Many of you will remember the church of the 1950s. I don't have personal experience with that -- I wasn't born then, as you all know -- but it must have been a great time to be in church. It was a time when people seemed clear about what they were doing -- participating in and building a community -- and they all wanted to get there together. Our church was overflowing each Sunday. There were fights, of course, but there was a general agreement on direction.
Of course, that changed. The 60s questioned everything, the 70s found everyone focused on themselves and the 80s and 90s were the "greed is good" era. There was a growing sense that everything was up for grabs, that there was no particular truth you could count on. It seemed like if you wanted to be part of a growing church, you had to be part of one with all the answers, simplistic and not particularly thoughtful. Or you could be part of one where you came away with more questions than answers, a kind of ambiguous shrugging of the shoulders.
Along the way, our Episcopal Church often seemed to delight in ambiguity. As we became more concerned about our decline, this tendency naturally increased. Vagueness, it seemed, would ensure that nobody would leave -- that nobody would even be challenged or offended. Insipid mission statements became common -- damaging, because people felt that they were doing something (these statements sounded OK) but not really creating passion, commitment and self-sacrifice. We couldn't say what we stood for, because a) we didn't know b) we were afraid of what knowing would mean or c) we were afraid telling others would put them off.
In their landmark book Death of the Church (which I highly recommend, as it articulates these concepts very powerfully) Mike Regele and Mark Schulz put it this way:
Within the American church itself a serious battle has raged for much of this century (written in 1995) over what the baseline elements of the Christian message are. The essence of the Christian story has fallen victim to the relativism that has entered the church.... While theologians battled one another, local congregations stagnated.
What I notice "on the ground" here in San Leandro, California, is that there sometimes seems to be a fear that if we're clear about what we stand for as Anglicans and Episcopalians we will somehow be seen as unfriendly, closed-minded or inhospitable. (I have a fair amount of this fear myself, so I'm not pointing fingers. Really.) We want to be welcoming and warm, and at All Saints we certainly are both. I love our earnestness and sincere desire to be kind and make a difference in the world. It's a really appealing quality.
But I also worry about that fear of offending, especially in sharing the basic, core beliefs of our faith. We mainline Episcopalians (not all, but it seems pretty common) seem to expect our neighbors to be so gun-shy of any mention of religion that we hold everything back.
It's as if we assume from the get-go that any mention of faith, even offered with great warmth to people who seem to be freezing to death, is somehow going to be seen as an act of hostility. We seem so often terrified that any mention of God, much less Jesus Christ, will be understood as pressure to be part of something stupid, closed-minded or bullying. In this way, we allow others to define for us what it means to be Christian.
This is sad because it seems to be true that (as they say in Alcoholics Anonymous and other 12-step programs) "if you want to keep it you have to give it away." That means that if we don't "give away" the Anglican, Episcopalian faith that has been passed to us -- one of the greatest Christian traditions the world has ever known, a tradition beautifully crafted to thrive in today's pluralistic, global culture -- we will lose it. Yes, we will have been welcoming and very hospitable. And we will cease to exist. There's something wrong in that picture!
It's important that we don't lose sight of our purpose in our desire to be hospitable. Our purpose is actually as clear as it is serious: to create opportunities for men, women and children to hear Jesus' gentle, gracious call and decide how they want to respond. Our concern for them is not dependent on their decision, by the way, but if they want to follow him, we do our best to help them (and allow them to help us, too). We help them by working on our own spiritual growth, listening deeply, and caring -- and knowing what we stand for.
I'm not going to get into a long discussion of the things we do stand for. But a basic, starting list would be this:
1. There is a God. That "Higher Power" creates and sustains all things, including us, and is concerned about and engaged in all aspects of creation. There is no place or person in whom God is not -- who does not get God's loving care.
2. There are many ways to see and experience what God is like. For us, the life, person and work of Jesus Christ -- kind, powerful, compassionate, present, joining us in suffering -- tells us what God is like (and that God is not just a "what," but a "who"). While our individual experience varies widely, as a church, we derive great joy, optimism, awe and gratitude that the entire fullness of God dwells in Jesus Christ -- the "incarnational" theology that is so essential to Anglican understanding.
3. The Bible offers essential guidance for a rich spiritual life. We engage it seriously. And we encourage those of us who see it as metaphor to experiment with taking it literally -- and those who see it literally to take it as metaphor. Both will benefit from the deep engagement this requires.
4. For spiritual growth, a disciplined practice is required. We believe that we don't earn God's love by the things we do, nor do we change our value in God's eyes in any way by the choices we make. But we do believe that nothing worthwhile is accomplished without some effort on our part.
5. Involvement in our communities, in meeting real human needs, challenging injustice and involving ourselves in the decision-making of our elected bodies (where systematic injustice is both created and fought), is an essential part of Christian life. We engage it without "writing off" anyone.
This is just a beginning. There is much more that we can say. But the point is this. To thrive, as individuals and communities, we have to have a clear story, as Regele and Schulz put it, a "grand story" that helps us understand what we're doing and being in the world. This story must be compelling. They say, "Passion is a response to a hope larger than oneself that compels people to give themselves to the cause." So very true!
Passion and clarity are inseparable. Dithering, insipid, wishy-washy vagueness does not generate either passion or commitment -- what people actually seek from us. We Episcopalians are part of a great story. New chapters are being written right now. We are learning to be one of many great traditions, all with value, while recognizing that for us the Christian story is most transformative and powerful. As we reclaim and proclaim our Christian story, refusing to let others define it for is, we will find our passion rekindled, commitment increased -- and we will thrive.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Forgiving Father
Father's Day Homily at All Saints Parish, San Leandro, California
Today, all around the country, we celebrate Fathers' Day. I'd call it a celebration of fatherhood, but that's too abstract. I think it means a lot more to celebrate Dad, Daddy, Pop, Papa -- or in the case of my dad, The Old Guy, The Major, or just "The Maje."
Some of you know that I had a pretty, well, complicated relationship with my father. A few years ago, I tried an experiment that really improved things. I took a moment to think about what my father had accomplished by the time he was my age.
I'm 45 now. When Ron Droste was 45, it was 1976. He had already been married 22 years -- he'd stay married to the same person until his death in 2002. He had already retired after a 20+ year career as an Air Force officer, was in the middle of a 15-year high school teaching profession and getting ready to start his own business. He was a Vietnam vet.
He had fathered five children, two of whom had died in infancy and are buried outside Travis AFB. His three surviving kids have three college degrees between them, two master's, a PhD in physics and one in a Doctor of Ministry program. He knew how to get things done, and he enjoyed showing others how.
Perhaps his best quality was his high concept of honor -- of what, exactly, was honorable, just and fair. It guided him. I'm really proud of my dad. I miss him. A lot, sometimes.
Now I don't want to get all Hallmark here, with fuzzy edges, like when they spray hairspray around the periphery of the camera lens to get that kind of misty, weepy quality. I'd rather be real. My father was a full human being, a man of real power in himself. That means he had flaws, and our interactions were colored by powerful, deep and often irrational emotions.
He could be unbelievably stubborn (now you know where I get it from), and had a hot temper, and a low threshold for inconvenience. He could be sarcastic and imperious, even contemptuous. He could hurt with a look -- not saying a word. These things didn't make Ron Droste bad. They made him complete.
Most of you know that my father and I had more than our share of conflict. It was sometimes savage. At one point, we were pretty much estranged for six or seven years. I moved all the way across country to get the distance I needed to sort things out -- and I've stayed out here ever since. But over the years three action steps helped to heal the relationship to the point where for the last 10 years of his life they were really pretty wonderful.
These are those three steps. First, I had to make an intentional effort to appreciate what my father had brought into my life. Second, I had to make amends where I had fallen short, and ask forgiveness. (This involved admitting that I wasn't always the perfect son, letting go of the childish self-justification that made everything his fault.) Then I had to accept and forgive where he had fallen short, disappointing or infuriating me. (Please note I didn't say approving or condoning, just cultivating acceptance). Only in doing these things could I come to peace in my relationship with my dad.
It doesn't take much to see our relationship to God mirrored in our relationship to our dad. It's well known that on a very deep level, the kind of God we choose to believe in tends to take on the characteristics of the father we have (or had). Our relationship with that God, or Higher Power, mirrors that relationship with our human father.
This leads to pretty predictable outcomes. We deeply want our fathers' love and approval -- so we naturally want our Father's approval, too. We hold our fathers up to intense scrutiny and expectation -- and so, do we, to our Father. We rebel against authority at the same time we need healthy structure and boundaries -- and we relate to the Father in the same way.
In his book The Death of the Church, Mike Regele notes that in times where authority and institutions are built -- like the 40s and 50s, God "the Father" made sense. It was comforting. People believed in the benevolent authority of a Robert Young, for instance. In periods of great mistrust, on the other hand, like the 60s and the present, we chafe under Father language and try our best to ignore or replace it. Who, after all, would want a God like the Donald Sutherland character in Ordinary People or Archie Bunker? We resist the concept. Yet we can't escape it.
We can use some of the same techniques for coming to peace with our relationship to a "Father God" as we can to our human fathers. An intentional, ongoing practice of gratitude can go a long way to help. Looking at our own faults clearly and compassionately, and asking forgiveness. And the third -- we can accept and forgive God where we believe God has let us down.
You're probably saying to yourself, "Wait a minute. Forgive God? Who am I to do that?" Forgiving God is almost as difficult as, well, forgiving our dads. It implies that God can somehow make mistakes, that we can somehow judge God. I'm suggesting that not only can we do so -- but that it can help us get much closer to God than we are right now. That it can help us deepen our relationship to God, as Father.
In railing against God and holding God accountable, we have good company. Daniel Migliore, of Princeton Theological Seminary, once wrote of this in his wonderful book Faith Seeking Understanding. In it, we learn of an approach from no less a theologian than Elie Wiesel -- who says that the Jewish people have every right to call God, their Father, to accountability for the Holocaust. This comes as a result of being of one another in special, familial relationship. And think of Job, righteous old Job, sitting on the garbage heap demanding that God account for himself. In both cases, they own one another. They belong to one another.
For us, forgiving God is part of that kind of deep relationship. It's about us finally exhausting ourselves with resentment and anger toward God the Father, and saying "I just want to be free. I forgive. I love feeling forgiven by you. I know judging you is about my limitations, but it's the best I've got. I forgive you, too."
In the movie Smoke Signals, a remarkable film based on Sherman Alexie's remarkable book, the main character, a young Indian man, searches for his father. At the end, over a beautiful montage of shots of a flowing mountain river, the narrator asks a series of questions. I don't have them verbatim here, but the sense of it is this.
Can we forgive our fathers for being who they are? Can we forgive them for being too involved in our lives or not involved enough? Can we forgive them for working too hard or being lazy? For burning with rage or freezing with contempt? Can we forgive them for being too strong or too weak? For being around too much or never there?
Of course we can. Or at least we can work toward it. We love our dads, and we love that part of God, or Higher Power that we would consider Father. In allowing ourselves to forgive them both, we open up a broad channel, a real relationship. A relationship of power.
Today, all around the country, we celebrate Fathers' Day. I'd call it a celebration of fatherhood, but that's too abstract. I think it means a lot more to celebrate Dad, Daddy, Pop, Papa -- or in the case of my dad, The Old Guy, The Major, or just "The Maje."
Some of you know that I had a pretty, well, complicated relationship with my father. A few years ago, I tried an experiment that really improved things. I took a moment to think about what my father had accomplished by the time he was my age.
I'm 45 now. When Ron Droste was 45, it was 1976. He had already been married 22 years -- he'd stay married to the same person until his death in 2002. He had already retired after a 20+ year career as an Air Force officer, was in the middle of a 15-year high school teaching profession and getting ready to start his own business. He was a Vietnam vet.
He had fathered five children, two of whom had died in infancy and are buried outside Travis AFB. His three surviving kids have three college degrees between them, two master's, a PhD in physics and one in a Doctor of Ministry program. He knew how to get things done, and he enjoyed showing others how.
Perhaps his best quality was his high concept of honor -- of what, exactly, was honorable, just and fair. It guided him. I'm really proud of my dad. I miss him. A lot, sometimes.
Now I don't want to get all Hallmark here, with fuzzy edges, like when they spray hairspray around the periphery of the camera lens to get that kind of misty, weepy quality. I'd rather be real. My father was a full human being, a man of real power in himself. That means he had flaws, and our interactions were colored by powerful, deep and often irrational emotions.
He could be unbelievably stubborn (now you know where I get it from), and had a hot temper, and a low threshold for inconvenience. He could be sarcastic and imperious, even contemptuous. He could hurt with a look -- not saying a word. These things didn't make Ron Droste bad. They made him complete.
Most of you know that my father and I had more than our share of conflict. It was sometimes savage. At one point, we were pretty much estranged for six or seven years. I moved all the way across country to get the distance I needed to sort things out -- and I've stayed out here ever since. But over the years three action steps helped to heal the relationship to the point where for the last 10 years of his life they were really pretty wonderful.
These are those three steps. First, I had to make an intentional effort to appreciate what my father had brought into my life. Second, I had to make amends where I had fallen short, and ask forgiveness. (This involved admitting that I wasn't always the perfect son, letting go of the childish self-justification that made everything his fault.) Then I had to accept and forgive where he had fallen short, disappointing or infuriating me. (Please note I didn't say approving or condoning, just cultivating acceptance). Only in doing these things could I come to peace in my relationship with my dad.
It doesn't take much to see our relationship to God mirrored in our relationship to our dad. It's well known that on a very deep level, the kind of God we choose to believe in tends to take on the characteristics of the father we have (or had). Our relationship with that God, or Higher Power, mirrors that relationship with our human father.
This leads to pretty predictable outcomes. We deeply want our fathers' love and approval -- so we naturally want our Father's approval, too. We hold our fathers up to intense scrutiny and expectation -- and so, do we, to our Father. We rebel against authority at the same time we need healthy structure and boundaries -- and we relate to the Father in the same way.
In his book The Death of the Church, Mike Regele notes that in times where authority and institutions are built -- like the 40s and 50s, God "the Father" made sense. It was comforting. People believed in the benevolent authority of a Robert Young, for instance. In periods of great mistrust, on the other hand, like the 60s and the present, we chafe under Father language and try our best to ignore or replace it. Who, after all, would want a God like the Donald Sutherland character in Ordinary People or Archie Bunker? We resist the concept. Yet we can't escape it.
We can use some of the same techniques for coming to peace with our relationship to a "Father God" as we can to our human fathers. An intentional, ongoing practice of gratitude can go a long way to help. Looking at our own faults clearly and compassionately, and asking forgiveness. And the third -- we can accept and forgive God where we believe God has let us down.
You're probably saying to yourself, "Wait a minute. Forgive God? Who am I to do that?" Forgiving God is almost as difficult as, well, forgiving our dads. It implies that God can somehow make mistakes, that we can somehow judge God. I'm suggesting that not only can we do so -- but that it can help us get much closer to God than we are right now. That it can help us deepen our relationship to God, as Father.
In railing against God and holding God accountable, we have good company. Daniel Migliore, of Princeton Theological Seminary, once wrote of this in his wonderful book Faith Seeking Understanding. In it, we learn of an approach from no less a theologian than Elie Wiesel -- who says that the Jewish people have every right to call God, their Father, to accountability for the Holocaust. This comes as a result of being of one another in special, familial relationship. And think of Job, righteous old Job, sitting on the garbage heap demanding that God account for himself. In both cases, they own one another. They belong to one another.
For us, forgiving God is part of that kind of deep relationship. It's about us finally exhausting ourselves with resentment and anger toward God the Father, and saying "I just want to be free. I forgive. I love feeling forgiven by you. I know judging you is about my limitations, but it's the best I've got. I forgive you, too."
In the movie Smoke Signals, a remarkable film based on Sherman Alexie's remarkable book, the main character, a young Indian man, searches for his father. At the end, over a beautiful montage of shots of a flowing mountain river, the narrator asks a series of questions. I don't have them verbatim here, but the sense of it is this.
Can we forgive our fathers for being who they are? Can we forgive them for being too involved in our lives or not involved enough? Can we forgive them for working too hard or being lazy? For burning with rage or freezing with contempt? Can we forgive them for being too strong or too weak? For being around too much or never there?
Of course we can. Or at least we can work toward it. We love our dads, and we love that part of God, or Higher Power that we would consider Father. In allowing ourselves to forgive them both, we open up a broad channel, a real relationship. A relationship of power.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
What Christians Believe
Adapted from a leaflet distributed at York Minster, in England. I found it to be clear, simple and helpful.
Many people believe in God. Indeed, there are worldwide religions professing such belief that are older than Christianity, and have more adherents. But only Christians believe that God reveals himself in his Son, Jesus Christ.
Jesus was born in Palestine nearly two thousand years ago and was crucified when he was just over thirty. God raised him from the dead -- and thus guaranteed for all time that good will triumph over evil, love over hate, and life over death.
Christians believe that the spirit of God is always active in the world, and that the members of God's church can share in Christ's work -- loving, doing good and sacrificing themselves for others.
Sometimes Christians feel confident in their faith. At other times they are full of doubt; life seems futile, cruel and overwhelming. Most of the time, Christians live in an unexciting middle area, neither powerfully convinced nor totally faithless.
Christians know, however, that Christian life is an adventure, a voyage of discovery towards a final and permanent vision of God. Life is a journey to that moment when we will share the life of God forever.
Many people believe in God. Indeed, there are worldwide religions professing such belief that are older than Christianity, and have more adherents. But only Christians believe that God reveals himself in his Son, Jesus Christ.
Jesus was born in Palestine nearly two thousand years ago and was crucified when he was just over thirty. God raised him from the dead -- and thus guaranteed for all time that good will triumph over evil, love over hate, and life over death.
Christians believe that the spirit of God is always active in the world, and that the members of God's church can share in Christ's work -- loving, doing good and sacrificing themselves for others.
Sometimes Christians feel confident in their faith. At other times they are full of doubt; life seems futile, cruel and overwhelming. Most of the time, Christians live in an unexciting middle area, neither powerfully convinced nor totally faithless.
Christians know, however, that Christian life is an adventure, a voyage of discovery towards a final and permanent vision of God. Life is a journey to that moment when we will share the life of God forever.
Inspiration from England
Meditation
Where Can We Find Answers?
Adapted from a leaflet distributed at York Minster, in England.
Life of course makes men and women ask questions. Why are people killed in wars and earthquakes? Why do people suffer cancer and insanity? Faith in Jesus Christ shows the direction in which the answers are to be found.
In one of the most cruel deaths men have devised, God appears to us. On the cross the Son of God carries the burden of the world's sin and suffering. He is submerged in human misery; yet to those who trust him, he gives a joy they could not make for themselves.
This man with outstretched arms and with nails through his hands is the signpost to the mystery of God. He is a truth more marvellous than anyone could imagine.
Questions for reflection/meditation
Where Can We Find Answers?
Adapted from a leaflet distributed at York Minster, in England.
Life of course makes men and women ask questions. Why are people killed in wars and earthquakes? Why do people suffer cancer and insanity? Faith in Jesus Christ shows the direction in which the answers are to be found.
In one of the most cruel deaths men have devised, God appears to us. On the cross the Son of God carries the burden of the world's sin and suffering. He is submerged in human misery; yet to those who trust him, he gives a joy they could not make for themselves.
This man with outstretched arms and with nails through his hands is the signpost to the mystery of God. He is a truth more marvellous than anyone could imagine.
Questions for reflection/meditation
- How is it helpful to you to think that God is (or even might be) "submerged in human misery"?
- What helpful or hopeful information does the signpost of a crucified man give you about the nature of God? God's mystery?
- What might this meditation invite you to know about God and your relationship to God today?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
