American Eavesdropper

Consolidation

2007-12-17T10:32:00.000-06:00

I've decided to consolidate my religious observations and random thoughts/updates on life into one blog, for four main reasons:

1. If I am to have any discipline in my blogging, I can't be worrying about what kinds of thoughts go on which blog.
2. Why should my theological/academic life be so compartmentalized from my everyday/professional life?
3. I'm the only one who updates our theoretically joint-family blog, so it's kind of just "mine" already.
4. Facebook only allows you to import notes from one blog, which is already set to be the other one.

So, from now on, check me out at mattandjesskelley.blogspot.com. It's titled "The Parsonage Family," which identifies it as a family-update blog, but it is also the relatively unique platform out of which I speak, as both a pastor's wife and a religious historian/culture-watcher.

See you there!

Grace vs. Truth

2007-10-05T17:10:00.000-05:00

I am currently reading Dan Kimball's book that is making a splash right now--They Like Jesus but Not the Church. (Even as a devout Christian, I can connect with that title--the Church can often frustrate and infuriate me to a degree nothing else can!) Overall, I've been pretty impressed with Dan's ability and commitment to understand both his Christian reader and the non-Christian acquaintances whom he interviewed for the book. In earlier chapters, he was even adept at speaking to both more conservative and more progressive church leaders, particularly in the chapter on the treatment of women--he argued his points in an intelligent way that would be useful to both "complementarian" and "egalitarian" congregations (that is, those who only allow women to teach women and children, and those who believe women can also be called into the same preaching and teaching roles as men).

As I'm now in later chapters, I'm disagreeing with some of the things he says, but those issues aren't the point of this post. I want to talk about something Dan says while discussing how church leaders can compassionately reach out to homosexual persons. "Church leaders need to find a balance between grace and truth," he says, arguing that pastors should present their views on homosexuality without being legalistic or overtly condemning. I understand that Kimball strongly believes that homosexuality is unequivocally wrong, and thus "the truth" equals the "your lifestyle and love are sinful." His definition of grace, then, would be a message of "we are all sinners and in need of God's forgiveness." The question that immediately came screaming to mind: Can grace and truth really be at cross-purposes?

If religious truth is defined as God's message to humanity, wouldn't grace be truth itself? How can there be such thing as a balancing act between grace and truth when the ultimate truth is that God loves us all, and that we should do likewise? Shouldn't the truth that church leaders express to people (even those whom they believe are committing more egregious sins that the rest of us) be the truth of grace?

I know that the flaw of my argument here is that many church leaders would not define the ultimate truth of God as love, but rather as righteousness, and I actually think in that flaw lies the answer to my original question. We all have our own understanding of truth, and chances are, none of us has it exactly right. (That's why I use little-T-truth, because I don't think any of us can fully grasp God's big-T-Truth in this earthly life). So, with our limited human understanding, there may very well be a gap between our understanding of truth and our expression of grace (as Dan implies), but I hope that when faced with this choice, we'll choose to err on the side of grace.

Florez: Music to Theologically-Reflective Ears

2007-10-05T15:39:00.000-05:00

I spend two hours a day in my car, now that we live so far from my workplace in downtown Nashville. It’s not so bad, though, since I am a person who needs a lot of alone-time, and since I’ve always been an unabashed car-singer. I’m the one rocking out in the VW next to you at the stoplight. The last few days, I’ve been listening to my favorite album by a band that got its start at Furman University while I was there—Florez, their second album In Flight, released in 2005. Florez is led by Alex Florez, a fellow religion major of the Class of 2003. He and I even proofed one another’s term papers for our senior seminar. I wish I still had a copy of it to sell on eBay when they get really big.

The personal connection is very cool, but they’re also just really talented musicians. I didn’t personally know the other band members, though I ran into one of them at the post office one day, now that they’re based in Nashville, and we recognized each other as fellow Paladins. Their songs are witty and energetic, eclectic rock with elements of bluegrass (thanks to the electric-banjo), Latin, and hip-hop thrown in. What I really love, though, are the religious references and imagery throughout. Take the song Behold, for example, which is about human fallibility (AKA sin):

He’s who saved us from our troubles in the first place
Like when the serpent dangled fruit in front of her face
He’s the last one standing even in the worst case
But his promise is to help you forget just how bad this curse tastes

While the above lyrics seem to adhere to a very orthodox doctrine of original-sin, most of the imagery they use is reflective of a imaginative and deeply passionate Christian spirituality. I sense that in many ways, they are responding to the brand of extreme conservativism professed by some of the dominant Christian groups at Furman, while Alex's outstanding education in religion and theology is evident throughout. Consider the song Live Instead, which objects to many Christians’ obsession with the afterlife. The chorus expresses the beautiful irony of atonement and communion.

Eat the bread and drink the wine
Partake the fruit of the vine
Drink the wine and eat the bread
Swallow death and live instead

Later in that song is a verse so obviously inspired by a downside of the Furman experience—the fact that more moderate or liberal Christians were essentially considered non-Christians, and real dialogue between more conservative and more liberal Christians was difficult, if not non-existent.

I’ve heard your sermons and all of your philosophies
And I won’t forget ‘em ‘cause you just won’t stop accosting me
I’m done hearing your lessons until you end your condescension
And agree to sit across from me and talk to me
And try to get along with me
Admit you’re not alone in trying to plant the sowing seed
But your pedestal’s so high that I just won’t be surprised
If the air up there gets too thin and it’s hard for you to breathe

The last song I want to mention is Forgiving You, which originally was not one of my favorite songs musically, and I initially assumed it was about an interpersonal relationship. As I’ve listened to the lyrics more closely, though, I think it is about man forgiving God for ways he’s been hurt by the church or other things for which he blamed God, and not only that, but I think the song is two-sided, in that parts may also be from God’s perspective, forgiving man. In any case, I think it’s an intense song of reconciliation. Anyone who knows this song want to throw his or her two cents in?

That’s the end of my review/viral marketing effort. Bottom line, Florez is treat for the mind and soul as well as the ears, and a must-listen for theologically reflective people and music-lovers everywhere.

A Consistent Ethic of Life

2007-09-23T21:12:00.000-05:00

We ate at a Chinese buffet restaurant today after church, and my fortune read, "You are vigorous in word and action." I would agree that I often am, and I actually had proved that statement true just a few hours earlier during Sunday School. People at Bethlehem are fairly moderate, so I don't disagree with everything said, but sometimes it seems that only one person responds to a question or comment by the teacher, and their unchallenged statement seems to become law. So, I feel obligated to speak up when I disagree, not so much to prove my point but just to demonstrate that genuine people of faith can disagree about important issues.

Today, we looked at a passage in Matthew 17 about paying the temple tax, and someone asked, "are there times when obeying the law is not moral, or when being moral is illegal?" Somehow, the conversation came to the death penalty (I don't remember exactly how), as someone expressed exasperation at a judge who said that the death penalty by lethal injection was cruel and unusual punishment. The group discussed that for a minute or two, when I felt compelled to interject, "whether or not the injection is painful, isn't the point that the death penalty involves killing a human being?" This launched further debate, and I felt bad for seeming harsh with those who are in favor of the death penalty. As we got up to leave, I assured a few people around me, "I would be just as harsh arguing against abortion!"

It seems like an odd point of which to assure people, I guess, but I didn't want to seem like the crazy liberal in the group, but rather to assert that I hold to a consistent ethic of life, as the Catholic church and some other Christian groups do. I am very much against abortion (even under the circumstances for which most laws make exceptions), and the death penalty (take a look at Genesis 4:14--in response to the first recorded murder in history, God said the killer was not to be harmed), and also against war. This is the especially tough one.

When the class member first asked the question about the conflict between morality and legality, the first thing that came to mind was war--the draft, or this supposed "rendering unto Caesar what is Caesar's." I feel that it is wrong to kill, under any circumstances, even in war. Since America is currently at war (though not officially), and we now live in a town with a large military base, I did not feel brave enough to bring up that issue in Sunday School. And really, I don't know exactly how I would have argued it. Preserving human life seems to be a pretty basic principle among God-lovers, but so many American Christians make an exception when it comes to "patriotic service to the country." I haven't really studied politics much, but I assume that a military is pretty much an absolute necessity for a nation (how does Switzerland do it?). So, the moral difficulty really seems to come in that Christianity is a popular, majority religion.

For early Christians, the Christ-like commitment to non-violence would have been easier, since they were a small sect, outside of the dominant Roman population. Similarly, Quakers and the Amish today are able to stay faithful to their consistantly pro-life ethic and decline military service. Catholic and Protestant Americans, however, are the religious majority in America. This is no excuse, but rather is another example of how the Emperor Constantine helped create a world in which it is more difficult to be Christ-like, because theoretically everyone is a Christian.

How are we to live, when the dominant culture and our faith overlap as much as they do? As Soren Kierkegaard suggested, in a culture where everyone is a Christian, is anyone a Christian? Who will "defend us" if Christians refused to bear arms? Once again, practicality and morality are at cross-purposes, and the question of how to live as Christian in today's world is a daily dilemma.

Wow, I'm pathetic

2007-09-18T22:31:00.000-05:00

I am the worst blogger in the world. It has been almost six full months since I last posted here on my more "thoughtful" blog. I have been sidetracked by Matt and my joint, life-events blog, The Parsonage Family, and I don't even post on that more than a few times a month, at most.

At the time of my last post, on March 25, I was facing the end of my career in market research, and didn't even yet know if my dream job was going to come through. (I think that was actually the day before my interview with the gentlemen who are now my bosses.) In any case, I've been an Associate Editor for about 5 months now, and I love it. It can be pretty stressful at times, since the execs expect me to do things that I don't think even an older, more experienced editor could do! I have more of a workaholic tendency than I ever thought possible, but most days it's gratifying to have so much (generally interesting and exciting) stuff to do.

Matt and I have also moved as a result of Matt's appointment to a United Methodist church in a town (small city?) about 50 miles outside of Nashville. So, I'm commuting about an hour each way, which is much more tolerable than I expected. Beginning our first solo pastorate at this relatively small congregation (actually, quite average-sized, in the great scheme of American churches) has been interesting, and has sparked many conversations between Matt and I about ecclesiology, worship styles, preferences, etc.

The most thought-provoking matter of late stemming from both Matt and my new jobs is rooted in the vast difference between the large, innovative churches I focus on at work (and in my personal/academic interest in trend-setting American congregations), and our new church that embodies all that is typical of the United Methodist denomination and really, the majority of American congregations overall.

Not venturing far from the title of this post, though, I'm going to save the actual launch into those ecclesiological issues for another day. It's bedtime now.

Sabbath for Man

2007-03-25T10:13:00.000-05:00

It's 10:13 on Sunday morning. Since Crievewood now has an early morning service, I am often away from church by 9:30 or 10:30 (depending on if I stay for Sunday school). Sometimes I go to Starbucks, or to a park, or just come back home to do laundry or relax on the back patio. Wherever I go, I love to observe the people who aren't in church. Perhaps they went early, like me, or maybe they went to a Saturday evening service, or perhaps they are not the churchgoing sort at all. It is this last bunch that I am most intrigued by.

I observe them partially because I wonder what it is like to not feel any sort of obligation to go to church every Sunday. I was raised always going, and now that I'm a pastor's wife, people will nag my husband to death if I don't show up. There is guilt involved in not going--like staying home from work or school sick when you're not really that sick. I remember in college, someone once told me they dress up to go to the dining hall on Sundays for lunch, because those who have come straight from church would judge him if he showed up in pajamas. So, I watch with interest those who show up at Starbucks in jeans, or those playing with their kids at the park who don't appear to have come straight from church. They seem to have come to these places for the same reason I have, only without having put in the requisite hour in worship first. They have come to relax, to have fun, to enjoy the beautiful day and have a few moments to themselves before heading back to the office on Monday.

I do not wish to deny the importance of singing praises to God, praying, or discussing issues of spiritual importance. I often find, though, that my hour of relaxation is more worshipful and centering than my hour or two spent in the structured worship setting. I also notice the joy of those who passed go without collecting their wine and wafer. This is their sabbath as well. As Jesus told his critics, "Man was not made for the sabbath, but the sabbath for man." God did not designate a sabbath day so that we should feel burdened by obligation, but so that we can experience time free of obligations--time to relax and rejuvenate ourselves for six more days of work. I sometimes wonder if those who have skipped church altogether understand that concept more than the rest of us.

Sins of Omission

2007-03-07T10:20:00.000-06:00

I discovered the blessings of Lent in college. Raised in a less liturgical Protestant tradition, I came to understand and appreciate the liturgical calendar more when I began attending a wonderful Episcopal Church during my junior year. I acknowledged Ash Wednesday for the first time my senior year, and participated in several Lenten services and disciplines the church offered. I also "gave something up" for Lent for the first time that year--pork and shellfish, I think it was, channelling a kosher vibe.

Since then, I have given up chocolate, beer, beef, all meats, etc., as many do during this time of year. I practice these omissions with a keen determination not to be doing so for a selfish gain, like losing weight or whatnot, but rather to focus on filling that void with prayer and reflection on God. I have done so with varying degrees of success, and vividly recall the thick prime rib I wolfed down on Easter 2005.

This year, I decided that rather than giving up something, I would give up myself--that is, give of my time and energies for others. I planned to use Cool People Care's "5 Minutes of Caring" to guide my actions. Two weeks later, I hadn't looked at the site since Ash Wednesday. I decided then to start a daily discipline of reading the daily lectionary and setting aside time for prayer. I have also failed in that endeavor, and lament that I am "wasting" this Lent by not using this time of preparation to focus myself on God and my spiritual life.

Obviously, Lent is not the only time one can or should focus on such things, and I have increased my time spent in prayer as I seek God's comfort and guidance though this "limbo stage" in Matt and my careers. However, the lesson that really comes to mind from my "failures" these past few weeks is, once again, how much harder it is to actively do something than to avoid doing something. Many Christians today insist that the keys to living a moral life are not drinking, not smoking, and not having extramarital sex. While avoiding these indulgences may help one to have a healthier body and avoid emotional baggage (benefits God surely wishes us to enjoy), do such omissions really help one be more Christlike? How much more discipline and faith does it require to actively give of one's time and resources for the less fortunate? To practice selflessness and peace? Which would God prefer? What does the Lord require of us, but to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God?

I am reminded of a humorous coincidence that is quite relevant here. I have a cousin named John, whose birthday is March 16. Some family members call him "John 3:16" for that reason. When I started dating my now-husband, I thought I'd check out his "birthday verse" since he happens to have a gospel writer's name. Matthew 11:19 is actually quite fitting for Matt: "For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they say 'he has a demon.' The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say 'here is a glutton and a drunkard'... but wisdom is proved right by her actions." Some Christians would (and do) criticize my pastor-hubby for his enjoyment of alcohol, but as the verse says, Christ reveals the logos by his actions, not by his temperance. It seems followers of Christ should strive to do the same.

Vocation and Avocation

2006-12-22T15:30:00.000-06:00

Vocation literally means "calling," though we colloquially use the term to describe what we do for a living, which I'm pretty sure for most people is a far cry from what they really want to be doing, or what they believe God wants them to be doing. Avocation, strangely, would seem to literally mean "non-calling," though to most of us, our avocation--the thing we really want to be doing, and enjoy doing--is much more likely what we are "called" to do in this world.

As I struggle with what educational or career moves to make to escape the boring and thoroughly unstimulating thing I do for a living now, I have been thinking about these terms in both their literal and colloquial meanings. What should I do for a living? What am I called to do? What do I want to spend my time doing? Ideally, these would all be the same, though I know plenty of people make themselves happy by focusing their energy and sense of purpose and well-being on things they do outside of work.

Allow me to analyze the vocation options I've been considering, simply for the sake of getting it out in writing. (If you were hoping for more philosophical musings, you can stop reading now. This post is purely selfish.)

As I said in my last post, I would love to teach religion to high schoolers. Why? It would satisfy my desire to read and discuss topics in religion and culture, and to influence the next generation concerning the importance of such matters. On the other hand, I've learned in my year and a half in the "real world" that I'm not a big fan of being at the mercy of a pre-set schedule. Being a high school teacher definitely does not afford the freedom of control over my own life that I so desire, and that will become even more important when I have children. Though I feel chained to my isolating, fluorescent-lit cubicle now, I probably have more freedom in my current position (in market research for a religious company) than I would as a teacher. My current position affords me the opportunity to study religious trends, which is important to me, and yet I am still unhappy here.

My current job is theoretically a viable option, if I could really make something of this position. I am planning to start a new church-trends newsletter in January that will use my religious education, and also help the company, I hope. Nevertheless, I want to escape this cavern and get an office near a window ASAP, and earn the opportunity to work on my own schedule or in a location of my choosing.

Professorship is something I have long considered, and feel really would be a good fit for me. It affords the same intellectual stimulation and opportunity for influence as at the high school level, but with much more freedom of schedule. (Two classes a day plus one office hour? Sure beats 8 hours in front of a computer!) I can see myself with my laptop or a stack of papers to grade, sitting at the campus coffee shop, chatting with students as they pass by... It's a beautiful image, and not entirely out of the question. The problem is simply the fact that I do not want to go back to Vanderbilt right now (or perhaps anywhere) and trudge my way through the intimidating level of competition one too often finds in groups of young academics. Let's put that one on the back burner.

Being an editor of religious books also sounds very appealing to me. It offers the scholarly environment I crave, while also using some of my primary talents--grammar, rewriting, and attention to detail. The main challenge here is that such positions are rare. I check the job listings on our company intranet every day to see if one has opened, and there must be ten sales or financial positions listed for every creative job that appears. This is my goal for the moment, now, though, and while I feel qualified for such a job (if one would just open up!), perhaps there are things I could do to make myself even more highly marketable. The step I have tentatively decided to take is to pursue a program in graphic design, in order to learn the technical skills I need to professionally do what I enjoy as an amateur now. If I must stay in my current position for another year, hopefully the creative outlet I find in these evening classes will motivate me to find/invent work to occupy my days. If I find an editing position, the design techniques I learn should only enhance my layout and typography skills.

Sounds like a plan, Stan. (Unless I change my mind... again.)

What should they know?

2006-11-16T15:01:00.000-06:00

I haven't posted in a while, both because I have been busy (getting married a month ago--yay!) and because I haven't been thinking very many deep thoughts, outside of my own fearful lament that I don't know what to do with my life. The passion I felt in the months right after my Divinity School graduation, the drive to return for a Ph.D. in religion, has fizzled, killed by my feelings of annoyance with the egotystical and overly-competitive academic community. (Thank goodness I audited a class this term--it washed the rose-colored haze off of academia.) Not that I wouldn't still love to be a professor, to help mold young minds to think more critically about issues of religion and culture, but for the moment, at least, I am not willing to put up with the B.S. and constant feelings of inadequacy that I would have to endure to pursue a Ph.D.

I've contemplated pursuing higher degrees in history, rather than religion, taking classes in graphic design, starting my own papercrafting company, and looking for better jobs in the business world. I have days where there are glimmers of excitement around one or more of these ideas, while overall, I just feel blase about work in general, but one thing that sounds (possibly) more appealing than the rest, is teaching religion in high schools. This is constitutional, even in public schools, though public schools are more wary, for obvious reasons. (Some public schools do offer such electives, however.) Parochial schools, of course, offer religion classes of the sacred sort, sometimes to the exclusion of critical reflection on the subject. Independent private schools seem to be the major market for this service, so I think about marketing myself to such schools, but I worry--with no educational experience, and with a subject that many schools shy away from anyway--could anyone be convinced to hire me? Before I even tackle that challenge, though, the question I should really think about is: What would I teach high schoolers about religion? What should they know?

The overall goal of such education is to broaden students' understanding of the world around them, and to help them view and analyze religion as a cultural component like art, politics, entertainment, etc., only with even more power to affect human behavior than those other elements. Religion is, of course, also useful in history and english classes, when one understands the narratives, themes, worldview-shaping doctrines and collective memories of various religious groups. I would want to expose students to the religious texts and major doctrines and histories of the major world religions. We would discuss the major components of religion as a concept (sacred text, ritual, boundaries, etc.), and the differences between cults, sects, and religions. We would talk about the psychology and sociology of religion. The students could analyze data from religious polls, like I do in my current job, and watch for trends in religious perspectives and biases evident in the vocabulary of both survey and respondent. We could read books and view movies that have brought religion into mainstream culture, like Left Behind, The DaVinci Code, etc. We could look at the impact of religion in politics, particularly the last presidential election, and look at the use of religious rhetoric in political arguments. I would give them a paper assignment to analyze how religion affected an incident in history, or how it influences the sides of a political or social debate.

Yeah. That could be really great. Yes, it could challenge the faith of some students, and the comfort-level of their parents, but it would also open their minds, and make them more discerning individuals. It would show them that religion is relevant to practically every part of human existance, and is not something relegated to Sunday School or tiny enclaves of "religious fanatics" (as a classmate of mine in high school used to refer to anyone who was even mildly religious). Maybe I could build relationships with students and engage them in real dialogue. Maybe I could get them thinking in a way that could transform their entire lives. Maybe I could convince someone to give me that opportunity.

Qualified to Lead, part 2

2006-08-18T10:11:00.000-05:00

Now almost finished with the (rather boring) book I mentioned in the last post, I’ve been thinking more on the issue of the “qualifications” it takes to serve a church or preach the gospel “properly.” I use parentheses there because those are obviously subjective terms that possibly should not even be applied to spiritual matters.

Who could possibly be unqualified to ponder the mysterious ways of God? We all observe nature and experience love—things that cannot help but turn our eyes heavenward. We all read and hear things that others assert about God and life, and weigh those things against our own thoughts, considering the options and coming up with our own theories. (And yes, we do all do that, even if some people’s conclusions end up looking a lot like what was on FoxNews or what Pastor JimBob said.) Is preaching more than just passing on those thoughts and theories publicly?

The revivals of the early 19th century frontier fed off of random, self-appointed preachers. Some people heard a sermon, had a religious experience, and felt inspired to hop up on a stump and preach themselves, all in the same day! They spoke of what they knew—their own experience of God’s love and power to change lives. Others, of course, were free to hop up on their own stumps and contradict what had just been said, but the revival being such an experience-based environment as it was, the point was not who had the “real truth” about God, but that people had been transformed.

I don’t mean to imply that the “real truth” about God is not important. While I don’t believe anyone can come to a complete understanding of God in this life (or perhaps even in the next), I do believe we can all strive to know and understand more and more, growing closer to God in the process. That is the point—not that one knows the Truth and passes it along, but that all are trying to gain a better understanding as time goes on. There is something about the free discussion of ideas and individual understandings of God that was crucial during those revivals that seems to have become secondary in the modern church. As I concluded in the last post, the role of pastor/preacher is to educate the people on theological matters only to the extent that the people can take that proposition as a jumping off point for their own consideration. Many churches today (and throughout history, I am quite sure) use the pulpit as a platform from which to “tell ‘em how it is,” straightforward, no questions asked; but even in those churches where open-minded, reflective pastors aim to inspire reflection among their congregants, there is little or no public discussion of various laypersons’ ideas and experiences of God.

Perhaps more people would be transformed by preaching nowadays if congregations made it a priority to get up on our treestumps (or sofa cushions) and tell each other what we’ve been thinking about God recently. That’s something for which we are all qualified.

Qualified to Lead

2006-07-28T21:00:00.000-05:00

Now that I've finished a few books that were on my personal to-read list, I am diving into Prof. Kathleen Flake's "American Religion Ph.D. Must-Read List." Essentially, the literature in which she believes any doctoral candidate in American Religion must be proficient. First up, Nathan Hatch's The Democratization of American Christianity. I'm familiar with his analysis (not a unique one) that religion in America took on a populist character, in keeping with the democracy guiding it politically. He begins by discussing the debate between Yale- and Harvard-educated theologians/ministers and the illiterate field preachers that were popping up all over the place in the early 19th century.

The elites and the commoners make similar arguments to what one might hear today between liberal divinity school graduates and those who attended Bible colleges, or between long-suffering, hoop-jumping United Methodist candidates for ordination, and young Baptists who were ordained at eighteen with no formal theological training whatsoever.

I definitely agree with Hatch's analysis, in that the freedom to determine for oneself what one believes, and the sufficiency of enthusiasm to empower one to preach is a thoroughly American concept, but I'm not sure where I come down on the issue in practical, modern-day terms.

Raised in the Disciples of Christ tradition (one of Hatch's major examples in this book), I vehemently reject creeds, as well as the notion that ordained clergy have special authority when it comes to administering sacraments like baptism and communion. (In the Disciples church, any baptized person can perform these sacraments.) On the other hand, I have a high-quality theological education, and firmly believe that historical-critical knowledge of the Bible, and objective analysis of religious history make my fellow scholars and I particularly qualified to teach and lead others in matters of religion. I feel that my academic studies have led me to a better understanding of God, and as a result, a deeper relationship with God. Does this make me more qualified, then, to provide leadership to a congregation, than I was when I was "merely" a baptized Christian, without theological education? Should all believers have equal authority and ability to proclaim the gospel (in both word and deed)? Or should academic training be a must for all those preaching from a position of authority?

I believe firmly in my right to accept or reject doctrines based on my own conscience and reason, and also in my capacity to share the blessings available to me as a Christian with others (in the form of sacraments). Leadership of a congregation, however, requires more than a sound mind and a giving heart--it requires the ability to spur other minds to their own understanding of the Gospel. Any faithful person could stand up and tell others what he or she believes about God, and listeners may either agree or disagree. A well-educated pastor, however, can tell others what many various schools of thought have believed, and ask the right questions of his or her listeners, in order to lead them to their own understanding of God. This is true spiritual leadership.

Reminiscing

2006-07-27T09:21:00.000-05:00

I’ve really been missing college recently. My time at Furman University stimulated me intellectually and spiritually in ways I have not experienced before or since. It’s nice to be an independent adult, earning money, living in a pseudo-house rather than an apartment, owning a pet you don’t have to hide from authorities. And, of course, it’s definitely nice to be marrying a smart, loving, visionary man, and being in a relationship (with him) that is friendship-based and stable, without all the drama of teenage and even college relationships.

But, there’s still something about those mild afternoons by the Furman lake, sipping café mochas (my gateway drug into real coffee, post-college) at the Tower Café, keeping my best friend company while she worked in the religion-department office, eating those awesome black bean cakes in the Dining Hall, praying in the Chapel, hearing lectures by Will Willimon and Martin Marty, and other people with chicly-alliterative names. I’m odd, I guess, in that my most transformative experiences in college actually were the classes—Religion & Culture, and Religious Approaches to Meaning with Dr. Blackwell, Hebrew with Dr. Bibb, Astronomy with Dr. Moffett, who really, truly, looked and sounded like Drew Carey. I recall chatting with Dr. Granieri about Russian history, then traveling to Russia and Central Europe with him and 26 other Furmanites.

I’ve been perusing Furman’s website the last couple days, reminiscing, and I’ve read a few of the “Freshman Journals”—a brilliant idea of the admissions office (for whom I used to give tours, happily bragging on Furman’s academics, arts, and friendly atmosphere). Six freshmen kept online journals all year, mainly for the purpose of letting prospective students catch a glimpse of real life at Furman. I started with Claire, an obviously popular-girl-type Army brat who had tons of school (and hall) spirit from day one of orientation-week, and not-surprisingly joined KD when rush came around in January. She talked about parties and brother-sister hall gatherings, and all the “amazing women” in her sorority, and I was filled with nostalgia for a college life…completely unlike my own.

I hated the forced mingling of orientation. I was glued to my computer, e-mailing with friends from high school. Even after I adjusted to college life, I still preferred one-on-one chats with a friend to a whole-hall game night or fraternity party. It wasn’t until junior year that I really found my niche and made close friends. While tempted to say I’d do it differently, if I had it to do over again, I have to admit that probably not too much would change. I am a very different person now than I was at eighteen, but I’m still introverted and sometimes downright anti-social. I would still value my significant-other more than a hall-full of potential-friends. I would still feel awkward at parties and feel out of place with both the religious conservatives and the gregarious, socially-confident, let’s-all-hang-out-in-a-big-group sorts of people.

But that’s okay.

My college experience was wonderful, and it is primarily what is driving me toward the next academic step I hope to take: getting my Ph.D. and teaching at a liberal arts college. I hope to go back to Furman for a long weekend sometime, and remember the way I lived it—the way I loved it. I’ll set up my laptop at a table by the lake, sip a latte, and work on my dissertation.

Miller and Roper recommend...

2006-07-12T00:11:00.000-05:00

(Ebert is sick, haven't you heard?)

In any case, I just wanted to take a second to recommend one of my favorite websites when it comes to analyzing American religion and culture, which I love to do.

The blogger, Slacktivist, AKA Fred Clark, has been reading Tim LaHaye and Jerry Jenkins' Left Behind, a page or two per week, for over a year, and elaborating in his Left Behind blog on various theological and cultural issues raised by these Bad Writers and their shallow characters. From literalism and dispensationalism to evangelicals' misconceptions about non-evangelical culture, Fred--himself an evangelical--offers a critique that fundamentalists and atheists alike read religiously. (Pun intended)

Take a look. You will not regret it.

Dust

2006-07-11T22:38:00.000-05:00

Approximately four-and-a-half years ago, I discovered the wonder and beauty of high-church worship. Admittedly, this took several months of steady attendance at an Episcopal church, given that I grew up Disciples of Christ, a notoriously anti-credal, anti-liturgical denomination. Once involved in that Episcopal congregation, I observed Lent for the first time, beginning with that most unusual of high holy days, Ash Wednesday. I decided then and there that it was my favorite religious holiday.

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return," the priest intoned, marking an ashen cross on my forehead. While most ash impositions I've seen through the years end up looking like a smudgy thumbprint on the forehead, mine was a well-defined Greek cross an inch-and-a-half tall and wide. I wore it proudly, feeling a profound and silent connection with others I saw who had received ashes that day, knowing that they too embraced this ritual too often forgotten in most Protestant traditions.

I find the Ash Wednesday liturgy so meaningful because of those words spoken as the ashes are imposed: "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." Combine that with the overall message of solemnity and repentance preached that day, and one will be reminded of the brevity of life, and the weight one's relationship with God carries, given the fleeting and relatively (to the "great scheme of things") insignificant nature of our earthly existence.

While many may take issue with my assertion that our lives are insignificant, let me explain that I cling to that thought out of horror that the burdens of stress, depression, and feelings of inadequacy may really matter in the long run. Rather, I cling to the hope that those things don't really matter, and that my petty human worries will, at the end of my days, seem like specks of dust in the vast expanse of infinite time and space. The writer of Ecclesiastes seems to understand this line of thinking, asserting "Everything is hevel." "Everything is meaningless," some English translations say it, but a more accurate translation is vapor, vanity, or dust. Everything is vapor. All we are is dust in the wind, as the song says.

I remember a night in college, during the semester I took Astronomy. Having learned just how vast the universe is, and how small even our whole galaxy is in comparison to all of space, I looked up at the sky with a new perspective. Distressed over whatever guy was causing me trouble at the time, I cried out to God, and yet at the same time thought, "why should my problems matter? If the Milky Way is but a speck, how small is Earth, and how much smaller is my own aching heart?" Yet, in the midst of that existential realization, I believed that God still cared, no matter how small I am. It was I who needed to see my problems as but a speck.

As one of my favorite Christian songs says, I am a flower quickly fading, here today and gone tomorrow, a wave tossed in the ocean, a vapor in the wind. Still, You hear me when I'm calling, You catch me when I'm falling, and You told me who I am. I am Yours. That "still" is so poignant there, offering the listener the dual comfort of knowing the difficulties of one's life are fleeting, and yet God still cares.

I, for one, feel lucky to be dust.

Liberality of Love

2006-07-11T20:42:00.000-05:00

I was raised a Republican. Fiscal conservatism was next to godliness in our house, and my father no doubt beamed with pride when in ninth grade, I wrote an essay called "Personal Responsibility and the Welfare System." My parents, thus, did not know what had come over me when late in college, I began to say things like "give to all who beg of you," and "turn the other cheek." That was not the Jessica--or the Jesus--they knew.

"Liberal" was a dirty word in our house, mainly equated with permissiveness. Liberals were those who didn't make people work for their livelihood, those who let guilty people walk free, and who didn't teach their children the evils of smoking, drinking, and sex.

Senior year, I learned a new definition to that nasty word. Dr. Blackwell, my favorite professor and mentor, often used the term "liberality of love," discussing the all-encompassing generosity with which Christ calls us to live our lives. Rather than a synonym for libertine, I came to understand "liberal" in the same sense a recipe would call for "a liberal amount of sugar." Not a willingness to allow all things without upholding standards, true liberalism is a willingness to give and give and give. To love and love and love.

Perhaps if liberals embraced this self-definition, and expressed their positions on welfare, war, life, and family in terms of a standard of caring for all humanity, others would understand that liberals do in fact stand for something, and that something is the thing that Christ told us was everything. Love.

Make 'em Wonder

2006-06-22T09:14:00.000-05:00

I was listening to Avalon on the way into work this morning. I admit it, I like cheesy Christian music, and while I disagree with the theology expressed in some songs, I find them uplifting, overall. The song "The World Will Wonder Why," was playing, and after choking on the first few lines "I wonder... how some can look so hard and miss the Truth," as if the complex evangelical atonement theory and whatnot is just plain and obvious, we moved on to the main message of the song, that the best method of evangelism is living by example: "If you and I will shine His light...hearts discover life when we decide to let ours go..." Good stuff.

Thinking on what it means to live a Christian life that others will see and want to emulate, I began to wonder what the songwriters meant, what God wants from our outward lives, and how I live my life. My fiance, Matt, likes to tell the story of how Campus Crusade guys in college would tell him not to go to parties because then others will notice they don't go to parties, and wonder what is different about their lives. "No they won't!" Matt explains, "because they already know what's different--they know you're an uptight ass who won't associate with people outside your little faith-group." On the contrary, Matt went to parties, enjoyed his beer (responsibly, most of the time, we hope), talked theology over games of pool, and helped people get back to their own dorms or houses safely at the end of the night. He believes that set a better example of Christ's love than avoiding the situation altogether, and actually did get asked about his faith a few times. I imagine the guy holed up in his dorm with a few Crusade buddies did not.

Obviously, I side with Matt's interpretation of what it means to live one's faith in a visible way, but I ask myself what my own life would say, if someone were watching it for cues about my faith. I struggle with depression and feel very negative about life much of the time. I try not to be a downer in public, but I'm sure my behavior generally does not reflect the "happy all the time" image that would attract attention in today's stress-filled world. Is there another way to show that I have an active relationship with God, and that my life is better with that relationship than it would be without it? I really have no answer to this question. I hope that expressing attitudes of peace and love for all, and trying to avoid the selfish and money-centered ways humans tend to make gods of themselves says something, but who knows? If you listen to many Christians today, drinking, smoking, and sex are the world's greatest evils, which all true Christians will avoid. I admire the ascetic, self-disciplined life, but when you really think about it, doesn't it take a lot more self-control to avoid materialism, self-centeredness, and self-righteousness, than to say "no, thanks" to a glass of beer?

Long Live the Dunkers

2006-06-06T09:21:00.000-05:00

"When we were first drawn together as a society, it had pleased God to enlighten our minds so far as to see that some doctrines, which were once esteemed truths, were errors, and that others, which we had esteemed errors, were real truths. From time to time, He has been pleased to afford us farther light, and our principles have been improving, and our errors diminishing. Now, we are not sure that we are arrived at the end of this progression, and at the perfection of spiritual or theological knowledge; and we fear that, if we should feel ourselves as if bound and confined by it, and perhaps be unwilling to receive further improvement, and our successors still more so, as conceiving what we their elders and founders had done to be something sacred, never to be departed from."

This quote, from a man named Michael Welfare, appears in Benjamin Franklin's autobiography, as he describes a discussion he had with Welfare, his good friend. Welfare, a founder of a religious sect called the Dunkers, complained that adherents of more mainstream religious groups were badmouthing the Dunkers, accusing them of outrageous beliefs that they did not actually hold. Franklin advised Welfare that if his group were to document their beliefs in writing, detractors could be more easily disproved. Welfare, however, responded with the above statement, arguing that they would not reify their beliefs by putting them on paper and thus making group members less likely to accept God's subsequent revelation. (The Dunkers were obviously quite attuned to their own potential for cognitive dissonance!) Neil Postman, in whose work, Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business, I read of Franklin and Welfare's conversation, summarizes Welfare's point like this: "Thou shalt not write down thy principles, lest thou be entrapped by them for all time" (p.31).

I wrote in the margin, "Therein lies the primary problem with bibliolatry." Bibliolatry--idolizing or worshipping the Bible--is a sin to which most Christians would deny their propensity, yet it seems to run rampant in Protestantism today, as many consider the Bible, and not the still-active voice of God, to be the most reliable source of divine revelation. Obviously, there is a Catch-22 at work here, as Christianity may have quickly died out (as did the Dunkers; thus an air of wistfulness should be read into my title) and we wouldn't be having this conversation at all, had there been no Bible to carry the stories of Jesus and Ancient Israel across the centuries. Nonetheless, how much more might we all experience God, how much more might our knowledge of God be "improved" by "farther light," as Welfare says, if we were open to God's ongoing revelation?

The United Church of Christ has embraced this idea in their recent PR campaign, "God is still speaking," symbolized by a giant comma on their billboards, mailings, and TV ads, but of course, we know how much most Christians value the input of this far-left end of Protestantism. In a recent conversation I had regarding Mormonism, and why some Christians regard the LDS church as a cult, rather than a sect of Christianity, my conversation partner said that one of the primary reasons is that Mormons claim to receive new revelations from God beyond what is written in the Bible. While part of the protest may be the content of some of these revelations, I suspect a large part is simply the recent date and nearby location of these revelations. Yes, God spoke thousands of years ago, over in the middle east, but not in the 19th and 20th centuries, and not in New York state! Such proximity seems strange to us, and we tend to doubt its authenticity, just as we doubt murderers who say God told them to do it, and homeless people who ask us to help finance their mission from God.

My senior seminar in college was on Hinduism and Buddhism--definitely not my area of primary interest--and each member of the class was assigned a faith community in the Greenville area to study, interview, and interact with. Mine was the Sathya Sai Baba group, a sect of Hinduism whose primary avatar, or incarnation of God, was a man named Sathya Sai Baba, whom they affectionately call "Swami." Swami was known for performing miracles, healing the sick, blessing the unfortunate, and having his photograph taken. Yes, Swami is a modern day figure, born in 1926, and still alive today. I admit, it was very odd to see photos on altars of this cheery, round-faced man in his orange tunic and foot-wide afro, and know that people believe him to be divine. It did, however, give me a new perspective on how first century Jews must have viewed Jesus. Here's this shabby, impious man, claiming to speak for God and show even the most devout Jews how to better relate to God? How dare people call him the Son of God?! That's crazy! Sure, God spoke to Abraham and Moses...but God doesn't reveal himself anymore! Not here! Not now!

Why are we so averse to the idea that God could be still speaking to us today? The Bible has made us equate divine revelation with booming voices from Heaven, burning bushes, earthquakes, thunder, lightening. What about that still, small voice? Doesn't that count? Doesn't the overwhelming feeling I had that my grandfather--who seemed in perfect health at the moment--would not live until my next trip home, and that I should hug him a bit tighter, count as a divine nudge? Why do we stifle God with the ball-gag of our own fear and arrogance, when we could all stand to know him more? The Dunkers had it right. Let's not bind ourselves so furiously to what we think we know, and be open to knowing more.

"How will they know unless we tell them?" the missionaries say.

And how will we know, unless God tells us?

Behavior drives belief

2006-05-23T14:24:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite terms--and the most valuable lesson I took away from my Social Psychology class in college--is "cognitive dissonance." I use the term so often, seeing evidence of this psychosocial phenomenon everywhere in our culture, that my fiance laughs at me whenever we actually hear a legitimate expert say it on TV or in a magazine.

Cognitive dissonance is the natural tendency to make the various aspects of our lives--thought, feeling, and action--agree. It's why we get a knot in our stomachs when an idea or action goes against our "gut feeling," or why we feel confused when experience defies something we believe to be true. The best example I have of this tendency was in a relationship I had several years ago: I met a guy, went on a date, felt we didn't really "click," but kept going out with him because he was persistent and apparently liked me a lot. After a month or two of this, I found myself dating a person I didn't really like "like that." The dissonance between my action (dating) and my feeling (not liking), caused me stress, and the inate need to reconcile my actions and my feelings demanded that either A) I stop dating him, or B) I start liking him. Foolishly, I chose option B, and we both ended up miserable, but that's beside the point.

Today I found a grand example of cognitive dissonance in a podcasted sermon delivered at my parents' megachurch. The young pastor, (Preaching Minister #3) was explaining why Christians should not just write off The DaVinci Code as harmless fiction. One of his bullet points focused on the book and movie's assertion that the Bible canon was established by a committee of men, each lobbying for the books he found most palatable. "If the Bible is not the untarnished word of God," the preacher said, "then we are all wasting our time here at church."

It is not so much the content of his argument that I find intriguing, but his tactic. Probably not even realizing it, he relied on cognitive dissonance to convince the congregation of his point. Because most of the 18,000 people who heard his sermon last weekend have invested significant time, money, energy, and personal stock (i.e. actions and feelings) in their conservative Christian faith, choice A--"I stop coming to church and believing in Christ"--is obviously not an option, and would cause more of a personal crisis than the momentary confusion of beliefs that seeing The DaVinci Code might cause for them. Rather, choice B--"I do not accept this assertion that the Bible was tarnished by men"--is the clear choice, and Preacher #3 has convinced the congregation of his argument.

It's brilliant, really.

I am currently reading Consuming Religion, by Vincent J. Miller. Early on, Miller states that his book is not a "religion vs. consumer culture" story, as are many books and articles with similar titles floating around today. Those other books, he says, present consumerism as an ideology, not as a way of life, or a habitual action. They assume, he says, that "beliefs drive our behavior," while it is often the other way around. Behavior sometimes drives our beliefs. Now, I (and I assume Vincent Miller) are not insinuating that deeply-held beliefs do not have legitimate cognitive and well-reasoned bases. Still, it could be argued that our devotion to and defense of our beliefs are sometimes driven more by an inate need to avoid internal contradition between our past beliefs and the future beliefs we could hold if we were open to reconsidering what we believe to be true.

Preacher #3 closed his sermon with a segue into the altar call. Referencing the title of his sermon and the subtitle of Dan Brown's book, he said "If you are tired of seeking the truth and are ready to find the truth, I invite you to come forward..." My mind cringed as I listened. Why would someone want to stop seeking the truth??!! Because--dissonance of belief is uncomfortable, and it is our nature to avoid it. Cognitive dissonance may be a fact of life, but apparently it has the potential to halt the growth of our spiritual lives as well.

If you have to put it in quotes...

2006-05-19T13:09:00.000-05:00

Fundamentalism intrigues me.

I remember the day in my Religion in America class at Furman University when we watched a documentary about fundamentalist groups, featuring Greenville's very own Bob Jones University. I left class that day knowing I had found my life's calling--or at least my area of greatest academic interest. I psycho-analyzed Furman's most conservative religious organization, delivered a paper on an incident of Baptist limitation on academic freedom in Furman's history, and three years later wrote my master's thesis on the political action of the Religious Right in the 1970's.

Now, I am working in my first "real job," and biding my time til I can afford to return for my PhD. in American religious history. When the cubicle walls start closing in on me, I read contentious blogs, really appalling Chick tracts, and Concerned Women for America's website...for fun.

Today, I came across an article on CWFA.org, asserting that teenagers without proper parental supervision and the influence of a Bible-believing church are susceptible to the homosexual influences in American society, and will come to believe they are gay because no one has told them that homosexuality is a sin or that being gay will inevitably lead to a life of drug use, depression, and anorexia (see the end of the article). Interestingly, after her exposition on the dangers of public high schools and mainline denominations, the writer gives several examples of teenagers who have stumbled across CWFA's site and have written angry e-mails to the organization in response.

One angry young man she quoted said, "What happened to "Jesus loves everybody"? Oh, except you, you and you. You people are so closed-minded. It is people like you that cause teen suicides, for the teenage homosexual, one who is taught that it is wrong, sinful, etc. He is in such turmoil, being judged, by people like YOU!!"

The writer goes on to say that sometimes they try to engage these young critics in a dialogue, but that "it usually doesn't get very far, because they keep responding with different versions of the same irrationality. They frequently don't even want to hear about God's love or the saving power of Christ."

What intrigues me is what this writer didn't realize...that the boy already had heard about God's love, and that he knew that what he was reading on this website did not reflect it! The writer says teens are biased against traditional Christianity but does not recognize her role in creating this bias. All she can do is defend her organization, saying "We never express "hatred" toward homosexuals or anything like that."

All I can say is, if you have to put it in quotes, it certainly ain't love.