This Garden World

A friend of mine recently told me that her and her husband were moving from their home in Florida to a place called ”Grove City” Ohio, apparently a suburb of Columbus. This reminded me of a theory another friend has that most modern suburbs and subdivisions are named after whatever had to be cut down or killed to build them. Denver has places like Fox Ridge, Wolf Canyon and Antelope Bluffs. My boss lives in a town called Lone Tree, which was probably a pretty easy place to conquer. Even my wife and I live in a neighborhood called Pheasant Run. Pity. Those are (were) lovely birds. Thinking about this, I stumbled across a blog which deals with a similar topic. It’s an urban planning site called “DenverInFillBlog”. I particularly enjoyed the included table with which you can mix and match names of Denver subdivisions to form your own ridiculous sounding places like “The Enclave at Antelope Bluff Butte”. 

http://www.denverinfill.com/blog/2006/09/guide-to-suburban-denver-subdivision.html

It’s quite interesting to me that so many of us have become so driven to feign a connection to the outdoors while maintaining our well-protected urban or suburban lifestyles. In most of these neighborhoods, the only connection to the natural world is a soddy greenbelt or a little park (all good things–don’t get me wrong). But, as the aforementioned friend has also noted to me, what all of these fake Tuscan villa, slate stone lined, rustic fire pit in the backyard houses suggest is a longing for something real. Perhaps a return to the bygone days when these things were actually necessary for life. When slate floors made sense because slate was the most logical resource available to you; when houses were large because they needed to shelter large families, and massive kitchens served the purpose of gathering people together.

It’s no coincidence that people buried in suburban sprawl long for the natural world. It is, as theologian Vigen Guroian points out, ultimately a longing to return to the Garden of Eden. To that place where man lost his primordial home because of his own selfish desire to conquer it. We pine after what we’ve neglected, and our hearts–ultimately–will remain restless until God renews and resurrects not only our own physical bodies when Jesus comes again, but also until he renews the natural world itself back to the Eden it was always intended to be–the New Heavens and New Earth promised by the prophets and the book of Revelation.

I had a conversation with a good friend of mine some time ago that has haunted me ever since. He recounted the words of a well-known Catholic apologist who was once asked by a Protestant, whether, if he were to die today, he could be assured that he would go to heaven. The Catholic’s answer was a textbook one. He said “yes”, explaining that if he had recently gone to confession and was unaware of any mortal sin, then indeed, he could be assured of his own salvation. At first, this answer seemed fine to me. It wasn’t until my friend really pushed the question, that I realized how short-sighted the answer actually was. In a sense of course, the Catholic apologist was right, but in another sense, something profound was missing.

The Gospel of Matthew contains a teaching of Jesus that I’ve recently begun to see in a whole new light. In Matthew 25:31-46, Jesus recounts a pretty shocking tale:

When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on his glorious throne. Before him will be gathered all the nations, and he will separate them from one another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, and he will place the sheep at his right hand, but the goats at the left. Then the King will say to those at his right hand, ‘Come, O blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me. Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see thee hungry and feed thee, or thirsty and give thee a drink? And when did we see thee a stranger and welcome thee, or naked and clothe thee? And when did we see thee sick or in prison and visit thee? And the King will answer them, ‘Truly I say to you, as you did it to the least of these, my brethren, you did it to me.’ Then he will say to those at his left hand, ‘Depart from me you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels; for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not clothe me, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.’ Then they will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister to thee?’ Then he will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it not to the least of these, you did it not to me.’ And they will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.

Now, here’s the rub. Why was it–ultimately–that the goats were cast off into the eternal fire? Was it because they did not care for a poor, the sick, the naked, and imprisoned? Perhaps. However, was it possible that if those same goats had responded to God by saying, “Lord we didn’t know that was you, please have mercy on us!” that they would have suffered the same fate? I firmly believe that the goats are not cast off merely because of their unjust actions, but because they refused to acknowledge their wrongdoing and ultimately throw themselves on God’s mercy. Instead, they take their cue from Adam and Eve, actually blaming God for hiding himself! The Fundamental question is this: are there sins that we commit daily (possibly even very serious ones) that we have no idea that we’re committing? Frankly, the goats didn’t realize they were sinning; and you and I likely commit far worse sins than these. If this is the case, what have we to fall back on during the day of judgement?

My problem with the Catholic apologist’s answer (as was the problem of a well-known Orthodox priest whose name escapes me at the moment) is that it relies solely on what we do. At the end of the day, we can have hope of salvation if we are willing to throw ourselves on God’s mercy. We do as much as we can, of course. We should confess our sins as often as possible. But if stand before the throne of Almighty on the last day and he happens to call to mind severe sins that we were unaware of when we committed them, what will be our response? Will it be, “Well, I went to confession, how was I supposed to know that was a sin?” Or will we simply cry out “Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner”?

I had a bit of a shaking experience recently; one which really called into question my intentions to begin a PhD program in New Testament studies next year. I found myself surrounded last Friday by intellectual snobbery, the likes of which I’d never experienced before–and all guns (metaphorically) were pointed right at me. I was giving a talk to a particular group who vehemently refused to accept any of my premises. I had (apparently not understanding my audience) suggested that the Scriptures might actually be legitimate or point toward actual true events. “How could I”, they scoffed, “an educated person, actually believe the Bible to be *gasp* the Word of God. Ha!” “These Bible people”, they further scoffed, “actually believe that they can talk to God–the fools!” “They believe in miracles!” I was so taken off guard by the insinuations that I could barely muster a response in between their criticisms. Needless to say, I never actually finished giving the talk (which was supposed to be about the nature of the early Church in Acts of the Apostles, incidentally).

While I (with my melancholic personality) spent most of the weekend still reeling and feeling, frankly, a bit sorry for myself, I’ve slowly begun to appreciate the experience. As a teacher, I speak to people a lot. And usually, people really enjoy what I have to say. I’ve become quite accustomed to my share of accolades. Worse than that however; although in truth, I’m really just a lowly catechist–a simple Bible teacher–I’ve recently begun to subconsciously fancy myself a lofty academic. I like the image of it. Leather bound books, tweed jackets, perhaps a Volvo someday. What’s wrong with that, you might ask? Nothing, really. Except the intention behind it. I’ve been forced to really search my soul this weekend and reassess why it is I want to follow the path I’m following. Could it be that I want to legitimatize my little place in the world to all of my secular, well-paid friends? Do I find it embarrassing to say that I’m a Bible teacher, rather than “well, I’m a faculty member–nay, a professor –at the St. John Vianney Seminary, ho, ho.”

Why is it–really–that I do what I do? Why is it that I teach the Bible in the first place? Is it for the image, or is it because Jesus Christ changed my life and I want to help show others that he can do the same for them? To many in the secular world, my job probably sounds pointless, even a waste. Am I okay with that? My friend Tim Gray likes to point out just how well-recognized and respected in Jerusalem’s Jewish community St. Paul probably was prior to his conversion. He probably could have had a prestigious teaching chair at the best Yeshiva in town. But what did he do? He threw it all away, packed his bags, and became a traveling preacher. One that was often laughed at, imprisoned and kicked out of the same synagogues which he could have been running, had things gone differently. Why? Because Jesus changed his life and he had to do something about it. That’s the reason I got into this gig in the first place, I reminded myself; and the events of the weekend provided a stark reconing with that.

In the end, I probably will still pursue the PhD. I want to have a voice in this field; one to counter the widely prevailing view that there is nothing supernatural or spiritual about the Bible. That it’s all politics; written by the powerful to keep the weak in check. What a tragic way to view Christianity. What lifelessness. The question I need to continually ask myself however, is, am I prepared to be humiliated, mocked and rejected–just like St. Paul? Are any of us? Why do we do what we do? What does that badge of Christian really mean, and what responsibility unavoidably comes with it?

I’ve borrowed the title of this post from a book by Torah and Talmud scholar, Avivah Zornberg, who wrote a book on Exodus by the same name. In an radio interview I was recently listening to, Zornberg presented a beautiful reflection on the Israelite’s crossing of the Red Sea in Exodus 15.  One of the things she stresses throughout the interview is the need to move beyond what may from the outset seem like something of a children’s story, and into the deeper and vastly complex realities within this pinnacle event which has shaped the life of the Jewish people, as well as Christianity.

As I mentioned, one of my favorite segments came as a meditation on the deeper reality of the crossing of the Red Sea. Zornberg–drawing on ancient midrashic tradition–says that if we read carefully the text of what is called the hymn of Moses–in which the Israelites rejoice in their salvation from Pharaoh’s horses, chariots and riders, who have been buried in the waves of the sea–we see that the people are not merely singing after they have been saved, but while they are still in the midst of the parted waters. She says that,

the song is an expression not just of jubilation, but of the human situation. Of being in the middle; of being full of fear; the sense of life and death in the balance; seeing what can happen to human beings all around them; and that, there but by the grace of God go I. And so the song is not a simple ditty. It’s a song that human beings sing in the face of mortality.

The text itself says that even while the waters crash down upon the armies of Pharaoh, the Israelites have not reached the end yet. They are, Exodus tells us, walking “on dry ground in the midst of the sea” even as they cry out, “Sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously; the horse and rider he has thrown into the sea” (Exodus 15:19, 21).  Zornberg says that,

If one imagines it as people still in that rather menacing corridor, which they know can collapse, because it just has behind them, then the song becomes a different song; and it’s a song of human beings at the edge, between death and life; celebrating life…but at the edge.

In many ways, this is the situation we live in today. Death, sin, violence is all around us. War, corruption, Christians at one anothers’ throats. We know that at any moment we might be overtaken, but in this moment, God’s grace is present. Do we believe that God is actively in the process of saving us even though we are not yet out of the woods? This, I think, is what true Christian hope consists in: knowing that while death seems to have the final word over the present world, Christ has conquered this world and is actively creatinga new one–made, no less, out of the material of this fallen world! As the Christian fathers suggest, the same waters which silenced Pharaoh’s armies were the waters in which Israel received a sort of baptism into God’s covenant. God is calling Christians to trudge on through the intimidating waters. We, if anyone, should know that there is light at the other end of the tunnel, that there is hope in the midst of darkness. Jesus proved this, showing us that even crucifixion–the most brutal form of death the world had to offer–could not defeat him. If we cannot carry this hope–the hope that suffering really can lead to life–and carry it like an emblem within ourselves as we struggle through the darkness of our times, who is the rest of an increasingly hopeless world supposed to look to?

I first read the following words a number of years ago. They were written in the second century by the Roman lawyer Aristides, who was attempting to explain to the Emperor Hadrian what this new “Christian” community was all about. Who were they? What set them apart? The words have stuck with me ever since.

“Christians love one another.  They never fail to help widows; they save orphans from those who would hurt them.  If a man has something, he gives freely to the man who has nothing.  If they see a stranger, Christians take him home and are happy, as though he were a real brother.  They don’t consider themselves brothers in the usual sense, but brothers instead through the Spirit, in God.  And if they hear that one of them is in jail, or persecuted for professing the name of their redeemer, they all give him what he needs — if it is possible, they bail him out.  If one of them is poor and there isn’t enough food to go around, they fast several days to give him the food he needs…  This is really a new kind of person.  There is something divine in them.”

Is this how the world views Christians today? Do we live this way? Do we even believe that it’s important to live this way? Or are we perhaps, too occupied about fighting over doctrine? Not that I mean doctrine is unimportant–it certainly is important, crucial at times–but it is not the ultimate end which we seek as Christians. One of the major means to get there perhaps, but not the end.

In St. Paul’s letters to Timothy and Titus, he battles against what he calls false (or “different”, literally “hetero”) teachings which are cropping up in the churches. This is a reference to teachers who were preaching doctrine which was “different” from the teaching of the apostles; who, of course, received their authority from Jesus himself. You’d expect Paul to counter the idea of ”hetero” teaching, which he says causes confusion, speculation and leads the faithful in circles (1 Tim 1:3-4) with “orthodox” teaching, or “correct” teaching. He does not. What he counters false teaching with, is–in the Greek–”healthy” teaching (Titus 1:9). Why healthy? Why not “correct” or “orthodox”? Because at the end of the day, for Paul, the Church is not a mere institution of organization. It is a body.  When is a human body at its healthiest? When it’s not fighting a sickness or disease. When we have the flu, our body is occupied battling against germs, thereby hindering it from operating at its full potential. As long as our body is fighting within itself, it can never truly do the things it’s supposed to do. It is weakened with battle.  In this way, Paul tells the Church that we need to try to resolve our family bickering, because until we do, we cannot truly love one another–the ultimate call of the Church. As Paul says,

“…avoid stupid controversies, genealogies, dissensions, and quarrels over the law, for they are unprofitable and futile” (Titus 3:9).

When Aristides looked at the early Church back in the second century, what did he see? Was it the same thing that the secular world sees when they look at us? At the end of the day, the Church is a family, headed by God. Families will always bicker; families will always get annoyed with one another. Certain family members may even be wrong in their assessment of the family from time to time. This is merely a reality. The question however is, do we treat one another like family, or do we see each other as mere deadbeat roommates? Christians need to ask themselves, do we really believe that the Church is God’s family? If we look at the Church and simply see a mess, are we willing to concede that perhaps this is God’s mess; that he’s okay with acknowledging that those who lead and occupy his family are steeped in sin? Could it be that that’s why we need to be in the family in the first place?

A good friend of mine, over at his blog, Bumi Dipijak, has compliled a helpful guide for non-experts who want to read and actually understand the Bible. As he notes, the Scriptures are often seen as dangerous and intimidating territory for many Catholics. Others–many of whom I know personally–would like to read the Bible more, or even more deeply, but lack a sane approach that doesn’t consist in just starting in Genesis and trudging through to Revelation (indeed, Leviticus and Numbers have left many causualties along the way, and many Bibles on their shelves). Some simply don’t know where to begin. This guide, which I imagine will continue to grow with suggestions and tools is a great place to start. After all, as St. Jerome says, “ignorance of the Scriptures is ignorance of Christ.”

The link follows here:   http://wanweihsien.wordpress.com/scripture-for-the-non-experts/