Getting Rid of Sin--What Makes a Good Metaphor?

Easter is sometimes a tough time of year for those of us non-literalists. I have a different vision of the cross. I know that crucifixion was the punishment that the Romans reserved for criminals who acted against the state; Jesus died a terrorist's death.

I've had arguments with fundamentalist friends who would tell me that I'm undercutting the role of Jesus, and I would say, "No, I'm not." To me, the central message of Christianity is that the Kingdom of God will put us in direct opposition to earthly kingdoms--and we might pay with our lives.

Lately, I've been thinking about the cross and all the ways that we need a metaphor for getting rid of our sins. The Lutheran churches of which I've been a part haven't focused on the cross exclusively (or even very often, most of them) as a metaphor for humanity shedding itself of sin.

Yes, I used the word metaphor. I'm a poet, not a literalist. For me, there are far more effective metaphors than the cross.

When we were at camp in Lutheridge, we would write down our sins and cast them into the fire. I really liked that. As I got older, I liked the confluence of flame and ash, my sin like paper. I think of my sins as unforgivable, but they're just as flimsy as paper, just as easy to get rid of.

I also have a memory of casting our sins, written on paper, into the lake. But I'm not sure if I'm mixing up that memory with something else. I like that imagery better, with its baptismal connections and the washing away. Much nicer than burning. But the burning is more dramatic.

Of course, these metaphors presuppose that I'm able to quit clinging to my sins. Why on earth would we cling to our sins? They serve us in some way. Psychologists would tell us that we don't do anything that doesn't serve us in some way; even if it's negative, it's still got some sort of function, or we wouldn't do it. I believe that.

So psychologists would tell us we have to figure out why we need those sins before we can work on casting them away. A fundamentalist would tell us that we're humanly incapable of casting away our sins and that's why Jesus had to come. I, a poet, would tell us that we need more memorable metaphors and rituals to help us understand our sins and how to get rid of them.

Longing for Quiet

Lately, I find myself longing for a contemplative service. I've always loved liturgy, but lately, I just want everyone to be quiet.

I got to church yesterday while the choir was still practicing. I wasn't sure I could stay. Our sound system usually doesn't amplify enough, but yesterday we had the opposite problem. Every instrument and every voice seemed much too loud. By the end of the service, my head was throbbing. I had to take some aspirin and lie still in a dark room to recover. And I'm not prone to migraines (a bit prone to headaches, whether they be caused by stress or loudness).

Not for the first time, I found myself wishing that Lutherans had a more contemplative tradition. I just want to sit in silence. Maybe I'll let you interrupt occasionally to read the Word of God. We can do a bit of liturgy to prepare for the Eucharist. But don't bother me with lots of instruments. Don't amplify. It's O.K. to remain in the background.

I know that lots of churches have spent lots of money on sound systems. I know that lots of churches have spent lots of money on grand organs--maybe on whole orchestras. But I can't be the only woman who finds her nerves increasingly jangled, who needs a space of quiet where she can hear God speak.

Those of you who are casting about for your niche in the mission field, hear my whisper! Give me a soothing, contemplative service, and I'm yours--at least occasionally.

Of Prodigal Sons and Worldly Institutions

I've been catching up on blog reading, in addition to catching up on NPR stories. Over at my friend David Eck's blog, I came across his thoughts on the Prodigal Son. This chunk caught my attention: "The key to understanding this part of the parable lies in the two phrases 'this son of yours' and 'this brother of yours.' These two phrases speak volumes about the relationships between the three characters in the story. The first, a statement from the older brother, says he has disowned his younger brother. The second, a statement from the father, is an appeal for their relationship to be reconciled. The story is left opened, and this is a good thing, because it places the outcome of the story in our hands. The challenge of the parable is to act more like the father and less like the older brother. We are called to be reconcilers not disowners."

We are called to be reconcilers not disowners.

I'm surrounded by too many disowners these days. Perhaps the disowners always come out of the woodwork whenever too many changes start to take place. Perhaps it's normal. But I grow weary.

I'm surrounded by people who say, "How can they do this to my church?" (in light of the current National Assembly decision about homosexuality). At work, we're making lots of changes as we prepare for accreditation, and lots of people are saying, "How can they do this to my school?" Often these people talk with high levels of emotion.

Part of me feels strange because I don't feel those same levels of emotion. Maybe that's because I'm on board with the changes, so I don't feel the need to rend my clothes in grief.

But even when my school wasn't making these changes, even when the ELCA did discriminate, I didn't feel this distress that I see others evoking. I've always felt a sort of amused detachment. Is there something wrong with me?

Part of it is my distrust of societal institutions. I don't feel that sense of ownership and investment. I'm a child of the 70's, and I've seen what happens when you put too much faith in the institutions that have employed you--you end up kicked to the curb in your late middle age, blinking with hurt and incomprehension. No thanks.

Jesus warns us about putting too much faith in worldly institutions. Institutions tend to nurture the disowners. Institutions do not usually reward the reconcilers. I'll have to think about those two sentences to see how much I agree.

In the meantime, since I can't detach from worldly institutions altogether, I'll keep remembering that my role in the world is to be a reconciler, to keep my arms wide in welcome.

Authenticity, Johnny Cash Style!

I've been catching up on NPR programs by listening online--I love streaming audio! A week ago, I missed a great Fresh Air show about Johnny Cash. I particularly enjoyed the interview with producer Rick Rubin, who worked closely with Cash at the end of his life.

He talked about Johnny Cash as a spiritual person: "He's probably the most committed spiritual person I've ever met. He really lived his life according to his connection with God, really. And he had such an honest and pure way about it that - I remember we had a dinner party at my house one night with Johnny and June and some musicians and some film directors, and before dinner, Johnny had everyone hold hands and he said a prayer and he read from a Bible. And I know some of the people at the table had never experienced that before and some of the people at the table were even atheists. But his belief in what he believed was so strong that what you believed didn't matter so much because you were in the presence of someone who really believed and that felt good and that made you believe really in him more than anything else. It was really beautiful."

I've thought about that quote all week. I want to be that kind of spiritually authentic person, so that even atheists will not object to saying a prayer with me, because my life has been such a witness.

I've known other Christians who wanted to be a witness, but just turned people off. Somehow they seemed insincere, either because their behavior didn't match their words, or because they were too militant, or because nonbelievers felt harassed. How do we achieve that Johnny Cash authenticity without veering into that dangerous side territory of hypocrisy? Do we have to have those years of struggle and desperate living to achieve that kind of authenticity?

Perhaps one achieves that authenticity by being quiet for a good long time. In Fooling with Words: A Celebration of Poets and Their Craft, Bill Moyers interviews a wide variety of poets. The Buddhist poet, Jane Hirshfield talks about Teahouse practice: "Teahouse practice means that you don't explicitly talk about Zen. It refers to living your life as if you were an old woman who has a teahouse by the side of the road. Nobody knows why they like to go there, they just feel good drinking her tea. She's not known as a Buddhist teacher, she doesn't say 'This is the Zen teahouse.' All she does is simply serve tea--but still, her decades of attentiveness are part of the way she does it. No one knows about her faithful attention to the practice, it's just there, in the serving of the tea and the way she cleans the counters and washes the cups" (page 112).

The one thing I've noticed is that authentic people get a lot of practice. They don't just come to an authentic life fully formed. It is through the daily practice and daily work and the work of being self-aware and vigilant that we come to authenticity.

Lenten Art Project--a photo shoot!

Last year, my husband and I added an element to the cross for each week in Lent: the first week it was a swag of burlap, the second we tied the burlap with rope, the third we added huge nails, and finally, we added a crown of thorns.




Yesterday, I was taking pictures for my videopoetry project (go here and here for more information on that project), and I decided to also take some pictures for this Lenten art project. We had the elements of the cross by the door, and I did some arranging:

And then, as I was going through my fiber art projects, I made this arrangement:

If you look closely at the fabric art, you'll see a cross underneath. I made this piece while wondering if one could have a piece of artwork with a Christian theme that wouldn't be offensive to non-believers. My boss at the time had these huge pictures of a bleeding Christ, which many found disturbing or inappropriate (when I interviewed for the job, my friend who was already there gave me a heads-up, for which I was grateful, for it would have been hard to concentrate on the interview while wondering about that art).

I like the starkness of the nails with the softness of the fabric and carpet underneath. I don't feel that the photo captures the fiber art as fully as I'd like, but that's O.K.

I've really been enjoying having this art commitment. I'd have let it slide this week if I hadn't made this commitment on this blog. I'm glad that I didn't. My afternoon taking photos was surprisingly fulfilling.

Meditation on This Week's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, March 7, 2010:

First Reading: Isaiah 55:1-9

Psalm: Psalm 63:1-8

Second Reading: 1 Corinthians 10:1-13

Gospel: Luke 13:1-9

In this week's Gospel, we get the parable of the fig tree, that poor fig tree who still hasn't produced fruit even though it's been 3 years. This Gospel gives us a space to consider our view of God and our view of ourselves.

Which vision of God is the one in your head? We could see God as the man who says, "Lo, these three years I have come seeking fruit on this fig tree, and I find none. Cut it down; why should it use up the ground?" If we see God that way, and if we see ourselves as the fig tree, that's a scary proposition; we've got a few years to produce before God gives up on us.

A traditional approach to this parable might see God as the impatient one, and Jesus as the vinedresser who pleads the case for the poor little fig tree. I know that Trinitarian theology might lead us this direction, but I'm still uncomfortable with the idea of a God who gives up on humanity. Everything in Scripture (and the experiences of those who walked this path before us) shows us a God that pursues us, going so far as to take on human flesh and walk amongst us. This doesn't sound like a God that gives up after 3 years.

A modern (post-modern?) approach to this parable might be to see the man and the vinedresser as parts of the same personality. How often are you impatient with the parts of yourself that aren't changing quickly enough? Are you kind to yourself, like the vinedresser? Or does your inner voice threaten you with destruction if you don't change? I know that some of you are saying, "This sounds quite schizophrenic." To this comment, I would say, try to observe your own inner thoughts. I hope that you're always patient and kind, but I've been on a diet more than once, and I know how quickly the self-loathing voice comes forward.

This parable gives us a hopeful view of our spiritual lives, if we live with it a little longer. Many of us no longer interact with the earth in any way, which is a shame. I wonder how many aspects of this imagery we lose as we move from being a nation of farmers and gardeners to a nation of people trapped by pavement. We tend to think of plants as always growing, always producing. We forget that for any growth to take place, a period of fallowness is necessary.

Maybe you've felt yourself in a fallow place spiritually. Or worse, maybe you've felt yourself sliding backwards. Maybe you started Lent with a fire in your heart, and you've burned out early. Maybe you've spent years thinking about church development, wondering what the Pentecostals have that you don't. Maybe you haven't been good at transforming yourself into a peace-loving person.

Look at that parable again. The fig tree doesn't just sit there while everyone gathers around, waiting for something to happen. The vine dresser gives it extra attention. The vine dresser digs around it (to give the roots room to grow?) and gives it extra manure (ah, the magic of fertilizer). We, too, can be the vinedresser to our spiritual lives. And we don't have to resort to heroic measures. We don't have to start off by running away to a religious commune and devoting ourselves to God. Just a little spiritual manure is all it takes.

You've got a wide variety of spiritual tools in your toolchest. Pick up your Bible. Read a little bit each day (to echo the words of Isaiah, train yourself to hunger after more than bread). Find some time to pray more. Find something that irritates you, and make that be your call to prayer (for example, every time I hear someone's thumping car stereo, I could see that as a tolling bell, calling me to pray). If you can do nothing else, slow down and breathe three deep breaths. Do that at least once a day. Turn your anxieties over to God. When you're surfing the web, go to a site or a blog that makes you feel enriched as a Christian (as opposed to all those sites that make you angry or anxious). Give some spare change to those people who stand in the medians of the roadways. Smile more--you are the light of the world, after all. Time to start acting like it.

36 Arguments (well, not really) To Read This Book

Over the week-end, I read Rebecca Newberger Goldstein's 36 Arguments for the Existence of God. It's about an academic who almost accidentally writes a bestselling book that defends atheism, and it's fully of witty and profound observations about academia, religion, and relationships. It's the perfect book for people who like to think about theological issues but don't necessarily want to read heavy, non-fiction books.

The main character, Cass Seltzer, seems an unlikely creation, "the atheist with a soul," as popular magazines have dubbed him. He spends his life trying to understand the varieties of religious experience and expression, and his journey takes him to some interesting places: grad school, a separatist Hasidic group, and into the arms of some fascinating women (the goddess of game theory and a dreadlocked anthropologist who leaves for years at a time to go to the remotest region of the world).

The book considers some of the historic and contemporary reasons for both belief and disbelief, and looks at the choices that are required of us. It's both funny and profound, which is quite an achievement. I found it hard to put down, and even though I was sad when it ended, it felt complete (unlike some books, which I want to hurl against a wall, because there are so many loose ends at the conclusion).

I suspect we're not done with winter yet. When you need a book for your next snow day or your next trip or your next waiting room time, this one's a keeper.