On the shelf: God and the New Haven Railway by George Dennis O'Brien

by David Heim



More than 20 years ago George Dennis O'Brien wrote a sparkling introduction to the God of Christianity. His small book had a quirky title: God and the New Haven Railway and Why Neither One is Doing Very Well, which captures something of his wry style as an apologist for the faith.

O'Brien, trained as a philosopher, doesn't attempt to offer knock-down arguments for Christian faith. In deceptively simple, witty prose, he considers what religion is driving at and how Christian (and other religious) claims might address the frustrations and longings of, say, the average New Yorker reader. "Religion is singing about the humanly unfixable," he remarks in a typically aphoristic mode. Being stuck on the New Haven Railway "is nothing compared to being ontologically stuck with sex and death."

O'Brien's brilliant essays deserve to be better known—and the book is now in print again, thanks to the University of Notre Dame Press.

Dr. Phil's 100-word spiritual audit

by Debra Bendis

I like to pick up O, The Oprah Magazine for the entertaining diversions of a new recipe, a new fashion look, elegant do-it-yourself floral arrangements and a page of book recommendations from an author or actor. Sometimes I find an inspiring first-person story.

But I always try to leave the advice and spirituality columns alone. So I winced when I stumbled into a section on "Oprah religion" (not available online). This time it came from her TV psychologist Dr. Phil, who offers ten ways in which it's "Time to Audit Yourself" for the new year.

This bit, number eight out of the ten suggestions, is Oprah's religion in a nutshell:

Are you being spiritually fed? Spirituality can be at the core of a healthy life, and yet we often neglect that aspect of ourselves because it's so difficult to quantify or even describe. But if you feel a void, then it's time to make a change from the inside out. If the path you've taken doesn't offer you peace, meaning, and purpose, then step off it and investigate new experience. This could be as simple as trying meditation or as far-reaching as studying a new religion. Don't be afraid to explore new spiritual options.

As I read this paragraph I became unnerved by the smarmy sanctimoniousness, and I thought about what I would have said if I'd been given 100 words in O for a spiritual "audit." Here are two responses to dear Dr. Phil.

The first is a mission priority of the Presbyterian Church. The change in pronoun from the collective "we" of the church to Oprah's best-selling "you" is mine—and yes, this tip is for Oprah's Christian readers or those considering Christianity's truths:

You are called to deeper discipleship through Scripture, worship, prayer, study, stewardship and service. You are to rely on the Holy Spirit to mold your life more and more into the likeness of Jesus Christ.

Then I found Romans 12:1-2 In Eugene Peterson's The Message:

Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him. Don't become so well-adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking. Instead, fix your attention on God. You'll be changed from the inside out. Readily recognize what he wants from you, and quickly respond to it. Unlike the culture around you, always dragging you down to its level of immaturity, God brings the best out of you, develops well-formed maturity in you.

What spiritual advice would you offer to the public for '09 if you had 100 words in O?

Am I allowed to say that this is wrong?

by Meg E. Cox

It is wrong for Palestinians to fire rockets at Israeli towns.

There. Now that I've said that, I believe it is okay to say that it's wrong for Israel to blockade Gaza so that people have no electricity for 16 hours a day, sewage can't be processed and hospital generators will go silent if fuel supplies run out. (See the editorial on the blockade in the current issue of the Century.)

May I add that it's wrong for people to lack enough food to eat because of a blockade? Causing children in Gaza to be without sufficient nourishment is wrong. This should not be happening.

What's that you say? In the Holocaust far worse was done to Jewish people, and I need to be sensitive to that? I agree. The Holocaust was horrifying, terrible. Never again should something like that happen, to anyone anywhere.

Now, as a U.S. citizen whose tax dollars have supported the Gaza blockade, I hope that it's acceptable to say that the blockade is wrong and needs to end. The entire population of Gaza, half of which is under the age of 15, should not be made to suffer for the offenses of those who fire the rockets.

Still not okay? How bad does Israel's treatment of the people of Gaza need to get before we're allowed to say that it's simply wrong? Now Israel is dropping bombs on Gaza's blockade-weakened towns and cities. Must we wait for something worse?

Blogging toward Sunday: Flesh made word

Second Sunday after Christmas Day
Jeremiah 31:7-14; John 1:1-18; Ephesians 1:3-14

by Tom Steagald

"The Gospel doesn't just contain ideas worth remembering," says Henri Nouwen in Reaching Out. "It is a message responding to our condition." He goes on to add that Christian doctrines "are not alien formulations to which we must adhere, but documentations of the most profound human experiences, transcending time and place, handed over from generation to generation as light for the darkness."

The fourth evangelist begins with doctrine, with profound human experience: "The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. . . and we beheld his glory." The eternal one became temporal, the infinite finite. The maker of all places and times moved into one time and place. In Jesus, the almighty embraced human weakness—and died violently.

But death is not the last word: as at both birth and resurrection, the creation's deep darkness is scattered by God's light. Because "the Word became flesh and dwelt among us," a particular moment in time and place becomes the "fullness of time."

The story of Jesus takes on eternal import and abiding significance. But to what end?

Sometimes I have to remind myself and those I serve of where we are in the story, the great and continuing narrative of God's way with the world. Ita is easy to forget, of course. Most of us have heard (and perhaps preached) way too many sermons presenting the gospel as preparation for tomorrow, a cozy retirement plan or catastrophic fire insurance. And we have read too much devotional literature teaching that our greatest challenge as disciples is getting more of Jesus into our busy lives.

The gospel, however, is more a way of living than a way of dying. And the goal of discipleship is not to get more of Jesus into "my life" but to get more of me into Jesus' life. The purpose of prayer is not to invite Jesus into our work but to answer Jesus' call to his.

And so the challenge is to remember what Jesus' work is, and how we have been summoned into it. With apologies to N.T. Wright, I find my bearings by rehearsing the biblical story in five sentences:

• God created the world and everything in and around it, and it was very good.



• Something went way out of whack—"awful bad wrong," as my grandmother used to say—and soon the world and its people languished under the weight of disobedience and indifference.



• God chose Abraham and Sarah's family and sent the law, the prophets and the priests and kings of Israel as a means of healing and peace for the broken world.



• In the fullness of time, God sent Jesus, the word made flesh, to heal the world in a way the law and its representatives could not.



• Jesus called us—his first disciples and all disciples since—to be the flesh of his word, the body of Christ, a piece of the continuing incarnation of God's healing and saving work.

This is who we are, where we are in the story. God was in Christ, and Christ is in us; God sent Jesus, and Jesus sends us. The word became flesh so that our flesh might become God's word—the bearer and best evidence of God's compassion, offered through us to a broken and lonely world.

Tom Steagald is a United Methodist pastor in Stanley, North Carolina. He's an ongoing contributor to Feasting on the Word (Westminster John Knox), and he blogs at Prayer Pilgrimage.

Blogging toward Sunday: Good news and bad news

First Sunday after Christmas Day
Isaiah 61:10-62:3; Psalm 148; Luke 2:22-40; Galatians 4:4-7

by Tom Steagald

The good news is not, of course, good news for everyone.

It surely is for the hungry, for those in the valley and for the bruised and broken earth. The psalmist calls the world and all in it to praise God's work of creation and re-creation, and not only God's people, but every single thing that has languished under the crushing burden of human sin and indifference.

But more than a few mouths will be clamped shut. Not everyone wants to sing praise for this news—not those who prosper by others' poverty nor those who prefer crooked paths to straight ones. Those who love the dark world just as it is will rage at the new fanfare, and chief among the dissenters will be the "rulers of the earth." (While they too are invited to join the descant, this may be pro forma, so that they are without excuse when all is set right.)

In short, the coming of the Messiah is good news and also very bad news, a sword with two sharp edges. It's a reason for rejoicing and for weeping. We see this in Simeon and Anna, the Nativity's odd couple. Anna was, well, unusual—most 84-year-old women do not spend all their time at the temple, praying and fasting. And although the text does not tell us Simeon's age or where he spent his time, he too was unusual, focused as he was on "looking forward to the consolation of Israel."

Simeon may have been a young idealist who stayed mostly away from the temple, distrusting those who had long since lost their own idealism—who were not looking for the consolation of Israel at all but simply for a way to survive. Perhaps the temple priests distrusted him, too—dismissed him—because they considered him a fanatic. After all, "the Holy Spirit rested on him," and that's always trouble for religious professionals.

Did Simeon come to the temple only on that day, urged or driven by the same spirit that kept Anna there day and night? Or was he too there every day, not praying and fasting, but scrutinizing all the new parents and babies and making everybody nervous?

I wonder whether Anna and Simeon knew each other. She was a wizened and fearless prophetess, and, if he was a young idealist, then together they may be the chiastic face of Psalm 148:12.

What we know for sure is that today there is both praise and warning, both joy and dread. Jesus is born, yet by this time in the liturgical calendar, Stephen is already dead. A sword will pierce Mary and all who love Jesus, as it will Jesus himself. But in the prescribed time—according to the calendar and promises of God—the world will be purified by Jesus' coming.

Tom Steagald is a United Methodist pastor in Stanley, North Carolina. He's an ongoing contributor to Feasting on the Word (Westminster John Knox), and he blogs at Prayer Pilgrimage.

Blogging toward...Christmas?

Those of you who are preachers: are you working on your Sunday sermon yet? We didn't think so. Perhaps you'll find this extra lectionary post helpful in planning those other little services you have to worry about first—it's based on the Nativity readings. The writer is Tom Steagald, who will be taking us through the seasons of Christmas and Epiphany. He'll be back tomorrow to blog us on toward Sunday. —Ed.

Nativity of the Lord, Proper III
Isaiah 52:7-10; John 1:1-14; Hebrews 1:1-12

by Tom Steagald

The Anglicans of John Wesley's day maligned him as an enthusiast. He dismissed their charge, but in fact song and praise were so central to the Methodist revival that Wesley himself enjoined his followers not to "bawl." In our own day, many of us Methodists—like other mainliners—have forgotten how to sing, distrusting or even disdaining self-forgetful praise. (The irony is breathtaking!)

It's even tougher at this time of year.

Every 12 months we lectionary types spend four weeks in the liturgical wilderness of Advent waiting for a reason to sing. But we've heard the good news so many times that it isn't really news at all. And modern voices are rarely tuned for genuine praise, whether it be at the announcements of the first angels, the words of the fourth evangelist or the sermon offerings of tired-from-the-holidays preachers. Even in the best of times, we don't sing much anymore—not old songs, not new songs, not any songs that have God as their subject and God's work as their object.

Doxology is difficult for the detached and analytical; it's really hard to sing with your fingers crossed. Our skepticism affects the vocal cords and pinches the nerve of praise. We find if safer to reflect on others' experiences, to interpret biblical praise in its original context, to explore the historical and sociopolitical development of Israel's convictions regarding the Christ.

Our hermeneutic of doubt allows us to understand how past generations invested Jesus' birth with theological significance without having to make a call ourselves. We get it, in other words, but we will not be gotten. We posit the truth of the gospel but refuse to hold the baby.

Yes, the narrative is interesting, and worthy of more thought and due consideration. But singing about it? Isaiah sees and hears beautiful-footed messengers urging even the ruins of Jerusalem to strike up the band. The gospel lesson is a hymn, for Christ's sake! But many of us demur.

This year we find our throats even drier. Our current wilderness is not only liturgical but economic, the dust in our throats the ashes of retirement funds. The ends of the earth may see God's victory in the collapse of empire, but we who have benefited from the "good times" of U.S. financial ascendancy are less able to sing than ever.

We like to consider ourselves God's people, but the Magnificat's promises—the mighty humiliated, the rich sent away hungry—put us on the wrong side of Bethlehem's tracks. Now that the mountains are brought low, can we sing the Lord's song?

Perhaps. We too are waiting for God to comfort the people, to restore the fortunes of the ruined. This Christmas season is rich with that prophetic possibility that God's restoration will come in a way we would never expect and could easily miss. The steadfast love of the Lord, if we have eyes to see it, can give us voices to sing praise to the Lord who announces salvation to ruined cities and people.

Tom Steagald is a United Methodist pastor in Stanley, North Carolina. He's an ongoing contributor to Feasting on the Word (Westminster John Knox), and he blogs at Prayer Pilgrimage.

A bowl of cherry

by Linda Buturian

The cherry bowl seems to call to me. So does the red wine. I sip from my glass as I move through the rooms of the new arts center in our town of Milaca, Minnesota (pop. 2,500). I gaze at the acrylic paintings, quilts and sculptures created by local artists; then I go back to the cherry bowl. It returns my gaze—like Yahweh in conversation with Ashera, or Rumi with his friend Shams. After another glass of wine, the bowl winks at me like Groucho Marx.

"The cherry tree blew down in a storm in St. Paul," Tam says. She has cropped gray hair and cheeks the shade of the bowl from years of tending acres of herbs and vegetables. "My friend called and said, 'If you can cut and haul it away, the tree is yours.' I've sold or given the other pieces to good friends. This is the last bowl."

Like the cherry bowl, the new arts center emanates hope. A few months ago this Main Street building was the office of an old man who boasted that a computer had never entered its doors. Various colors of shag carpet covered the walls and floors. When he retired, the building went up for sale. An arts council board member was working at the local blood bank when the city administrator came in to donate blood. With the needle in his veins, she asked him if he'd consider letting the arts council use the building until it was sold. Perhaps it was his vulnerable position, or a combination of glucose depletion and canny foresight, but the administrator agreed.

When the volunteers ripped off the orange and green shag, the backing disintegrated and floated into their eyes and noses. I think of this as I take in the white walls and gray painted floor and watch people interacting—art teachers, farmers, businessmen, old and middle-aged people, teenagers and children. My kids stamp the snow off their boots after a horse-drawn carriage ride and hot cocoa by a bonfire. Volunteers hand out homemade bruschetta, slices of cheesecake, spring rolls with cilantro, cream puffs.

I am an empty bowl. While feminists could take a philosophical AK-47 to this old notion, much of my life as a mother, wife, teacher and writer has me feeling like a bowl filled with complex and often opposing feelings, all mixed with wonder. I gaze at the cherry bowl once more and think of Mary, in a state of dazed wonder as she absorbed the announcement that her womb would be filled with an enfant terrible whose presence would confound a society enslaved to the law uninformed by grace.

Linda Buturian teaches humanities at the University of Minnesota and lives with her family and three other families on a farm along the wild Rum River. Her writing has appeared in publications including Utne Reader and in two anthologies, and her collection of essays, World Gone Beautiful, was published this year by Cathedral Hill Press.

Rick Warren's conservative. So what?

by Steve Thorngate

While members of the religious right are upset that Rick Warren accepted President-elect Obama's invitation to give the invocation at his inauguration, much of the left is upset that Obama asked him in the first place.

The latter group's criticism focuses on statements Warren's made about abortion and gays and lesbians, and on the role he played in organizing support for California's Prop. 8. Couldn't Obama have asked someone a bit lower-key?

But it seems to me that the more basic question is this: Is it appropriate for the clergy involved with the day's program to include a representative of the country's (many) evangelicals? Okay, so the really fundamental question is, why do we have to go and baptize civil events in the first place? But leaving that aside, why not an evangelical? During the election—which, of course, he won—Obama continually reached out to evangelicals and talked about making common cause with them. Inviting an evangelical leader to give an invocation—which, by the way, isn't exactly a seat at the policymaking table—fits right into this theme.

And if asking an evangelical makes sense, why not Warren? He's no moderate, but he's not a religious-right thug, either. His culture war bona fides are weak compared to other evangelicals. Yes, Obama could have asked a liberal pastor to participate—actually, he did, and it's reasonable to balance this with an evangelical.

Warren has an enormous following, and his work has never been primarily political in nature, despite recent shoulder-rubbing with political power. He's a bit like Billy Graham, who was cozy with a long, continuous string of presidents starting with Eisenhower.

Why is Warren such a controversial choice?

About that Newsweek sermon

by Bromleigh McCleneghan

Newsweek's December 15 cover story by religion editor Lisa Miller has provoked a good deal of talk about how the newsweekly, in printing what amounts to a liberal Christian apologia for same-sex marriage, has thrown caution and objectivity to the wind and become a (gasp) opinion journal. Christianity Today criticized the piece in an editorial, and its blog linked to a 2004 article laying out exactly why God has ordained marriage solely for men and women. Newsweek itself ran a Web-only debate responding to the piece, while OnFaith published a number of reflections on the subject by more liberal religious thinkers. And Kurt Soller, who writes Newsweek's letters blog, has his hands full with responses.

Amid all this chatter, the thing that interests me most is Miller's article itself. Why? Because it reads like a sermon. Not a great or super-ingenious one, but the kind of sermon you might hear in a liberal, mainline Protestant church—if and when a preacher actually deemed it appropriate to talk about sexuality from the pulpit.

Even those Christians who agree with Miller's basic premise may be frustrated by her article, noting that in places it fails to compel, or lacks nuance. But my point is this: while we've been dueling over sexuality and collectively editing our resolutions, the task of offering a public, explicit argument for same-sex marriage and a nonliteralistic biblical hermeneutic has fallen to the religion editor at Newsweek.

If our parishioners have learned something critical about their faith tradition from Lisa Miller because their pastors are unwilling to teach it themselves, we mainliners should be ashamed. (And if we've hesitated out of fear of opposition from those in the pews, we might simply be wrong.) If those outside our struggling, homogenous churches decline to join us in worship and discipleship—not because they lack a desire to know God, but because they are not sure they won't be welcomed—our institutions and communities will continue to decline. I hope that Miller's article will be a starting point for further conversation, deeper attention to scripture and greater honesty about the role of sexuality in all people's lives and identities.

I just finished teaching a preaching class, and this week I heard students' final sermons. A number of them were on the "hard stuff": money, sex, politics, death. These young preachers engaged the good and holy work of going to the text and to their own stories, bringing together pastoral concern and prophetic vision. They were excellent sermons, and I have every reason to expect that these students will be as faithful to the word of God in their churches as they were in the classroom.

I hope that the church will find the renewed courage to teach and preach the word of God, to proclaim the gospel to all with ears to hear it.

Bromleigh McCleneghan is pastor of Riverside United Methodist Church in Riverside, Illinois.

On the shelf: A Light to Enlighten the Darkness by Emma Cazabonne

by Richard A. Kauffman



This time of year, some of us suffer from seasonal affective disorder (SAD). No clear scientific cause is known. Some blame increased melatonin production; some point to lower seratonin levels; still others focus on interruptions to the body's natural circadian rhythm—each of which can be caused by winter's long nights and short days.

Whatever the cause, there are companies that will sell you a "light box" that compensates for the lack of natural light, and drug companies and doctors who will gladly sell you mood-enhancing remedies.

Another antidote is a small book from Cistercian Publications, A Light to Enlighten the Darkness: Daily Readings during the Winter Season by Emma Cazabonne. It's comprised of daily readings by Cistercian writers on the subject of light, beginning with December 21 (the winter solstice) and going through March 20 (the spring equinox). As the introduction points out, Cistercian architecture is designed to maximize the amount of natural light, and even the names of many Cistercian monasteries suggest light or clarity.

Cistercian writings reflect a theology and love of light (philophosia). From Bernard of Claivaux to the Trappist Thomas Merton, the interplay of light and darkness is an essential metaphor for our relationship with God. Light shows us the way in a dark world; it also exposes the darkness in our selves. Yet Christ is the light that enlightens the world, and through this light we too are transformed from darkness to light.

I look forward to the winter solstice—the shortest day of the year, since it means the days will begin to get longer again. This year I look also forward to begin following the daily readings in this book. Just thinking about it lightens the darkness on a cloudy Chicago day.

Gift expansion

by Meg E. Cox

At church last Sunday, a youth leader read an updated version of Luke 3:10-14 to the children gathered at her feet. "How should we get ready for Jesus' coming?" she asked. "If you have two coats," she answered, "give one to Julie so she can give it to one of the refugees." This was a vivid illustration for the children—and for all of us. The weather had suddenly turned bitterly cold in Chicago, and newcomers in our congregation were facing their first snow.

But I haven't checked my closet yet. Just a moment, let me go do that.

Okay, they're bagged up and ready to go. You know, I would have let that slip my mind if I hadn't just sat down to write about welcoming immigrants. While I know that some of the new people in our congregation are cold, in my busyness I would have neglected to rid my closet of its surplus coats. But it is such a small act to gather and deliver them, and such a great gift to people who are cold.

And so often when we give, the gift returns to us, larger than ever. The current issue of the Century describes how Peter J. B. Carman's congregation discovered this when they welcomed newcomers from Burma. Members of my congregation partner with a refugee resettlement agency, so our church life is enriched by the presence of people from all over the world. And some 2,000 years ago, when the inns were full, an anonymous someone gave the small gift of space in a stable for the night. That gift has expanded to enrich the whole world.

Blogging toward Sunday: Who wants to be Mary?

2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16; Luke 1:26-38; Romans 16:25-27

by Christian Coon

"Who wants to be Mary?"

Our music director asked a group of seven-, eight- and nine-year-old girls this question a couple weeks ago, as children from the church gathered for their first Christmas pageant rehearsal. A handful of would-be Marys eagerly raised their hands, each wanting the chance to stand up front with a (probably uncomfortable) young Joseph and hold the baby-doll Jesus.

After a bit of deliberation, the director chose a second-grader named Sophie. Sophie's eyes opened wide behind her glasses, and she whispered in joyful disbelief, "Me?"

Sophie's a bright young girl, the child who always has just the right thing to say during the children's sermon. I delighted in hearing about this scene. But some of the girls were disappointed. Elizabeth, also a second-grader, was told that she could be a lamb. She was silent for a moment as her brow furrowed; then she looked at one of the pageant coordinators. "Well," she asked suspiciously, "what does the lamb do?"

Everybody wants to be Mary.

But did Mary want to be Mary? I think this is a key question in this text from Luke. I have tended to focus on verse 29 and say that probably she did not. After the visit from Gabriel, Mary was, depending on your translation, "much perplexed" (NRSV), "greatly troubled" (NIV), "thoroughly shaken" (The Message) or "confused and disturbed" (NLT). I have told and retold the folk tale from Tobit about the jealous angel who appears on a bride's wedding night and kills her bridegroom each time she gets married. With all this as context, how could Mary want to be Mary?

Of course, there's a reason that I, like many others, like to emphasize those individuals in the Bible who struggle or flee or doubt (Jonah, many of the prophets, Peter). These stories comfort us, reminding us that we are not alone in our desire to escape or question.

But Mary's story doesn't end at verse 29. Yes, she wonders, and she asks a question or two. But eventually she claims—fiercely claims—this calling as her own. It's Mary's tenacity that I sometimes overlook, and I'm not sure why that is, because she goes on to sing a song of praise of such power and poetry that it still sends chills down my spine as I read it.

My daughter was one of the little girls who wanted to be Mary, and I'm glad for that. I'll do my best to talk to her about what it means to be Mary...to be a bit overwhelmed, yes, but also courageous and willing to cling to what God has set before her.

---

I came across a quote that might fit well with this story, if your congregation isn't too tired of hearing about President-elect Obama. It's from one of the many pieces about Obama's victory that ran in the Nov. 17 issue of the New Yorker. David Axelrod, one of the campaign architects, "told friends that, while 'usually the politician chooses the moment, sometimes the moment chooses the politician.'"

Christian Coon is the pastor of Christ United Methodist Church in Deerfield, Illinois. A contributor to 365 Meditations for Men by Men (Abingdon), he blogs at GenXRev.

"There's only diversity in the singular forms. Here we go."

by Steve Thorngate

My evangelical grade school tried to instill some big ideas—Creationist talking points, "worldview formation," a vague yet fierce sense of cultural oppression. But the main thing that stuck was a handy little song for remembering the U.S. presidents in order. (It only went through Reagan, though we added then-president George H.W. Bush and, hopeful little culture warriors that we were, vice president and dubious heir apparent Dan Quayle.) It astonishes me how often I return to this song to confirm, say, who was president right before Lincoln (Buchanan).

Of course, dead presidents aren't the only thing worth knowing about: there's also dead languages. If you, like me, could stand to improve your Koine Greek, you might enjoy the music videos of Danny Zacharias (whose biblioblog I encountered via the indispensable N.T. Wrong). Here's "The First Declension Song":

Advent words and images

by Debra Bendis

As a Midwesterner, it's nearly impossible to imagine Advent without thinking of winter, and specifically of snow, of cold and of the dark descending early and staying long. Winter has a way of grabbing my attention, whether it's the shock of stepping into frozen air or the radiance of an icicle caught in sunlight. If I'm out in the country, I have all I need for Advent reflection. There's an abundance of silence, which expands as I walk through a wintry landscape and gives me opportunity to relax, listen and pray.

If I can't be outside, an image or a text helps me focus heart and mind. While Christina Rossetti's "In the Bleak Midwinter" is a favorite, I recently discovered the deft pen of former poet laureate Ted Kooser, who needs only a few lines to capture both the deep silence of winter and a suggestion of "one small blue ring" of hope in "A Winter Morning":

A farmhouse window far back from the highway
speaks to the darkness in a small, sure voice.
Against this stillness, only a kettle's whisper,
and against the starry cold, one small blue ring of flame.

For images, I've been turning the pages of Seasons of the North, by photographer Jeff Richter, and spending time with his visual meditations on the stark beauty of northern Wisconsin in winter.

What texts or images encourage Advent reflection for you?

On the shelf: Gerard Manley Hopkins by Paul Mariani

by Amy Frykholm



Poet and famed literary biographer Paul Mariani turns his attention to Gerard Manley Hopkins, whose life as a Jesuit and secondary-school teacher in Ireland brought him little recognition but gave him a peculiar attentiveness to nature's internal dialogue. Hopkins was intrigued by the shape and color of clouds and the particular bend and shadow of tree branches. Mariani presents this fascination as key to Hopkins's development and to his lifelong effort to uncover the "inscape" of things--that imprint that marks the touch of God on human and natural life.

Mariani begins in 1866, when Hopkins made his fateful decision to convert to Catholicism—a decision that would lead to exile from both his family and his native England. In search of asceticism and a deeper understanding of the sacraments, Hopkins and many of his young friends at Oxford turned to High Church Anglicanism and the Tractarian movement. But Hopkins eventually found Anglicanism full of internal contradictions and felt he must "go over to Rome."

It was a choice that caused his parents a lot of grief. His mother wrote, "Oh Gerard my darling boy are you indeed gone from me?" Mariani, himself Catholic, describes Hopkins's conversion as centered primarily on his conviction that the real presence of Christ was found in the bread and wine—and it is that real presence that Hopkins searches for in everything.

Most fascinating is Hopkins's pained relationship with poetry. As a young man pursuing the priesthood, he believed that writing poetry was too indulgent of his sensual self and incompatible with his vocation. He tried to stop writing it, and he burned all the poetry he had written. (He also burned his personal diaries. Mariani says, somewhat mysteriously, that Hopkins believed them to be too revealing, particularly of his affection toward his fellow students at Highgate School.)

But poetry caught up with Hopkins and became his most enduring legacy. Mariani gives an intimate portrait of the poet, entering his head and echoing his idiosyncratic lyricism, so that the reader is daydreaming right along with Hopkins through all the courageous and lonely turns of the poet's life.

Let singles eat cake

by Richard A. Kauffman

First, Ed Young challenged the married couples of Fellowship Church to strengthen their relationships by having sex on seven consecutive days. Now that they've met that challenge, the Texas megachurch pastor is encouraging them to keep it going. Young believes that taking time for sex on a daily basis will help people perform better at work. More importantly, it will bring spouses closer to each other—and to God—and perhaps even prevent an extramarital affair.

"If you've said, 'I do,' do it," said Young. His advice to unmarried folk in the midst of all this congregational copulation? "I don't know, try eating chocolate cake."

The Dalai Lama has different thoughts about conjugal connectedness. "Sexual pressure, sexual desire, actually, I think is short-period satisfaction," he said recently, "and, often, that leads to more complication." While he admits that something is missing in celibacy, he insists that one has "more independence, more freedom" without marital and family commitments. Besides, "too much attachment towards your children, towards your partner" is an obstacle to "peace of mind."

So what is it about sex that elicits such different reactions? Can't there be something like the Greek ideal—the mean between the two extremes?

Blogging toward Sunday: Who do you think you are?

Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11; John 1:6-8, 19-28; 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24

by Christian Coon

My wife and I recently went to see William Inge's play Picnic, which won the Pulitzer Prize in 1953. It was a riveting performance. I was moved by how deeply the characters struggle to figure out who they are in their corner of the world, a small town in Kansas.

A young beauty queen grows weary of being pretty, while her younger and smarter sister yearns to leave her sister's shadow. A mysterious and handsome stranger comes to town oozing rebellion while looking for a new start, and a single schoolteacher begs a local businessman to marry her so she can move on from her empty life. All of these characters constantly measure themselves against the expectations of their neighbors, their community and themselves.

We are eager these days for ways to measure who we are and how we might fit with other, "better" vocations and relationships. We pull up a personality test, fill in the circles or click on the boxes and poof—we have answers. I have nothing against these tests; I've taken a few myself and found them helpful. But sometimes they cloud my self-perception—which is one reason that I'm drawn to this man sent from God in this week's gospel.

The authorities ask John a question: Who are you? It's not a new question. A bewildered Isaac asks this of Esau. Boaz inquires it of Ruth. Saul cries it out when the Lord comes to him on the road to Damascus.

John knows the answer, simply and deeply. He first knows who he isn't: the Messiah, Elijah, the prophet. Instead he is the voice, the witness. He is the one who will testify to the light, and nothing will deter him from this mission.

During Advent, I struggle to keep track of who I am. I get waylaid by secular shininess and burdened by my own expectations. It's a saving grace to read about a man who probably didn't spend hours figuring out his mission, vision, core values or purpose. Or maybe he did—but whatever he discovered in the desert, he knew it to his core and wasn't afraid to express it.

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Now here's a list that we all need to read (and check twice). Paul's series of exhortations in 1 Thessalonians is a powerful reminder that those who wait need not do so with heavy hearts or by engaging in idle busywork. Carl Holladay offers this commentary:

The church's role, even as it faces the 'not yet,' is one of confident hope balanced with vigilance in prayer and thanksgiving, as well as the exercise of an active role in discharging its prophetic ministry. Taken seriously, Paul's advice here keeps us from adopting an attitude of discouragement as the church faces the realities of life and the world, even as it looks to Christ's coming.

Christian Coon is the pastor of Christ United Methodist Church in Deerfield, Illinois. A contributor to 365 Meditations for Men by Men (Abingdon), he blogs at GenXRev.

Rick Warren, centrist

by Steve Thorngate

Here's one I'm tired of hearing: Rick Warren is a political centrist. The evidence? He's not a raging culture warrior. He seems genuinely to care about poverty and human rights. And he hosted both presidential candidates at his church forum, where he spoke to each of them respectfully. How moderate! (Read the Century's take on the forum.)

Hmm. What's often lost in the "Warren: A New Kind of Evangelical" narrative is the fact that the political distance between him and Pat Robertson is nine parts style to one part substance. Perhaps this clip of Warren talking to Sean Hannity (about, among other things, the appropriate role of government) will help clear things up:





Louis Ruprecht has a good commentary.

Unwired and present

by Amy Frykholm

For several days after the election, I—like this Doonesbury character—spent just as much time as I had before reading online commentaries and scanning political Web sites for new content. I could sense that I was in a land of diminishing returns, but I couldn't stop myself. I had dedicated so much time to the Internet, justifying it in the name of the political moment, that I was struggling to let go—even as I questioned the effect on my spiritual, emotional and mental life.

Then I went to a far corner of Mexico for several days. I was completely disconnected from the Web. Over ten days, only once did I send a message to the outside world that I was alive and well (after waiting in line for a computer). Other than that, my cell phone remained off, my e-mail went unchecked and I received no news from the United States, except what I tried to parse out of a Mexican newspaper.

I thought I would experience intense withdrawal, but instead I felt relief. What a relief to be right in the here and now, eating this tortilla, meeting and trying to communicate with the human being right in front of me. I was not thinking that I should be checking my e-mail.

I rely on the Internet for both work and relationships. I use it to communicate with family and friends and to accomplish tasks. I have and will have a daily relationship with it. As refreshing as my experience in Mexico was, it is unrealistic to imagine disconnecting myself entirely.

At the same time, I am aware of my constant distraction from the people and places, tastes and sounds of the present moment. And I am not alone. Over Thanksgiving weekend, my niece tried to play a family game while texting her friends. Another friend noted on her Facebook newsfeed that she was "on vacation and pretending not to check her email."

With the fasting season of Advent beginning, I have decided to incorporate periodic Internet fasts as a way to give myself a break from the Web. I am aware that this is harder than it appears. The computer beckons me in every moment of down time, and I often answer its call—but at what cost? Advent, with its emphasis on waiting and darkness and quiet, seems a good time to confront my relationship with this sometimes all-consuming tool. I want to practice being here, now.

For a related reflection on communications technology and excess, see Barbara Brown Taylor's column on the sacramental quality of the cell phone.

On the shelf: Surprised by Hope by N.T. Wright

by Debra Bendis

I’m toiling through Surprised by Hope, N.T. Wright's book on heaven and resurrection—toiling because I have to stop occasionally and take a deep breath. The key concept of the Christian faith, says Wright, is not heaven, despite all the emphasis we've given to it. Instead, the core of our faith is Christ's resurrection as witnessed by the disciples. It is the resurrection, the reality of Jesus having died and come to us again "transformed," that is at the center of our faith. Wright then proceeds to summarize his extensive studies (see The Resurrection of the Son of God and other books) and look more closely at what kind of transformation we're talking about.

Christ does not come back to us as a ghost, says Wright; early Christians knew about ghosts but never suggested that Christ was one. Besides, although he could pass through walls, he also showed wounds in his body and holes in his hands—as humans might do. He sat to eat with the disciples, yet others did not recognize him when they first saw him—the latter suggesting other, visible changes. Wright gives these accounts a lot of weight, saying that they seem to be spare, oral reports of the resurrection events. "The best historical explanation," he decides,

is that Jesus. . .was raised to life. . . with a new kind of physical body, which left an empty tomb behind it because it had used up the material of Jesus’s original body and which possessed new properties that nobody had expected or imagined but that generated significant mutations in the thinking of those who encountered it.

What a supreme and Monty Pythonesque understatement! All of this is of unimaginable import, of course, because Christ's resurrection signals the future resurrection of all of humanity from the dead (or the living tranformed). We will be, says Wright, like the resurrected Christ. But just exactly what does this mean? Will we truly live much as we do now, eating, walking with friends, and exhibiting wounds or other features from our mortal bodies?

William Placher, in his Century review of the book, finds Wright’s work a bit evasive:

Sometimes Wright talks about the transformation of the whole cosmos into a different kind of space and matter. At other points he talks about the transformation of this world as a new home for our resurrected bodies, and he seems to mean that we will inhabit something like the terrestrial ball on which we now live. Which is it?

Although this end times theology is at the core of our Christian faith, it remains complex stuff to us humans—even to scholars who've devoted themselves to pursuing a clearer view of these mysteries. Or perhaps we can say that truths that are simple to God will remain beyond our understanding.

After a session with the key theological concepts, I return to the season of Advent with a sigh of relief and a shout of joy. A baby coming? Now that’s a transformation that I can imagine, from the crying to the sweet embrace to the sight of a miniature, God-given miracle. What a brilliant idea to send a baby...

The Messiah position has been filled

by Meg E. Cox

For reasons unrelated to the election, the Century editors went to the archives for the lectionary column in the December 2 issue. But when it came across my desk for proofreading, I was certain that someone with a remarkable memory had decided to republish this six-year-old John Stendahl piece as a commentary on Barack Obama's victory. "We are not, any of us, the Messiah," says Stendahl. "That position has already been filled."

The McCain campaign mocked Obama, calling him "The One" (before he was "that one") and suggesting that his supporters worshiped him as the Messiah. They weren't that far off. Many Americans do pin their hopes on the president-elect, counting on him to save us from hunger, war and environmental destruction in not much more time than Jesus spent in earthly ministry. We need to be reminded that, while a president can do a lot, only the Messiah can usher in the kingdom of God.

But maybe Obama is like the true Messiah in a smaller way, one we haven't thought of. Here's Stendahl, from back in 2002:

Jesus points away from himself and seeks to deflect the messianic expectations put upon him. Trying to evade his superstar status and the attributions of glory, he points instead to what is near and soon and stirring already in the lives of those to whom he speaks.

What is near to us in our neighborhoods? What is soon and stirring in the lives of those to whom the president-elect speaks? Where does each of us go from here, and where do our communities and congregations go together?

Blogging toward Sunday: Hearing voices

Isaiah 40:1-11; Mark 1:1-8; 2 Peter 3:8-15a

by Christian Coon

I have not baptized many adults, so those I have baptized stand out and are special to me. One was a woman I'll call Eleanor. Eleanor's hair has tight curls. She walks with a slight limp and smells a bit of cigarette smoke. She also has one of the greatest conversion stories I've ever heard, complete with a voice waking her up in the middle of a night as she slept underneath a wall hanging featuring a cross-eyed Jesus with donkeys on his shoulder.

Eleanor is an artist, which may help to explain her exuberant and quirky faith. She also battles depression, and her husband desperately needs a new liver. When she plopped down in a chair in my office the other day, she clearly lacked the exuberance I've come to love. She needed comfort and tender speech, much like Jerusalem does in the passage from Isaiah.

As we talked about everything she was going through, Eleanor told me that she'd been hearing a voice assuring her that she will be comforted, and she sensed that she was being invited into God"s bosom. But she also knew the reality of her situation. Her emotional state was fragile, and her husband"s physical condition was tenuous. She didn't need to be convinced that all people are grass and that grass withers.

However one wants to interpret the "voices" in this passage (members of a heavenly council?), they seem to express the totality of the human condition. They encourage action, remind the listener of God's glory, state the naked truth about how fragile we are and proclaim God's ultimate victory—which includes a homecoming, when the listener is finally in the arms of God.

At times these varied voices are overwhelming, simply too much to take in. I know they are for Eleanor. But as difficult as it is for her to wait for her depression to subside, and as anxious as she is for that phone call to come telling her that her husband has a new liver, she knows she needs those voices. In the end, they promise a transformed life and a transformed world. Meanwhile, she waits and she listens.

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Reading A Christmas Carol for my sermon series focusing on the classic book, it didn't take much to see a connection between Jacob Marley's ghost and John the Baptist—especially since they each have a unique belt. A parishioner reminded me, however, that contrasting the two figures is more helpful than making favorable comparisons.

John's belt is simple, a leather strap that holds up his camel-hair clothes. Marley's is different. A chain is wrapped around his waist:

It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made (for Scrooge observed it closely) of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel.

Later, Scrooge wonders why Marley is fettered. Marley answers:

I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it.

This contrast makes me question Mark Twain's claim that "clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society."

Christian Coon is the pastor of Christ United Methodist Church in Deerfield, Illinois. A contributor to 365 Meditations for Men by Men (Abingdon), he blogs at GenXRev.