greg boyd

Usually, I just stow things neat I've read recently in the sidebar under "neat things I've read recently" and figure anyone who is interested will click on. Here's one I want to mention, though: Greg Boyd's attempt to convince his congregation that Christianity and Republicanism are not the same thing was profiled by the New York Times.

I don't know much about Boyd as a pastor. I'm only familiar with him from the Open Theism debates; his God of the Possible is a good introduction to Open thinking. (And I've wanted to read Letters from a Skeptic for a long time, it seems.) The profile of him is pretty good, though. He lost a fifth of his congregation trying to explain why flags don't belong in sancturaries, and sounds unapologetic, which is enough to make me like him.

There's a review in the Christian Century of his new book, The Myth of a Christian Nation: How the Quest for Political Power is Destroying the Church.

kitten sitting

I’ve been kittensitting for Princess this weekend. I’ve also been studying for my server tests at Texas Roadhouse, so the kitten heard about what sauces come with the Tater Skins appetizer and which toppings are on a Smothered Chicken dinner. I don’t know if she learned much, but she did seem to enjoy chewing on my notecards. All’s well that ends well.

She’s a funny little kitten, chitters when she’s mad and scratches when she’s happy. Loves to play, but isn’t a big fan of being petted. As the long weekend without Princess wears on, though, the kitten is becoming more open to a little stroking. Last night, we watched Jesus Christ, Superstar together, and she spent the movie nibbling my toes and stealing popcorn to bat around on the floor. Tonight, we watched All About My Mother, and she alternated between batting toys and snuggling with me, generally positioning herself between my face and the TV screen. Unfortunate, since the movie is in Spanish and I was trying to read subtitles, but how can I be angry at a kitten who wants to snuggle?

I’ve got scratches and toothmarks across my hands from the kitten, striking my inflated ego as stigmata-esque. She doesn’t have any other kittens to wrestle with, so human hands take her siblings’ places. She chews on my fingers in turn, pawing at whichever one seems to be wiggling most in the moment. I’ve been using our wrestling periods to get in a little petting on the sly- wrestle with one hand, stroke her ears with the other.

Yesterday, she would put up with the petting for a little while, then twist to try to chew both hands at once. I don’t know what made the difference this evening- perhaps loneliness- but she would rest a bit in my hand and sneak in a purr while I petted her. She wouldn’t stop for long, though. A small respite, then back to the chewing and clawing, fighting my hand with every ounce (or perhaps tablespoon) of strength in her little kitten body. Just the same, she enjoyed me petting her while we fought.

In my theology nerd way, this made me wonder how often I do the same thing to God. Chomp on fingers and gnaw on toes? Sure! Slink around the top of the couch and pounce on a flashing ponytail? No problem! Snuggle and sit quietly? Well... not so much. So much of my relationship with the Spirit is focused on chewing and wrestling, and the kitten made me wonder if I could be focusing more on the purring and waiting to be petted.

Do you think that God giggles when I wiggle my butt before pouncing on my favorite toy? Or sighs when I curl up on her chest, nose under her neck and purr, and feels a bit lonely when I go? Does God even wonder why I set my loneliness threshold so high that I'd rather fight over nonsense than admit that I really just want my ears scratched?

update from the department of boring

I drank my supper today.

It was just lemonade. I was at work.

indigo bunting?

I saw the most beautiful blue birds today! Two of them! If I were at home, I'd assume they were Indigo Buntings, and count myself very blessed since they don't often come up to the feeders. In NY, I see an Indigo Bunting once or twice a summer, maybe. I don't want to assume that's what I saw, though. Does anyone know if there are other small, brilliantly blue birds that I might have seen flying over a cornfield?

Just started working at the Texas Roadhouse. The young woman who I watched serving last night is leaving in two weeks, as are five or six other people I've met in the last two days. I'm not clear if I should be intimidated or not. What if I fail? I'd better not- my mad guitar skills are nowhere near rent-paying capacity.

I don't really think I'm going to fail, not while wearing my spiffy nonskid shoes. I might fail at not cussing out the computer system, though, just for the bleep of it.

not my people?

Jerry Falwell is my brother.

So is Bishop Spong, for that matter.

I don’t do very well at remembering this, but it’s important nonetheless. Last week’s sermon at the Baptist church was on Hosea. The whole book. All at once. The week prior was Habakkuk- another all-at-once sermon, although a bit easier because Habakkuk is so small.

Hosea’s first child with Gomer gets named after a place where the house of Jehu shed blood, and a prophecy is given that the bow of Israel will be broken in that same valley. The next two kids are named more straightforwardly:
Lo-Ruhamah ~ Not-Pitied
Lo-‘Ammi ~ Not-My-People

These are scary names. Even coupled with the promise that those called Not-My-People will eventually be called the children of the living God... these are scary names. As well they should be. Hosea’s prophecies limn a God who is troubled and saddened by Israel’s disobedience, and who only uses such names with redemptive intent. Hosea traces the future history of a people whose experience of being Lo-Ruhamah and Lo-‘Ammi brings them back to be the people of God again, when the bow and sword are broken forever, battle is swept from the land, and Israel is betrothed to God in righteousness, justice, grace, compassion, and faithfulness.

As squeamish as I am at exiling other members of the religious community, and as concerned as I am about demonizing ‘the other,’ I often lose all that sense of pity and fellowship when well-known figures come up in conversation. It’s as though the fact that they’ve become caricatures of themselves absolves me of the responsibility to respond to them as people, rather than as objects of an argument or joke. I talk about their public images as though those images were accurate reflections of the true selves underneath.

Perhaps it was more than mere technological limitation that prevented Paul from listing ‘television charisma’ as a spiritual gift.

Falwell makes an easy example, for me, in part because I often find myself defending him in conversation. Folks who’ve gone to Liberty tell me that he’s a great preacher, a compassionate leader and a caring pastor. I’ve known lots of ministers like that, none of whom I would put on television to talk about politics.

It’s not that they’re conservative, although most of them are. I wouldn’t put a hippie Pentecostal preacher on television to talk up union development, although I’d probably want to watch the show.

Television in particular, and fame in general, just aren’t the right media for communicating the gospel. The power leeches out, and all you end up with is the caricature of the passion that motivates one toward ministry.

The caricatures are unfortunate by-products, but the people underneath are still my people, still people toward whom I need to show compassion. That’s part of what it means to be a Christian- Falwell and Spong, both, are my people, and my reaction to them must be in terms of that imago Dei, rather than in terms of their public caricatures. Otherwise, I'm dehumanizing them, which is particularly troubling since we claim relation through the same Christ.

This is an unfinished idea, so add to it or tear it apart in the comments.

I have no sidewalk!

All the sidewalk in front of my apartment has been ripped out by large, noisy machines. Hopefully the cement truck that spins outside my kitchen window now and again will eventually squirt down a new sidewalk for me.

You might think that the dirt outside my apartment wouldn't bother me, given that I grew up on a dirt road. But you'd be wrong- I'm getting persnickety in my old age.

Song Of One Of The Girls

Dorothy Parker...

Here in my heart I am Helen;
I'm Aspasia and Hero, at least.
I'm Judith, and Jael, and Madame de Stael;
I'm Salome, moon of the East.

Here in my soul I am Sappho;
Lady Hamilton am I, as well.
In me Recamier vies with Kitty O'Shea,
With Dido, and Eve, and poor Nell.

I'm of the glamorous ladies
At whose beckoning history shook.
But you are a man, and see only my pan,
So I stay at home with a book.

reverie continued

This was saved in my email, and I ran across it while searching for a phone number. (Yes, Erik, I do intend to call you.) It's a definition of the church that I wrote while filling out seminary applications, possibly ESR's but I don't remember:

I like to think of the church as those who are called by God to enter into a mystical communion and work together to glorify God by incarnating God's Kingdom on earth. That's a rough idea, but I think that it incorporates all the elements that are essential to defining the church. I think of the church in terms of the call on the lives of the individual participants in grace. This call is to membership in the Bride of Christ, a communion that transcends space and time but is also realized in every congregation of the church. I think that all Christians are called to glorify God through worship, both during formal 'worship times' and through the everyday actions of their lives- we are priests of the Kingdom at all times. Finally, we are called to work for the redemption of both individuals and social structures through the redeeming grace of Jesus, which brings the Kingdom of God to earth.

The church's ministry to creation is one of authoritative and gentle stewardship, recognizing that the natural world was created to be under our dominion and working to use the resources God has given us to meet the needs of all people. The church's ministry to those people currently outside the church is accomplished through drawing them into our communion, offering them a sanctuary of healing, and showing them the love of God that will drive them to repentance and the realization of their identity in Christ. The church's ministry to those within the church is much the same, but it includes constantly challenging them to grow in sanctifying grace, providing opportunities for mentorship, and training up new leaders full of holy boldness. The church is also called to the ministry of the prophetic word, speaking God's words of peace, truth, and light into a generation of violence, lies, and darkness.

Good times, good times.

reverie

Yesterday, I found a floppy disk labeled "High School Papers." I had forgotten how many papers I wrote while disagreeing with my main thesis. One paper argued that all Americans with AIDS should be quarantined for the safety of the population at large, using as proof the sucess of the Cuban health care system at controlling HIV infections. Six pages of argument, designed only to anger a teacher that I didn't like. She gave me full credit, since it's a decent paper that fufilled her requirements, but sat me down for a heart-to-heart about the important differences between autocracies and democracies. As I recall, I didn't like her because she was constantly sitting students down for heart-to-heart discussions of that sort.

Another paper was one I wrote in ninth grade, mostly to make my mom happy. It may have been her birthday or something, I don't really remember. I wrote it from a six-day creationist perspective, using the Bible as a scientific source against the 'secularists.' It appears that the only research I did into evolutionary theory was reading some encyclopedia articles. I remember writing this one pretty clearly- I knew that Biblical proof wasn't the same as scientific proof, but I just ignored the problem. Mom loved it... I started writing a collection of bad, vaguely athestic poetry, although I didn't actually read Origin of the Species until I was a junior.

Here's some poetry that I found on the disk:

Cafeteria Contriteness
You walked into the cafeteria.
Your taco shaped smile
Wished me a good day.
That smile irritated me.
After all, if I was miserable,
Then you should be too.
Your comment was a simple one,
Said softly to start a conversation.
And, really, it wasn’t you at all.
You just spoke at the wrong time.
And I cut you down and wrapped you up
In a pita of pejoratives
An enchilada of explicatives.
I left you standing there
Amid the acidic hot sauce of my words
Like cheddar cheese neatly cut.

On the Death of My Truck
Eddie. My truck. You're there by the window
beside my desk, your wheels squat and your frame
squalid as you sit in the sopping wet
dew. I mourn you in your entirety,
your creamy vinyl interior, the
rusty hole in your floorboard by the brake
pedal, the pale red veterans’ poppy
that hangs, forlorn, from your rearview mirror.
Your chrome bumper still reflects the beaming,
vivid sunshine, a poor likeness of your
earlier vitality. Remember
how we would bounce down the road together,
jumping, bumping, and clumping over the
cavernous potholes? And remember the
time, while we were heading up Salisbury
Street, when you decided not to shift to
third gear, and then not to shift at all? I
almost got you back by smashing your nose
on a mailbox, but I controlled myself
and you. But, I suppose you’re happy now,
permanently left in neutral, your tan
skeleton slouching proudly in the grass.

bad preaching

I heard a great sermon last Saturday night at the Wesleyan* church on the call to peacemaking. I had big plans to describe it here, but I seem to be too lazy. Instead, here's a guide to bad preaching.

*Yep, I went again.

fireworks

I've been in New York for most of my 4th of July's. Still, everytime I think of Independence Day fireworks, I picture a certain spot in Summitville, Indiana, where my family parks pickup trucks every year to watch the best hour-long exploding extravaganza I've ever seen. Or heard- the whole thing was set to music long before anyone started hiring local radio stations to play along with the show.

I don't know my mom's side of the family very well. On my dad's side, I can trace third cousins once removed and first cousins thrice removed without (much) hesitation. On my mom's side, though, I always have to ask an uncle or aunt to give me a name primer again. Some of the difference is in family dynamics- “that's my first ex-wife's former brother-in-law's house” is different than “cousins twice removed”- but most of it is an embarrassing unfamiliarity with the people. These aren't the family I grew up with.

I got caught up with my uncle Terry, as dusk approached and the Junior Fire Department came down the hill to get the crowd going, airdrumming with Glo-sticks to Lynard Skynard. Sweet home, indeed; he put names to the various grandkids and great-grandkids jumping from one truckbed to the next. All sorts of little cousins I don't know very well: Anthony with his funny glasses dancing on the picnic blanket, John (or maybe it's Josh) drinking pop and picking clover.

Terry told me that my cousin Adam will be home from training in September and then back to Baghdad in October, building and collecting landmines and using det-rope to blow doors off Iraqi houses. Aside from all the problems I have with the enterprise in general, I don't understand how such a clumsy boy ended up working with anything more dangerous than sheathed butter knives.

I shouldn't call him a boy, I guess. He's only two years younger than me- relatively old by army standards. They probably call him “Gramps.”

The Summitville Fire Department, in addition to having some of the biggest aerial displays I've ever seen, puts on a great ground show. This year, they set off a terrific Statue of Liberty, with Bruce Springsteen in the background singing Born in the USA. I think the Boss would have approved, but it made me wonder which firefighter held the post of Official Lyrics Checker.

Sent me off to a foreign land/To go and kill the yellow man... It was a beautiful show, but watching my little cousin Jeannie, with her bright red hair and orange ear-protectors, waving her Glo-stick with glee during the Armed Forces salute, made me wonder why peace churches don't do fireworks on the International Day of Peace. It's a different version of “why should the devil have all the good music,” maybe. Is there anything stopping First Friends or a likeminded congregation from renting Glen Miller Park and lighting up the sky?

Personally, I'd like to see some Glo-stick airdrumming to Joan Baez, just to be able to say I'd seen it.

tough times for goats

"A British army regiment's ceremonial pet goat was demoted in disgrace after it marched out of line before a host of international dignitaries during a parade to mark Queen's Elizabeth II's birthday, a military spokesman said Saturday."

"Captain William Rose, a soldier present at the parade, said the goat 'was trying to headbutt the waist and nether regions of the drummers.'"

Bad day for the goat, although it still gets to eat its daily allowance of cigarettes.

connect four

acosmism- disbelief in existence of eternal universe distinct from God

Link: ...you can have a heapin' helpin' of my unbridled rage...

Noogenesis refers to the evolution of the mind. This is a picture that came up when I ran noogenesis through Google Images:


A big empty prize box* goes out to the commenter I deem best at drawing connections between the words, the toon, and the picture.

*Box not included