Contemplating Fires at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris and Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem

Both Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris and Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem burned yesterday. Both are not just religious shrines but cultural and artistic treasures. Both fires seem to have been accidental, thankfully not violent hatred. Also thankfully, no one died or was seriously injured in either fire. Given both the human propensity for provincialism and that the Notre Dame fire was more spectacular and damaging, that the Western press gave it more attention may be disappointing but is not surprising.

The antiquity of both sites speaks to the depth and universality of visceral reaction to these fires. The Notre Dame Cathedral was built from 1163-1345. The Al-Aqsa Mosque was first built in 705 and rebuilt on several occasions: 746, 780, 1187. Such ancient shrines suggest a sort of affirmation of immortality against our awareness of transitory human mortality. When their vulnerability to mundane hazards becomes obvious, our confidence in these anchors is shaken and we are confronted by the reality of human fragility. I recently wrote of contemplating mortality (http://nstolpepilgrim.blogspot.com/2019/02/contemplation-of-mortality.html) in which I quoted Psalm 49:10-13. This excerpt seems especially poignant today. “Though they named lands their own, mortals cannot abide in their pomp.”

I must confess to some ambivalence as I consider the future path for each of these sites. Repairing the damage to the Al-Aqsa Mosque seems to be less daunting or expensive than the Notre Dame Cathedral and will probably proceed without much notice. Notre Dame Cathedral was already being renovated, and that work may have sparked the fire. Many millions of dollars (Euros probably despite US news reporting) had already been raised for that effort and will certainly be used to repair the fire damage. Without a doubt, many millions more will be needed to do that now. The source of these funds seems to largely be private donors interest in cultural preservation and not the gifts of the faithful for the cathedral’s ministry. I know nothing about those workings, though I would not be surprised if the cultural had not eclipsed the religious function of the cathedral long ago. To be sure, even with all of our modern technology, we no longer have people with the craft skills or the materials or patience for the kind of work that built the cathedral in the first place, so it will not be “restored” to what it was. In other times, its upkeep was neglected and “restoration” efforts were not a return to the original.

The magnitude of the cost of even modest repair of yesterday’s damage is staggering. I do not think I am alone in my ambivalence at pouring that kind of money into this project when food and water, health and housing, peace and justice are so lacking for so many people in the world, and even in the prosperous, developed West (including the US). This evoked for me some of the emotions I had when visiting St. Peter’s Basilica when I was on pilgrimage in Rome in 2004. As I marveled at the grandeur  of the architecture, art, and history there, I grimaced at the realization that this was originally funded by the sale of indulgences to many poor and ordinary Christians in Europe that triggered Martin Luther’s reaction and unleased the Reformation. It’s ongoing upkeep is very expensive. I don’t want to look at all of this through my Protestant eyes, but first as a human and then as a follower of Jesus, who I can’t imagine commissioning such a project. Yet, I value what it contains and conveys.

So I am not at all suggesting that I know what should be done in either Paris or Jerusalem in the wake of yesterday’s fires. Rather, I am prompted in my contemplation to consider how all human life is transitory – even the things we consider permanent. We are tempted to think of the antiquities with which we identify as eternal or symbols of eternality, which strikes me as tantamount to idolatry. I am also prompted to ponder in God’s presence my priorities, and those of the society in which I live, for the care of people who live in need, often dire need, of the basics of life: food and water, health and housing, peace and justice. I am espousing no opinion or position. I am proposing no plan for proceeding. Nor am I suggesting wallowing in blame, shame, or helplessness. Rather, as the news of these fires unfolds, I intend to gaze unswervingly, unflinchingly into the cracks and spaces of my discomforts to catch a glimpse of the presence of God.

Jesus' Invitation to the Self-Righteous to Celebrate the Clearly Unrighteous

Last week, as I considered the Parable of the Prodigal Son in my lectio divina, I wrestled with how this came as the climax of three “lost and found” parables that Jesus told because “the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, ‘This fellow [Jesus] welcomes sinners and eats with them.’” (Luke 15:2) To just consider this a rebuke to the self-righteous religious leaders just seemed inadequate. Thank you, Sarah MacDonald, for your worship message for Milwaukee Mennonite Church yesterday that help clarify and articulate some of the thoughts I had but couldn’t quite assemble during the week.

Just as the father invited the elder son to join the celebration of the younger son’s return, with these parables, Jesus was inviting the religious leaders to loosen their grip on their stifling self-righteousness and enter into the joy of welcoming and celebrating those who were returning to life.

With the masterful stoke of superb storytelling, Jesus did not finish the story. We are left to wonder whether the elder son came into the party or not? With what attitude and emotions? What was the relationship between the brothers during and after the party? Did the younger brother become a hired hand? What happened after the father died? Similarly, Luke did not indicate the response of the religious leaders to whom Jesus told these parables. We know that as a body, they continued to oppose Jesus to his death. But we also know some followed Jesus – Nicodemus, Joseph of Arimathea. But here, Luke did not indicate any reaction or response from them to Jesus’ sharply pointed parables clearly directed at them. I think the open-endedness of  both Jesus and Luke were intentional to prompt our divergent thinking and responses.

Samuel and Agag as a Window on the Present Transition

This week I have been considering how the Israelites made the transition from the Forty Wilderness Years to entering Canaan by renewing the Covenant of Circumcision and celebrating Passover at Gilgal. This is reported in Joshua 5:9-12, the Lectionary reading from the Hebrew Scriptures for this coming Sunday, March 31, 2019. Gilgal marked a sort of space between two distinct and contrasting epochs in Israel’s journey from slavery in Egypt to flourishing freedom in the Promised Land.

As I considered this against the backdrop of current events in the US, my mind was drawn to another transition in Israel that came at Gilgal recorded in 1 Samuel 15,16 – from the failed reign of Saul, Israel’s first king, to David, whose reign became the harbinger of Messianic hopes. The critical turn was when King Saul’s army defeated the Amalekites. Besides the avarice of keeping for himself and his close companions the best of the spoils of war which were to be totally given over to God, with hubris King Saul preserved the Amalekite King Agag alive that he might gloat over the victory.

Many things about this incident are troubling, and I will not attempt to sort them out so they do not distract from how my ponderings have taken me to the present transition time in US politics. The Mueller investigation has concluded and the report has been delivered. The Barr letter conveyed a conclusion in a few words with no details of the lengthy report. A redacted version of the report has been promised to Congress within a couple of weeks. What may or may not become public, either by release or leak is unknown. In this transition a myriad of speculations and responses from every possible point on the political spectrum is running rampant. Regardless of what is released and to whom, the Mueller Report is a sort of Gilgal, a place of transition, not just for the current administration, and not just for imminent political implications, but for the country. Like the Israelites at Gilgal, the US is on the brink of unexplored territory. Whether the path ahead is more like King Saul or King David (who had his own issues) remains to be seen.

In my contemplation, Agag seemed perhaps an apt metaphor for the assorted responses and expectations of many folk in our current transition, and perhaps a cautionary tale for all who think they have figured out either the dreaded or hoped for outcome. I think 1 Samuel 15:32-33 (NIV) articulates this powerfully. “Then Samuel said, ‘Bring me Agag king of the Amalekites.’ Agag came to him in chains. And he thought, ‘Surely the bitterness of death is past.’ … And Samuel put Agag to death before the Lord at Gilgal.” [Some other translations, including the NRSV, heighten the drama by saying that Agag came “haltingly” and Samuel “hewed Agag in pieces.” Definitely a cringe worthy scene in any case.]

The point of my meditations, and of writing this essay, is not to make a political statement, though it is probably inescapable in these times. Rather, I am seeking to discern how to faithfully follow Jesus in this specific time of transition with all of its perils. The Lectionary Epistle reading for Sunday from 1 Corinthians 6:16-21 speaks of our participation in God reconciling with the world through Christ. The Gospel reading is Jesus’ perhaps overly familiar parable we call The Prodigal Son in Luke 15:11-32.  In that parable, Jesus dramatized with masterful storytelling just how radical that reconciliation is. Luke 15:1-3 makes clear that Jesus told this because he was being criticized by the religious folk for welcoming sinners and even eating with them. So putting this up against both Gilgal stories, I am challenged to follow Jesus in reconciling relationships with and between people who fear and even despise each other in this time of transition and perilous uncertainty. I am brought back to my regular praying of the Prayer of St. Francis asking how I can be an instrument of God’s peace when division and hostility seems to prevail.

Any Worse Sinners?

In Luke 13:1-5 (from the Gospel reading from the Lectionary for next Sunday, March 24, 2019), Jesus seems to say that when tragedy comes either by evil violence or random accident, we should not speculate about what may or may not have brought this on those victims; instead, we should focus on our own self-examination and need for repentance.

At that very time there were some present who told him about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. He asked them, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”

My observation is that when we consider the victims of tragedies to be “like us,” we are more apt to be empathetic than when we consider them to be different that we are in some way: geographically, nationally, culturally, linguistically, ethnically, religiously. If we are to take Jesus seriously, we must guard against insulating ourselves from the call to examen and penance when tragedies strike those with whom we do not easily identify.

Over the years I have frequently been acutely aware how the Lectionary readings and my monthly prayer journey through the Psalms speak loudly to current events and my personal concerns. If I were preaching next Sunday, which I am not, I would be compelled to connect the shooting in New Zealand with this text. I would be compelled to affirm that being humans made in the image of God and loved by God overrides our religious and cultural differences. That is not to say that faith and theology don’t matter, only that if we use that to distance ourselves from these victims, we not only miss but pervert the lesson Jesus clearly said we need to learn from human tragedies. I would have to ask, “Do you think that the 50 who were gunned down in New Zealand were any worse sinners than any of us? No, but unless you repent, you will perish as they did.”

Psalms of Lament, Complaint, and Cursing

My wife's cousin Dan Thompson asked me about the Psalms. He wrote, "For me, the challenge is how to reconcile the violence and the outright desire that enemies are destroyed. So many Psalms mention specific ways in which the writer petitions God to destroy and disable the 'enemy'".

Response February 2019

As far as the Psalms go, yes they have been a staple of my spiritual journey for nearly 50 years (got started right around our first anniversary). And yes, they are challenging. We tend to use the nice ones (or nice excerpts) in worship and devotions, but fully 100 of the 150 Psalms are laments or complaints, and the imprecatory (cursing) Psalms are especially troubling.

In his little book Psalms: The Prayerbook of the Bible, Dietrich Bonhoeffer addresses this with a strong Christo-centric interpretation. He saw them as the prayers of Christ that reflect God’s anger at evil, especially injustice and suffering that humans inflict on each other. He suggested a way to handle them is to pray in concert with Jesus, who alone had the righteousness to speak in this way. He even suggested that the evils that provoked the curses are actually directed at God, thus the reactions justified. Part of the theology here is that attacks on people made in the image or God are in fact attacks on God. This was the rationale for capital punishment given to Noah in Genesis 9:6.  As Bonhoeffer’s explanation unfolds, he suggests that when evil aroused our anger, the Psalms give us a way to honestly express that anger and then release it to Christ who alone can handle it with righteousness and justice.

I do believe that the Psalms give us not only permission but a way to converse with God honestly. You’d be hard put to find a human emotion or experience not reflected in the Psalms somewhere. Psalm 88 is an exquisite expression of clinical depression. Eugene Peterson makes a strong point that an intimate relationship with God requires being honest with God, even when it is not pretty or nice or pious. God is quite able to handle what’s going on in us. Psalm 103:14 “He knows how we were made; he remembers that we are dust.” That is a very good thing! Peterson makes that point briefly in this video, which he explores in greater depth in his book Answering God: The Psalms as Tools for Prayer. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-l40S5e90KY&fbclid=IwAR3Dr24QzSWKY-ZDuQhwOaSLxVlSPRHnmSsnali4J9k7siWzWVMxckCdnQM

Honesty with God is also a key to Walter Brueggemann’s understanding of praying the Psalms in his books, Praying the Psalms and The Message of the Psalms. I think honesty with God is what makes sense out of the Book of Job. We often read Job 42:6 as though now that Job has been encountered by God, he will repent in dust and ashes. However, that’s not the flow of the story. Job has been in dust and ashes all along, and now that he has seen God he can get on with his life. That verse could be translated as well (or better) as “I repent of my dust and ashes.” Job is leaving the dust and ashes behind and going on to live with the God who had met him at his point of deepest need. In fact, God says of Job’s friends, who were saying all the “right things” about God, “You have not spoken of me what is right, as my servant Job has done.” (Job 42:8) What has Job said that was right, and not like his friends? It comes to a head in 23:6 “Would he contend with me in the greatness of his power? No; but he would give heed to me.”

For me, the imprecatory Psalms and the laments and complaints give me language to honestly articulate to God the most painful and difficult of my human struggles, emotions, observations, experiences that I do not dare to put into my own words. Sometimes I recognize my inclination to tear out someone’s teeth (Psalm 3:7; 58:6). These Psalms allow me to own up to my negative reactions and reorient my perspective to understand them from God viewpoint, or accept that God has a viewpoint that is beyond my understanding. In doing that, I can relinquish them to God in the name of Jesus and find some peace and even joy in trusting God to handle the worst of human evil. That doesn’t mean those emotions go away or every situation is resolved to my liking or that I can blithely go on oblivious to them, but I recognize that I cannot and am not responsible to resolve every human dilemma, even those in my own heart.

As I reflected a bit on this I recognize that the Psalms that give me more pause are the ones where the Psalmists protest their own righteousness as an appeal for God to act in a certain way. I dare not be so presumptuous, but I do find these prompt me to express my aspiration for righteousness to God.

I am not the great Psalm expert, but I have learned from some who know way more than I do. At this point I’m not so much analyzing the Psalms as I am using them as a stimulus for my prayers that I think of more as chats with God. As I mentioned before, I am troubled when the Psalmists protest their righteousness to God. I often use those to express my longing to grow in righteousness. I find more comforting the times the Psalmists ask God to lead and guide them on the path ahead. Here Candy and I are now in our 70s and still finding our way. Personally, I recognize I am in a time of transition. God seems to be guiding me into deeper inner life and being present to Candy. I preached for three churches in January, and recognized that path that has been so much a part of my life in tapering off or even concluding.

One other observation that came to me as I was walking our dog in the midst of writing this (3.7 miles, 1 hour 18 minutes) has to do with how we understand Scripture. I know that in some evangelical circles there is a tendency to see the Bible as almost directly dictated by God with instructions for us to follow. To be sure, I am fully convinced of the inspiration, reliability, and authority of Scripture, but recognize that very little of it is presented in the form of dictated instructions. Rather, God and people are interacting in a wide variety of situations and cultures and the Bible arises from those interactions. When it comes to the Psalms, in contrast with the Lord’s Prayer for example, we are not told this is how to pray but we listen in, if you will, on the prayers of those with whom God has an intimate relationship. Sometimes it is beautiful, glorious love, but other times it is crying out of the darkness when God seems absent. Obviously, it gets much broader and deeper than that, but with this sort of understand of what the Psalms are in the context of what Scripture is, the Psalms nourish my intimacy with God. I pray through the Psalms each month, 5/day, and have done that for almost 50 years, so I am approaching 600 encounters with each Psalm in my personal prayer life (not considering study, preaching, teaching). The formula, which is not original to me, is to start with the date and add 30 four times. That gives five samples across the Psalter every day for 30 days. On the 29^th, I skip 119 because it is so long but us it by itself the five times a year of a 31^st day. Yes, a few get left out each February. They never get old, and every day something connects with what is going on in my life, in our family, in the church, in the world. They give me ways to get in touch with and express to God what is going on inside of me, especially what I am struggling to resolve. They also speak God’s voice that I need to listen to every day.

Contemplation of Mortality

When I come to Psalm 49:10-13 in my prayer Psalms, I often think of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem Ozymandias. The pursuit of ego gratification and temporal greatness is hardly a new phenomenon, but it seems to have taken center stage in the public arena in recent years. Both the Psalmist and Shelly are clear that the corrective for this trend is contemplation of mortality.

When we look at the wise, they die; fool and dolt perish together and leave their wealth to others. Their graves are their homes forever, their dwelling places to all generations, though they named lands their own. Mortals cannot abide in their pomp; they are like the animals that perish. Such is the fate of the foolhardy, the end of those who are pleased with their lot. 

The monastics knew the spiritual benefit of contemplating our mortality. Some monasteries have their cemetery outside the entrance to the refectory where they take their meals. Often the next grave in line has already been dug and is ready for the next monk’s passing. Thus they must contemplate that even as they take the meals that sustain their lives, they are mortal and will go to their graves in turn. In some more intense monasteries, monks actually build their own coffins and sleep in them until they are used for burial. The picture is a fresco from the Basilica of St. Benedict in Subiaco, Italy. It shows a monk guiding young people in contemplating their mortality by showing them three dead bodies: one fresh, one decaying, and one skeletonized.  Perhaps you have seen old grave stones with the inscription, “As you are, I once was. As I am, you will be.”

All this may seem morbid to us in our age of death denial. But the Psalms (e.g. 39, 90) frequently recommend contemplation of mortality as the route to living each day well in healthy relationship with God, the people we love, and the world we inhabit. The hints of what may come after this life are few and vague in the Hebrew Scriptures. Their emphasis is not on imagining details of a future eternity but on trusting ourselves to the God who guides us in this life to secure us for that eternity. Just this one line in Psalm 49:15 articulates that faith.

God will ransom my soul from the power of Sheol, for he will receive me. 

Interestingly, perhaps significantly in terms of my meditations today, the Epistle from the Lectionary for next Sunday explores this mystery in 1 Corinthians 15:42-44. This strikes me as so much more profound and satisfying than the song I Can Only Imagine that has become popular in some circles for funerals.

So it is with the resurrection of the dead. What is sown is perishable, what is raised is imperishable. It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power. It is sown a physical body, it is raised a spiritual body. If there is a physical body, there is also a spiritual body.

We are so prone to individualistic perspectives that we miss that mortality is not only for each of us personally but for the human institutions in which we live. In terms of human and even Western history, the United States is very young, and as wonderful as it may be, or we wish it could be, it is not the Eternal Reign of God. It is temporary and one day will pass from the scene, as have all others before it. That should not cause us distress any more than contemplating our personal mortality should. Rather, it should motivate us put all the falderal of pursuing greatness in perspective focusing on justice and peace, compassion and prosperity not only for ourselves but for all people.

Ozymandias 

Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Lauds – February 17, 2019

Road to Santiago de Compostela 2007 Rebecca Carroll

          This morning I woke and began Lauds almost an hour before the chime summoned me. Seemingly random gratitude and praise congealed into pondering the ancient question – Why is there anything rather than nothing? I pursued that to consider the nature of this anything. Since adolescence at least, I have thought that the material universe might well have been gray and angular, without beauty. Even life could have been mechanical without joy. Even humans could have been isolated without relationships. So why is there not just color but beauty that seem to exult in just being colorful and beautiful? Why do we recognize at least some approximation of our human emotions in animals and even plants and the earth and universe? Why do we have the capacity to not only perceive but revel in the joy of beauty? Why do we thrive in relationships and flourish on love? Why do we grieve when beauty, joy, relationship, and love are lost?

My contemplation took me to recognizing in this awareness something of not just what it means to be made in the image of God, but that all of creation is an extension or expression of the nature of character of God. Not just in the marvels of the earth and universe, but in these invisible realities: beauty, joy, relationship, love (and yes, even grief). It seems to me that the Trinitarian (and other theological) formulations about God are our feeble attempts to capture this with human reason and language. Yes, I accept that the Bible is God’s inspired, reliable and authoritative self-revelation. As such it too exudes in human language mystery well beyond human language. I am not interested here in debating biblical orthodoxy but in being captivated by being welcomed into the mysterious presence of God who is at once beyond my imagination and personally accessible.

As I moved into Prime and prayer Psalms while I ate breakfast, I began with Psalm 17, which concludes with verse 15. “As for me, I shall behold your face in righteousness; when I awake I shall be satisfied, beholding your likeness.” I was overwhelmed by recognizing that is just what I had been privileged to do.

Then I started up the computer and opened the email from the Center for Action and Contemplation with Fr. Richard Rohr’s meditation for today. I am neither endorsing nor critiquing everything he writes, but I have found he enriches my meditation, prompting me to consider things I had not previously thought about. This morning’s meditation seemed an extension of my own contemplation of the mystery of God. To be sure, what he has written reflects the inadequacy of human language and thinking. However, I was startled with how it directly it interfaced with the mystery I had already been contemplating.

https://cac.org/gods-first-idea-2019-02-17/