Hunger

Fasting during Lent is a discipline that goes back to the early church. To this day, many Christians abstain from food and drink on certain days during the calendar. While not explicitly commanded by the Bible, the purpose of fasting is to learn discipline, to gain control of those things that are indeed within our control but that we so often allow to control us. That is, if we can't discipline ourselves in terms of what goes into our mouths, we will hardly be in a position to discipline ourselves with regard to what comes out of our mouths. Some see fasting as a particular sacrificial act that unites our hungry bodies with the suffering of Christ on the cross.

Today's lectionary text speaks of radical faith in the face of famine:

Though the fig tree does not blossom,
and no fruit is on the vines;
though the produce of the olive fails,
and the fields yield no food;
though the flock is cut off from the fold,
and there is no herd in the stalls,

yet I will rejoice in the Lord;
I will exult in the God of my salvation.

(Habakkuk 3:17-18)

Praising God when there is a famine is radical faith at its utmost. I bitterly complain when I have to eat leftovers and can't have Chick-fi-la or Chipotle. Wars have been and will be fought due to food shortage. Anthropologists have learned that our ancient ancestors necessarily binged on high-calorie foods when available so that now our DNA is hard-wired to crave such foods. Now, the CDC states that more than one-third of U.S. adults are obese. 

The paradox, though, is that 48.1 million Americans live in food insecure households. This says nothing of the hundreds of millions across the world who are chronically malnourished. For millions upon millions there is no fruit to be found on the vine. 

Lent is a time for us to remember how things ought to be. We can start by fasting in order to catch even the smallest glimpse of what millions experience every day. This doesn't have to be some huge, grandiose act or life-threatening. Simply give up a favorite food or drink for a day, and unite your spirit with the millions who suffer each day. Then make a donation to your local food pantry, send a donation to Food for the Poor, or some other way of sharing the grace of God with others.

Ash Wednesday Reflection

Today is Ash Wednesday, a day which reminds us of our mortality. Bound up with our mortality is another dreaded word: sin. The word itself is most unpleasant despite the action itself being very pleasant because we struggle with the weightiness of what sin represents. Seeing sin (especially in others) doesn't require much effort. Newcomers to faith can easily become bogged down in their own faults. Too much focus on sin leads to despair in God's grace. However, aren't the pages of the Bible are filled with references to sin? 

In one of today's lectionary readings, God, speaking through the prophet Amos, says, 

For I know how many are your transgressions 

and how great are your sins - 

you who afflict the righteous, who take a bribe, 

and push aside the needy in the gate. (5:12)

Being my own worst enemy, I can know just how much an asshole I can be at times. Do I really need God keeping tabs, as well? 

However, this verse is part of a larger text which resolves itself by adjuring,

Seek good and not evil,

that you may live;

and so the LORD, the God of hosts, will be with you,

just as you have said. (5:14)

Taken together, it's not only a call for repentance but a promise of grace. It finds an echo in another one of today's lectionary texts:

Let us lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God. (Hebrews 12:1b-2)

Christ meets us on Ash Wednesday in order to say, "I died, too, in order to overcome sin even though I wanted to live, just like you want to. But because I died and rose, your physical death is not the end for you, either!" 

As we begin the season of Lent, it's a time for us to interrupt the way things are in order to remember how things ought to be.

Advent and Time

I'm impatient.

Standing in line or sitting in a waiting room (or, dare I say, waiting to see a doctor once you've made it to the exam room) can be excruciating at times. Sometimes I find myself mindlessly staring at my phone, realizing that I've already checked my e-mail and messages a dozen or more times already, hoping that it will find some other way to entertain me and relieve my boredom. 'Should I check YouTube?' 'Has someone posted something new on Facebook?' 'Maybe I should just look at the old stuff on Facebook...again.' 'I guess I could browse Amazon.'

Our culture has shifted our mode of thinking about time and our place in time. Time is a measured concept. It's less of a space that we inhabit, and more of a track that we proceed along. Our lives, including all of our needs and responsibilities, proceed according to schedules. We frequently speak of the "rhythm of life" as if it were piece of music, with beginning, middle and end. 

We've lost the fluidity and transcendence of both time and life. Older civilizations and generations once thought of time as simply divided into three parts: past, present and future. Then some philosophizing was required to to uncover the relationship between these three parts.

My favorite philosopher and theologian, Augustine of Hippo (354-430), once attempted to unravel this very relationship. In his Confessions, he asks,

For what is time? Who can easily and briefly explain it? Who even in thought can comprehend it, even to the pronouncing of a word concerning it? But what in speaking do we refer to more familiarly and knowingly than time? And certainly we understand when we speak of it; we understand also when we hear it spoken of by another. What, then, is time?

Time is paradoxical. It is everywhere around us and yet we cannot identify it. We can't put our finger on it. Time pervades our language (words such as "now," "then," "gradually," "first," "end," "eventually," etc.), and, as already mentioned, it dictates our lives, but, as Augustine asks, what is it?

He continues,

If no one ask of me, I know; if I wish to explain to him who asks, I know not. Yet I say with confidence, that I know that if nothing passed away, there would not be past time; and if nothing were coming, there would not be future time; and if nothing were, there would not be present time.

We sense time. We know it when we "see" it. We know it because of the events which take place within it. Events are like signs on the highway or landmarks. We have some general sense if we've passed some certain sign or landmark or if we're approaching it. Tied up with the concept of "time" and "event," though, is memory. How could we understand time without memory?

At this point, Augustine's thought displays the complex, confusing character of attempting to discuss the nature of time:

Those two times, therefore, past and future, how are they, when even the past now is not; and the future is not as yet? But should the present be always present, and should it not pass into time past, time truly it could not be, but eternity. If, then, time present — if it be time — only comes into existence because it passes into time past, how do we say that even this is, whose cause of being is that it shall not be — namely, so that we cannot truly say that time is, unless because it tends not to be?

In short, the separation between past, present and future is razor thin. Or, as the ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus once said, "You never step in the same river twice." Each successive nanosecond binds us to the past as much as it carries us into the present and shooting forth into the future. Even while we're standing in the river of time, the river continues to flow, fresh water circulating from past to present to future.

And it is only when time ceases to be, at the end of all things, that this flow definitively ceases.

And so, when we talk about "waiting" at Advent, it becomes necessary to see that Augustine's philosophy of time explains this waiting better than our contemporary society. We are not waiting according to some specific timeline or chronology. Rather, the thing for which we are waiting - the coming of King Jesus - has already happened, is happening and will happen. All at once.

That's the mystery of Advent. That's the mystery of time. And that's the mystery of our Christian hope.

Listening to Advent

Whatever happened to Advent?

Indeed, Black Friday would have us believe that Christmas is already here, that somehow we've fast-forwarded through an entire month! And as much as I love "I Want a Hippopotamus For Christmas" or Nat King Cole's velvety voice (you know which song I'm referring to) as much as the next person, let's not forget that 'tis the season for waiting, preparation and joyous expectation.

So, here it is: your Advent playlist from various traditions with brief commentary.

1. A Maiden Most Gentle

Written by Andrew Carter, an Anglican, this increasingly popular hymn reflects on the mother of the Jesus. Sometimes we forget to reflect on the fact that Jesus was born. To a woman. This issue rocked the early church and was a source of intense debate for many years. In the end, the universal church declared the Virgin Mary to be "bearer of God."

2. Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus

This classic, familiar hymn was published in 1744 by Charles Wesley, brother of John Wesley, who founded the Methodist Church. Charles Wesley was a prolific hymnist, publishing over 6,000 hymns, and penned many of our most familiar hymns, including as "Christ The Lord Is Risen Today," "Love Divine, All Loves Excelling," and "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing."

3. In The Bleak Mid-Winter

 Based on a poem by 19th century English poet Christina Rossetti, the lyrics merge past and present. While we don't actually the true historical date that Jesus was born (no, he wasn't actually born on December 25th), our own mid-winter celebration of the birth of the Christ becomes part of the nativity narrative. The poem is a reminder that we don't merely prepare for some phantom but the true, living Jesus. English Composer Gustav Holst set the poem to music in the early 20th century. 

4. Creator Of The Stars And Night

This ancient hymn was originally composed in Latin during the 7th century. We don't often think to reflect on the crucifixion of Jesus at Advent, but, according to the long tradition of Christian understanding, this was why Jesus came in the first place. This solemn hymn is a reminder of that:

Thou, grieving that the ancient curse
Should doom to death an universe,
Hast found the med’cine, full of grace,
To save and heal a ruin’d race.

5. O Come, O Come Emmanuel

Like "Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus," this hymn is the great indicator for many church-folk that Advent has arrived. Have you ever paid attention to the words, though? Israel is lonely in their captivity and exile. But there's this eternal promise which is looked for. Wisdom will come from On High.

6. The King Shall Come

To close out our playlist, I've chosen this hymn by Presbyterian hymnist John Browlie. This beautiful hymn should be allowed to speak for itself:

The King shall come when morning dawns,
And light triumphant breaks;
When beauty gilds the eastern hills,
And life to joy awakes.

Not as of old, a little child
To bear, and fight, and die,
But crowned with glory like the sun,
That lights that morning sky.

O, brighter than the rising morn,
When He, victorious rose,
And left the lonesome place of death,
Despite the rage of foes;—

O, brighter than that glorious morn,
Shall this fair morning be,
When Christ, our King, in beauty comes,
And we His face shall see.

The King shall come when morning dawns,
And earth’s dark night is past;—
O, haste the rising of that morn,
That day that aye shall last.

And let the endless bliss begin,
By weary saints foretold,
When right shall triumph over wrong,
And truth shall be extolled.

The King shall come when morning dawns,
And light and beauty brings;—
Hail! Christ the Lord; Thy people pray
Come quickly, King of kings.

Prayer AND Action

In the wake of San Bernadino, when the ire of the certain groups has trended towards "prayer-shaming" in order to express frustration with lawmakers' inaction to take more concrete steps in reducing the threat of gun violence, what we need is the wisdom of Benedict of Nursia (c. 480 - 543/7).

The current state of affairs is that liberals, who mostly identify as non-religious, are fed up with conservative lawmakers, who are mostly religious, taking to social media in order to offer their "prayers" for the victims of the latest mass shooting rather than passing legislation to curb access to guns. The Atlantic did a good job of characterizing these frustrations.

I don't want to get into the politics of the debate because those politics run much too deep for me to consider. Rather, in the wake of this polarization and dichotomy between prayer and action, we, as Christians, must not lose sight of the fact that our prayer and action inform each other. We learn this from Benedict of Nursia. In his Rule, Benedict writes, "Ora, lege, et labora": "You need to pray, read, and work." It is not uncommon to see "work" interpreted as "action."

There is no preference for one over the other. There is no excuse for praying and not acting, and reflecting on our actions in prayer is beneficial.

We may find it blasphemous to think that prayer is not enough. Doesn't Scripture speak of prayer's effectiveness?

Therefore I say to you, all things for which you pray and ask, believe that you have received them, and they will be granted you. (Mark 11:24) 

So I say to you, ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. (Luke 11:9)

The righteous cry, and the Lord hears and delivers them out of all their troubles. (Psalm 34:17)

But let's not forget that in the life of Jesus there was both prayer and action. The balance between the two brought them into perfect harmony. Consider that we find Jesus in the Gospels spending the night in prayer immediately preceding the most significant moments in his ministry: his baptism, choosing the Twelve Apostles, and not least in the Garden of Gesthemane. Jesus, sharing our humanity, made the time both to experience and draw strength from his communion with God, and all that followed, consciously or unconsciously, became an expression of his prayer.

This is the model that all of us are called to follow.

And so, as we consider the tragedy that has befallen not just the community of San Bernadino but the whole world; as we experience the pain and the loss and the grieving with them; as we grow ever more weary of our world of violence; let's follow the example demonstrated by Jesus and written clearly by Benedict of Nursia: prayer AND action.

Advent and Confession

"Confession" is a troubling word. 

First, we have to actually make the time to examine our consciences. Please notice that I wrote "make" time, not "take" time. There are two verbs involved here: making the time then, once that is done, examining ourselves. This double exertion is most unpleasant, I know.

Second, after examining ourselves, we must recognize the disturbing events, actions and words we've committed which require confessing. Now, in that luxury of time that we've granted ourselves, we have to recall all those things for which we already felt guilty in order to feel guilty again! Isn't it easier to just mumble a prayer of "Sorry, God" and then move on with life? German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer responds to this question,

We must ask ourselves whether we have not often been deceiving ourselves with our confession to God, whether we have not rather been confessing our sins to ourselves and also granting ourselves absolution.

And this leads to the third troubling aspect of confession: to whom do we confess?

We in the Protestant tradition have actively disdained the Roman Catholic concept known as the Sacrament of Penance (or Reconciliation). We're uncomfortable with the idea of confessing our sins or our problems to a priest, often derided as "another person."

However, don't we already confess our sins, brokenness and problems to other people all the time? Truly, while we may not recognize it as "confession," we tell these things to our spouses, our family, our friends, our therapists/counselors. Sometimes we even tell the world on Facebook or Twitter or even through the images of InstaGram and Snapchat.

Facebook, Twitter and all forms of social media speak to our need for connection. We yearn to know that we're not alone in the ways that we think and feel and act and talk. And yet we're ashamed by the way we think and feel and act and talk. Bonhoeffer would agree:

To stand there before a brother as a sinner is an ignominy that is almost unbearable. In the confession of concrete sins the old man dies a painful, shameful death before the eyes of a brother. Because this humiliation is so hard we continually scheme to evade confessing to a brother.

I would propose that we, especially in the Protestant tradition, are thinking about confession all wrong. It's not some unpleasant chore or invasion of privacy or "airing of one's dirty laundry," but it's a gift. It's a gift inviting us to freedom. Freedom from all the troubles of life.

Advent is a time of waiting, but it can also be a meaningful time of confession. Preparing a place for Jesus doesn't just mean setting up a creche in our home or church, but getting our own hearts straightened out. And there should be no better place for confessing one's sins than in our church communities. Once again, Bonhoeffer says:

Who can give us the certainty that, in the confession and forgiveness of our sins, we are not dealing with ourselves, but with the living God? God gives us this certainty through our brother. Our brother breaks the circle of self-deception. A man who confesses his sin in the presence of a brother knows that he is no longer alone with himself; he experiences the presence of God in the reality of the other person.

You can find the fuller text of Bonhoeffer's thoughts on public confession here.

Advent and Anxiety

My friend Sarah recently posted about her anxiety and the concrete steps she's taken to combat it.

I, too, have anxiety.

Being that my anxiety is probably genetic or, at least, a learned behavior, it's been there my whole life, but I actually came face-to-face with it only a few years ago. To be more specific, I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder. German Existentialist philosopher Martin Heidegger (1889-1976) might say that we all suffer from a generalized anxiety disorder.

In Heidegger's seminal book, Being and Time, he differentiates between "fear" and "anxiety." Fear is always fear of something threatening, some particular in the world. Let's say that I have a fear of hunger. Fear has an object, and when that object is removed then I am no longer fearful. Someone places a hamburger in my hand, and I am no longer fearful for a time.

Anxiety is different. If fear is fearful of something particular and determinate (e.g., hunger), then anxiety is anxious about nothing in particular and is indeterminate. If fear is directed towards some distinct object, or particular, then anxiety is anxious about our being-in-the-world, or, in other words, our everyday, world-immersion existence.  No darkness, despair or night sweats needed. For Heidegger, such anxiety can occur anywhere at anytime, plague us with a feeling of meaninglessness, and yet be "nothing and nowhere." 

What does Heidegger's gloomy message and anxiety have to do with Advent?

For Heidegger, anxiety makes us self-aware and this self-awareness leads to our freedom from other persons and things. It is a freedom to become and think for myself.

As followers of Jesus, our reference point is much different.

The Scriptures speak to us: "Be anxious for nothing"

"Be anxious for nothing."

Imagine. "Be anxious for nothing."

And then the Scriptures go on to tell us how: "[B]ut in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God" (Philippians 4:6, NASB).

We all know in this most joyous season of the year, it's also a trying one. Loneliness, loss, anxiety and fear all come unexpectedly rushing to the surface. Those we love and no longer see because of death, divorce or estrangement; what we have; what we don't have; what we are losing: it all comes up in this season without warning. Martin Heidegger might say that his philosophy is correct...

...but Advent invites us to rest and relax in the simple, quiet peace of God, which we'll never understand. Advent is here to remind us of what is at the center. Advent urges us to take a break from all of our plans, worries and lists in order to prepare a place for the coming of Jesus and the coming of God's peaceable and peaceful kingdom. And so, when we pray, "Come, Lord Jesus," we pray for the peace that only he can bring.