Love and Mystery

I'm performing my cousin's wedding tomorrow -- this will be the third cousin of mine I've married. (I know, incest and polygamy! Shocking! Actually, I have performed three weddings for my two brothers...) Anyway, this is, I think, my ninth wedding as officiant, and I really like doing them. Every one has its own unique quirks and drama; powerful symbols like this bring out powerful emotions in people, and even the smallest wedding I've done had a lot of logistics involved (which most people are not in a regular habit of dealing with).

One of the things I love about performing marriages is that getting to be the minister means being the "non-anxious presence" that is so important to many pastoral situations -- but nowhere does it seem more important than at a wedding. It's like being at the eye of the storm. But what I really love the most about doing weddings is getting to know a bit about the couple and their relationship, their hopes and dreams for their life together.

One of my central theological convictions is that God is Love, and so each little bit of love in the world actually reveals something about God. In B. and H.'s relationship, I see the way they constantly look out for one another's needs -- and it's a lot like the daily sustaining, often below-the-radar love that God gives us in every day. I also see their unreserved, unabashed, total smitten-ness with one another. They are completely in love, and not afraid to show it! And it's a nice reminder of how God is totally smitten with this crazy world, and the boldness we seek in trying to show our love for God.

How do people come to faith?

I'm full up of spiritual thoughts and feelings at the moment, having just gotten back from a really cool spiritual formation program I'm participating in at the National Cathedral.

What I took away from the lecture tonight was about how the essence of connecting to God in Christian faith is NOT: doing the "right" religious activities, believing the right things about God, or even treating one's fellow human beings in the right way. All of these are part of the life of faith, but none is adequate as a way to "get to God." Rather, the essence of faith is knowing oneself loved by the reality that is at the heart of the universe. Giving up on trying (and trying and trying) to be good enough and realizing that you are accepted (I think Paul Tillich might have had a few things to say about that).

This all makes good sense to me, but I'm wrestling again with a question that I ponder from time to time. If faith is, essentially, a gift from God (that we can't earn by working at it), why do some people "get it" and other people don't? That seems as arbitrary and unjust as a God who requires us to follow a set of rules that we're doomed to fall short of, or an insistence that one believe a certain set of things, or even a very rigorous moral ethic (again with the doom and falling short). I get a very strong sense from some people that they want to believe, but skepticism or upbringing or terrible experiences with religious folks and the things they do get in the way. I am quite certain that such people make excellent fellow-travelers on the journey with people who are more certain or less afraid of faith. But it seems a little unfair.

"Let anyone without sin cast the first stone"

I read this chilling article in the Washington Post today-- there's a very good reflection and summary here. The issue at hand is accidentally leaving children in cars... and how the parents who have done this don't fit any particular kind of profile, just a common pattern of stress, tiredness, and some interruption in the regular schedule of the day that fools the memory into thinking they have already dropped the kid off at daycare.

One thing that struck me when I read the salon.com commentary was remembering the first time I heard of such an incident (because you do hear of them, maybe once every couple years) after my daughter was born. She wasn't very old, and I was still very sleep-deprived all the time, and I just thought "wow, that could happen so easily."

The spiritual issue I see in all this is that so many people, some of those interviewed for the original article, and still more who commented online, seem very certain that they could never make such a mistake. They think that it means a parent who forgets about his or her child in the backseat of a car is a terrible person. The salon.com article pulls out a quote from a psychologist about why people feel the need to demonize others like this:

We want to believe that the world is understandable and controllable and unthreatening, that if we follow the rules, we'll be okay. So, when this kind of thing happens to other people, we need to put them in a different category from us. We don't want to resemble them, and the fact that we might is too terrifying to deal with. So, they have to be monsters.

For me, I guess the central spiritual question is about compassion. I have no trouble feeling compassion for parents who accidentally leave their children in the backseat of a car. But I do wonder what "sort of people" I categorize as "monsters" because it makes me feel better about myself.

The Bible was made for hypertext!

I've been thinking for quite some time that, although the codex was a very important development for the Bible, its true perfect technology match is hypertext. So much of the meaning in individual bits of text has to do with the other passages to which they are referring. And since, let's face it, most people these days (and really, throughout the broad sweep of history, most people in most times) are not that familiar with the Biblical text, they are missing a lot when they just pick up and start reading at a particular place.

This cool link demonstrates graphically how many cross-references there are within the books of the Bible. Which is why I think hypertext is so well-suited -- it allows you not just to see the reference (chapter and verse) as a footnote, which is in a lot of editions of the Bible, but also to actually read the passage being referred to.

Sin, take 2

I recently read this passage from Roberta Bondi's book on the Lord's Prayer.

Even when I was a small child, holy beauty filled me with a longing to be worthy of it, not in order to please others but because I loved it. Now, my friend, notice that I don't say I felt an obligation to be good or a fear that I would be punished in some cosmic way if I weren't. What I did believe, however, was that if I was mean to my brothers, resentful of my parents, judgmental or without compassion toward my classmates (all of which I frequently was), I might lose my capacity to see it. To put it simply, I loved it and I wanted it, and I was convinced, like the ancient Christian and non-Christian Platonists before me, that "like is only known by like," that if I refused to share its qualities, I could well be left without it. (Roberta Bondi, from A Place to Pray, p. 42)

For me, this gets at our intuitive sense of what sin is -- how it separates us from God, others, all that is Good in the universe. It is about so much more than breaking rules (I think this is most people's dominant sense of what it means to sin) and fearing punishment. Rather, it's how we fall short of our call to love God and others. I'm acutely aware of my own limitations in this area.