Look here for a short reflection on Wisdom 11 and the story of Zacchaeus from today’s Gospel.
Zacchaeus and friends
Reply
Category Archives: Uncategorized
What worries me
Well, honestly, a lot of things worry me. Stupid things and little things and big things and almost impossible things. But Rowan Williams names precisely what worries me about what I do as a theologian: “[the desert fathers and mothers] seem very well aware that one of the great temptations of religious living is to intrude between God and other people. We love to think that we know more of God than other people…” (Silence and Honey Cakes).
That worries me. It probably worries me more because I am not the smartest theologian I know. Not nearly. (Since you asked, I would certainly rank Rowan Williams as one of the two or three smartest theologians I know.) I spent an awfully long time trying to write a Very Clever conclusion to my book, Rethinking Christian Identity, and eventually realized that in trying to write a sexy and theoretical finale, I was trying to be someone I am not. Yes, I read the necessary books by de Certeau. But in the end I didn't write about that stuff. I wrote about discipleship, because that's what seemed to me to be the heart of Christian identity. It's about following Jesus. This is not a Clever and Original idea. It's a commonplace in Christian theology from the gospels onward.
So where does that leave me, as a teacher of theology? Well, the book was published, and the only review I have seen so far didn't write it off as just repeating stuff everyone already knows. I'm grateful for that, and for the reviewer's practical response to the book, which was to read Gregory of Nyssa. But I am never going to be a person who trades in cleverness. I know how much I don't know, and I would far rather start with cards on the table. I know what I do know, and I have confidence that I can teach the subject. I also know that I am not going to win arguments with John Milbank about Plato or political theory. (By the way, he's in that small group with Rowan Williams.)
I would, however, be perfectly happy talking with John, even arguing, about Jesus. Not about Christology, certainly, but about Jesus. And that's what worries me. Because not trading in cleverness all these years, first as a graduate student, and then as a teacher, has meant that I put a great deal of emphasis on faithfulness to the gospel and on spiritual discipline; I say that it is more important to be faithful than clever, if you are a theologian. It isn't knowing about God that makes good theology; it's knowing God. (It is both, of course, and you can't just have one or the other, as Andrew Louth suggested a great many years ago in an essay about theology and spirituality. And he's another theologian I would place on the top of the smart list.)
But do I thereby imply that I know God better than my students or my colleagues? Good heavens, no. Teaching theology to people who are training for ministry is an awesome privilege and a serious charge. What qualifies me to stand in front is formal and academic knowledge; it's having practiced talking about the God we all know in particular ways, ways that are faithful to the Bible and the Church's memory of Jesus preserved through the ages in its sacred doctrine. I certainly can make no claim to “know more of God” than my students. Faithfulness is a shared enterprise, and spiritual discipline is for the Church and not solely (or even primarily) for individuals.
A lot of the things that worry me are petty, even ridiculous. But not this one. I take Rowan Williams' words to heart. This should worry me. I don't have any formula for getting it right, for teaching sound doctrine intelligently to intelligent people, and simultaneously bearing in mind that it's not all about intelligence; or for bearing in mind that in the classroom faith does actively seek understanding, that the exercise of the intellect is a part of faithful discipleship. It is enough that I worry about it, I think, so long as the 'worry' always becomes 'pray.' This work I do is like the rest of my life before God: possible only by his grace.
The Trinity for toddlers, part 2
Teaching theology affords an incredible opportunity to see how people cope with a doctrine that resists the intellect's instinctive attempts to solve it. It is not, as theologians like Rowan Williams and Thomas Weinandy (two very different thinkers, to say the least) have observed, a puzzle to be solved, but a mystery to be pondered. It's a mystery. Rowan Williams says, drawing on the resources of Eastern Orthodox theology, that 'the doctrine of the Trinity is a crucifixion of the intellect.' So it isn't surprising that students of theology, whether giving the lectures or hearing them, find it difficult.
But it doesn't crucify the intellect to no purpose, nor is it the most difficult of the mysteries of the faith. We might think that Jesus is the answer, but he raised a whole lot of questions for a few hundred years. The incarnation and the atonement present us with mystery just as irreducible as the Trinity. The intellectual life of the believing soul involves contemplating the truths of the faith while holding fast to the knowledge of God's ultimate incomprehensibilty. And nowhere is this more true than in that most difficult, deal-breaking area of theological reflection that we call theodicy. The problem of evil is not, like the Trinity might be, a stumbling block just for the intellect. It confronts us when inexplicable and unjust things happen to us or to those we love, things that make us turn to God in confusion, wondering how a God who is omnipotent and perfectly, completely good, could allow such things to happen. I understand how it ends up being a deal-breaker.
I used to wonder why I still had my faith, after all I did to lose it, and after it was challenged by my experience of life. Eventually I came to see that it wasn't 'mine' to lose, really: it is the faith of the Church, and I participate in it, I don't possess it. But that doesn't explain why I am still hanging around. Probably I owe that to my mother, who taught me lots of songs about Jesus when I was small. They're not the sorts of songs that survived the 1980's, but they impressed upon me a certain understanding of Jesus, one that stayed with me. The core of what I think about Jesus was formed before I was old enough really to be puzzled about how someone could be fully God and fully human.
So I am really glad that when my small son asked me, 'Who is God?' I answered with reference to the Trinity, with the sign of the cross, with the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. I could have answered, as I supposed might be more practical, with something about God as the creator, or God as love. These would have been good. But at age three, my son never asked how the one I called God could also be called the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. It isn't like we grow up and suddenly the penny drops, and we grasp how three can be one, how one can be three; we don't mature intellectually such that if we wait long enough to introduce these difficult concepts, we will be able to understand them. Better to get used to a name that names something we don't understand from the get-go, and grow into appreciation of the mystery as we develop intellectually and spiritually.
Now I can imagine lots of objections to that, but they will have to wait for another day.
The Trinity for toddlers
When my son (who is now 10) was about three and a half, we were having one of those conversations that consisted mostly of his questions and my answers. 'Where was I when…?' he would ask. Eventually, he got around to asking about something (I can't remember what) that happened well before he was born. 'You weren't born yet,' I said. 'Was I in your tummy?' he asked. 'No,' I replied–though I suppose technically he was half there, potentially, or something like that. But he wasn't really interested in the physiological details. 'Well,' he said, maybe a bit impatiently, 'where was I, then?'
Good question. I thought for a moment, and did a mental heresy check. What do you say about the pre-existence of souls? He's only three, but still… 'If you were anywhere,' I said, hoping he wouldn't press too hard about that particular question, 'you were with God.' I was thinking that the tough question was about the pre-existence of souls, and worried that I didn't have as good an answer as I would have liked to the possible follow-up question. I didn't. But it wasn't about the pre-existence of his soul or anyone else's.
'Who's God?' he asked.
Not the question I was expecting. And I was completely unprepared for it. In a split second, I thought, I teach theology. I ought to have a ready answer to this one, and it should be pretty good, too. I had no ready answer, no good answer; in fact, I had no answer that I could give to my three and a half year old. Fortunately, though, the Spirit not only intercedes but also inspires. Without any hesitation that might betray my total lack of preparedness for the question, I said, 'You know in Mass, when we say, “in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit”?' as I made the sign of the cross. 'Yeah,' he said, in a way that communicated a certain suspicion about what that might have to do with where he was sometime prior to January 2003. 'Well,' I said, 'that's God.'
And he just nodded. I have never been more relieved not to be pressed in a q & a in my life. No 'so, are you saying that…?' or 'but what about…?' Somehow the answer I gave, which seemed to me to answer the question in a pretty abstract and not very kid-friendly way, worked for him. It worked for me, too. I was really glad I had given an answer that was Trinitarian and personal rather than functional. I didn't say that God was the one who did this or that; I didn't even say anything about Jesus. My son asked me 'Who is…?' and I gave him three names, and he was ok with that. He didn't ask how the three were God, or whether I was saying that there were really three gods, or anything like that.
Now, I imagine that this isn't what Sunday school, vacation Bible school, or any sort of catechetical materials suggests for this particular age group. Jesus probably plays better to this audience, and probably so does the God who created everything that is. Probably. But maybe that's just me. Obviously my son couldn't have explained how 'Father, Son and Holy Spirit' named 'God', but then I find it challenging as a grown-up explaining it to other grown-ups. And my job title (for which I have the requisite qualification) is Lecturer in Theology and Ethics.
Maybe toddlers are more ready for the Trinity than I thought.
St Anthony of Padua
I will hear what God the Lord will say;
For He will speak peace to His people,
to His godly ones;
But let them not turn back to folly.
Surely His salvation is near to those who fear Him,
That glory may dwell in our land.
Lovingkindness and truth have met together;
Righteousness and peace have kissed each other.
Truth springs from the earth,
And righteousness looks down from heaven.
Psalm 85 [84]:9-11
For God, who said, “Light shall shine out of darkness,” is the One who has shone in our hearts to give the Light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ.
2 Corinthians 4:6 NASB
. . .
It won’t be the first time I observe that the ‘truth [that] springs from the earth’ begs for a Christological reading. The whole exchange of intimacy between love and truth, righteousness and peace, it seems to me, signals the righting of the relationship between Creator and creation. It is the work of the incarnation, accomplished in Christ.
But I confess I never attended carefully enough to the preceding verse. Together with the passage from 2 Corinthians (which runs from 3:15 to 4:6), the Christological significance is hard to miss. The glory of The Lord comes to dwell in the land (‘and we have beheld his glory…’ John’s gospel says), and in our hearts. (I can’t help but add, though, that we have this treasure in earthen vessels–so says 2 Cor 4:7–so that the power is seen as coming from God and not from us.)
Glory. It is the glory of God that is revealed in the meeting of lovingkindess and truth, in the kiss of justice and peace. The glory of God is in Christ. And it looks like love.
Deo gratias.
St Barnabas
The Lord has made known his salvation;
has shown his justice to the nations.
He has remembered his truth and love
for the house of Israel.
Psalm 98 [97]
. . .
Justice. Truth. Love. Israel and the nations.
I am always struck by the juxtapositions in the psalms. It’s as if the psalmist wants us always to bear in mind that God’s justice is never without God’s love, and God’s love is never without God’s truth; that God’s particular love for Israel is a love that takes in the whole world, that the chosenness of God’s people is a vocation to bless, to be a blessing to the world. This is who God is–the one who loves in truth, the one who is justice and mercy and peace.
God is always bigger than we thought. And no matter how long we follow Jesus, or how deep our faith is, we are still susceptible to paradigm shifts, to a still more profound encounter with the Lord. How often I coast along, like my car in neutral on a gentle downhill slope. I am not looking for the paradigm shift. Am I even looking for Jesus? Am I so sure I am following that I have stopped looking ahead on the road for his footprints, his figure in the distance?
Probably, yes. More often than I think. I forget to look up, to ask for the eyes to see, the ears to hear, the mind to know, and the heart to love God. Would I hear the Spirit calling, as the community heard the Spirit calling Barnabas and Paul? I am not so sure. Fortunately God remembers, even when I don’t, keeps calling me forward. By God’s grace, eventually, I look up, and I see Jesus there, God’s Truth and God’s Love, and I know he hears the prayer of my heart, and I am grateful.
Deo gratias.
St Norbert
…And together they said, ‘Amen, amen,’ and laid down for the night.
Tobit 6: 10 – 8: 9
. . .
Today’s reading from Tobit fascinates me, as I see the prayer of Tobit and Sarah in context. I was acquainted to with the prayer, but until today could not have related the story of Tobit and Sarah that leads up to it. It is a lovely prayer, in which the newly-joined couple ask for God’s blessing, especially (in Tobit’s words) ‘that she and I may grow old together.’ Not an unusual prayer for newlyweds.
The context, however, shows that Tobit is taking his life in his hands. Sarah’s seven previous husbands all died on the wedding night, before consummating the marriage. Tobit has been reassured by the angel Raphael that the Sarah will be released from the demon responsible for the deaths of the others. Raguel, Sarah’s father, warns Tobit about the fate of the others, but Tobit will not be dissuaded.
Going in to Sarah is an act of faith, trusting that the angel of the Lord has kept that promise. If not, Tobit might die like the others. It reminded me of Luke 5, in which Peter trusts Jesus: he goes out again, into the waters in which he’s found no fish, and tries again.
‘At your bidding, Lord…’ It is the hardest place to try again, the place we’ve found barren, lifeless, empty. But that is often where the greatest fruit is to be found, and where we discover who we are, and who Jesus is, more profoundly than before.
Our Lady of Fatima
A father of the fatherless
and a judge for the widows,
is God in his holy habitation.
God makes a home for the lonely;
He leads out the prisoners into prosperity,
Only the rebellious dwell in a parched land.
Psalm 68[67]: 5-6
. . .
In case any doubt remained about God’s preferential treatment of the downcast and oppressed: in his holy habitation, God is the defender and protector of those in need. Holiness cannot be separated from care for the downtrodden; to be holy is to make ‘a home for the lonely,’ not to hide ourselves away somewhere, as God in his holy habitation is not secluded, but opens himself to all those who need him.
Deo gratias.
Tuesday of the sixth week of Eastertide
I thank you for your faithfulness and love,
which excel all we ever knew of you.
On the day I called, you answered;
you increased the strength of my soul.
Psalm 138 [137]
. . .
When I was pregnant with Anna, and we knew that something was not right, people would often ask me how I was doing. I had good days and bad days; I said that the bad days were the days I was worried that I wouldn’t be up to the task of parenting in any case, and the good days were the days that I thought that whatever happened, I would be given the strength to see it through. I noted then that it was not that the good days were those when I believed that everything would somehow, perhaps miraculously, work out. The good days were hopeful in a far deeper sense, when I hoped in God’s power to strengthen me for whatever might come.
Looking back on that time, I ought to thank God for his faithfulness and love: I made it. And I made it through some pretty unpleasant times with a sometimes unsteady soul. I know that God can strengthen my still unsteady soul, and can draw it back from the brink of destruction. I know what it is like to have fresh hope breathed into my despairing heart, and to see the love of God in the eyes of my children. Today isn’t one of those days. Today is more like the unsteady days, the days of uncertainty and exhaustion, of calling out to God, hoping for a speedy answer.
Perhaps more than anything else, the dark and difficult days have taught me how to call out–as much an exhortation to my soul as a prayer, maybe, but I think God hears the prayer in these words:
Why are you downcast, O my soul,
and why so disquieted within me?
Hope in God, for again I shall praise him,
my help and my God.
And so I shall.
Deo gratias.
Sts Philip and James, Apostles
Day to day pours forth speech,
and night to night reveals knowledge.
There is no speech, nor are there words;
their voice is not heard.
Their line has gone out through
all the earth,
And their utterance to the end of the world.
Psalm 19 [18]: 2-4
Jesus said to him, “Have I been so long with you, and yet you have not come to know me, Philip? He who has seen me has seen the Father.”
John 16: 9
. . .
The readings for today are full of puzzles, or so it seems to me. I have always loved the paradoxical character of the words from Psalm 19: “day to day pours forth speech” yet “there is no speech”? How can that be? (If we read on in the psalm, it becomes even more puzzling, I think, since the speech-that-is-not-speech somehow is also a “tent” for the sun…) And then, there is Jesus’ response to Philip’s question: if you have seen me, says Jesus, you have seen the Father. Yet Jesus himself says he is going to the Father, so there is some distinction in the unity between the Son and the Father to whom he is going. I don’t blame Philip for asking, because the whole thing seems far from obvious.
What stands out for me in these puzzles, though, is the way “knowledge” of God comes. There is the knowledge that somehow is revealed in the night, in the way “speech” comes forth in the day; and there is the knowing Jesus by knowing his relationship to the Father–and conversely, the knowledge of the Father by seeing the Father in (through? with?) Jesus. That is, the knowledge of God isn’t like the knowledge that we acquire through reading books, studying nature, or hearing lectures (or even homilies). My friend John Swinton describes the knowledge of God as being known by God. God knows us independent of our senses or our faculties, and God indwells us by the Spirit. If our senses seem to fail us (as Philip’s sight seemed to fail him), or our minds fail us, God does not fail us. We know God by God’s initiative and power, not by our own initiative and power.
That seems to raise more questions than it answers, and doesn’t solve any puzzles. But it does remind us that, in the end, it’s all grace. And that’s good.
Deo gratias.
a theologian in the family 