all things, all theories, all books, even the books that reveal God to us.

And so it is with Christ, the redeemer (person of the trinity). God’s perfect love cannot remain perfect, because love in its essential form is love given away. And if love is freely given, with no "strings" attached, free will and therefore sin are both also inevitable. Just as a painter’s perfect vision is never realized on canvas or a composer’s perfect symphony is never perfectly written or performed, creation, although the inevitable result of God’s love, cannot remain perfect, but God’s will for creation remains: that creation returns to the perfect love that created it. So, the Christ, not Jesus the Incarnation, but Christ the plan of salvation, God’s plan for total unity, total love, total peace is another inevitable byproduct of God’s existence. For, in order for creation to achieve again the fullest communion with God—to dwell once more in perfect love—creation must be redeemed, and so the Christ is necessary.

St. Paul saw this clearly when he wrote 1 Corinthians 15:25-28:

“For he must reign until he has put all his enemies under his feet. The last enemy to be destroyed is death, for “he subjected everything under his feet.” But when it says that everything has been subjected, it is clear that it excludes the one who subjected everything to him. When everything is subjected to him, then the Son himself will (also) be subjected to the one who subjected everything to him, so that God may be all in all.”

This is one of my favorite passages of scripture, for I believe it encapsulates Teilhard de Chardin's “Omega Point,” the point at which the universe’s complexity and consciousness evolves to the point at which it returns to the point from which it originated, to the love from which it was created. Once death is destroyed by the Christ, the Christ (again, not Jesus the Man but the spiritual-sacramental entity) will be subjected “to the one who subjected it…”—God—so that God may be all in all, so that in fact nothing exists except God-love, that which creates and redeems out of inevitability, that we may be joined in true harmony and true unity with the Creator.

Christ taught that to follow him fully is to relinquish one's self for the good of all. Perhaps, then, the fullness of human existence is the non-existence of the self, existing as Christ did, in perfect union and surrender to God.

Sorry that was so long, but I had to write it down. Those are my thoughts. What're yours?

Love, Miracles, Faith, and an Aunt: A Reflection On Mark 6:45-52

Written January 8, 2009

Today is the Wednesday after Epiphany. In the daily Mass readings this week, we have heard stories of Jesus’ manifestation as the Christ, the Messiah. Yesterday, we heard Mark’s account of the feeding of the 5,000; today’s Gospel begins where yesterday’s ended and details the familiar story of Jesus walking on water. I’ve read and heard this story—even this account of the story—many times before, but it has never struck me as it did tonight.

Mark’s version of the story contains some details that Matthew and John lack (and lacks some details that the others contain). It was these details, found in two characteristically concise Markan sentences, which struck me tonight. The passage begins, “After the five thousand had eaten and were satisfied, Jesus made his disciples get into the boat and precede him to the other side toward Bethsaida…” Alone, Jesus dismisses the crowd and prays on a nearby mountain. The standard setup. Then, strong winds toss the disciples’ boat about, and Jesus walks toward them on the water. The standard plot.

Then, Mark’s version continues, “About the fourth watch of the night, he came toward them walking on the sea. He meant to pass by them.” Wait. He meant to pass by them? If that’s the case, what was Jesus doing out there on the sea? Was he just out for a little stroll on the waves? These six words seem to indicate that Jesus did not intend his disciples to see him. Now, some might say that here “meant to pass by them” means that he intended meant to pass close to them so that they would see him. However, coupled with the following phrase, “But when they saw him…,” it seems clear that Jesus did not intend to be seen. He meant to pass by them. What is the significance of these words?

Both Matthew and John lack this sentence or anything like it. In Matthew’s account, Jesus beckons to Peter, and Peter, too, walks briefly on the water (and promptly sinks). John’s account is much shorter, and in it Jesus identifies himself, after which the apostles are mysteriously teleported “to the shore to which they were heading.”

But let’s get back to Mark. Why didn’t Jesus intend to be seen? Is it, perhaps, that his being seen—and therefore the very act of walking on water—is somehow immaterial, unimportant? After all, at the end of this passage, Mark writes, “He got into the boat with them and the wind died down. They were (completely) astounded. They had not understood the incident of the loaves. On the contrary, their hearts were hardened.” Here, Mark utilizes a phrase he typically uses to describe the “villains” in his account of Christ’s passion. So, even though Jesus had—by his faith and prayer—multiplied a meager amount of food into an abundance so great that basketfuls remained after thousands had eaten their fill, walked on water, and mysteriously caused a storm to end, the apostles simply didn’t “get it.”

Is it possible that there is something deeper here, something akin to Christ’s words to Thomas, “Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed?” Maybe the apostles’ inability to recognize Jesus as Christ by his miracles not only reveals their stubbornness and “hardness of heart” but also calls into question the importance of miracles at large.

If so, perhaps Jesus meant to pass by them because miracles are in fact somewhat inconsequential in our journey of faith. So often, God speaks to us in the smallest ways, in the little signs, in the “whispering sounds” like the one Elijah heard in 1 Kings 19. But so often we look for grand miracles, for “lightning bolt” experiences more akin to the work of Zeus than that of a God who has given his people the gift of free will.

Last summer, my aunt Cheryl—a woman of tremendous faith and love who with her husband raised eight children that I proudly call my cousins and closest friends—died from cancer at the age of 61. At her funeral, one of my cousins said to me, “You know, I really thought with all the prayers we said that God would give us a miracle, that he’d heal her and let her live…”

At that moment, I recalled the numerous prayers that I had offered for her at daily Mass, the prayers of our parish community at weekend Eucharist, where lectors had week after week pronounced her name aloud with the names of other sick and suffering people. I recalled the infinite support, hope, and affection that others had offered our family, and in my heart, I wanted nothing more than for her to live once again, to walk and talk and laugh and smile her incomparable smile once more. But that simply wasn’t possible.

I’ve often heard people say, “Well, I guess that just wasn’t God’s plan…,” but I think this phrase trivializes the magnitude of God’s goodness and to an extent misses completely the point of our faith. Is the point of faith to “get something” from God (even salvation)? Is the point of prayer to “get” what we ask for? Or is prayer in its most authentic form an expression of faith and trust in God’s love, an expression of our communion with the source and end from which and to which all things flow? God’s love, which we ritually celebrate in the Eucharist, is all around us. In every interaction, in every moment of joy, hope, and sorrow, God’s love is there. Even in moments of despair, God’s love remains.

After sharing all this with those at the Communion service at which I presided today, my thoughts turned to today’s first reading, 1 John 4:11-18. The passage reads, “No one has ever seen God. Yet, if we love one another, God remains in us, and his love is brought to perfection in us.” Here, John states that while we have not seen God, God is present in our love for each other, that we are the vehicle by which God’s love is perfected. Later in this reading, we find the famous line, “God is love, and whoever remains in love remains in God and God in him.” In short, love is the truest manifestation of God in our midst.

Why, then, do we look for miracles? Why do seek loaves and fishes, walking on water, or miraculous healings? If love is the indicator of God’s presence among us, then faith is the belief that love is true and present in our hearts. Faith believes that in each shining moment when we express love, Christ is truly present. We find these manifestations, these “epiphanies” of the Lord in each shimmer of joy, each sparkle of hope, in small moments every day. Of course Jesus meant to pass by them; he knew he did not need to be seen. For he showed love beyond measure, and in expressing that love, he revealed God to the world. It is through that love, not through miracles, that Christ’s first disciples would come to know him, as we know him today, in simple gifts of bread and the wine, in each glimmer love shared, in the memory of a aunt’s smile.