The thunder clouds,
my photo du jour, have no direct connection to the BLOG writing. For a couple of weeks I have been, with admitted presumption, writing what I am calling a "sermon." Some folks have been surprised that I seem to them to have lost my faith. A couple of friends have been saddened, even slightly offended by my admission of doubt. Maybe the thunder clouds are not completely disconnected with this writing.
Someone responding to my BLOG suggested: “Lighten Up!” “Give the church a break.” O.K. Here it is-- and I’m not faking it. I love the church. Well, considering everything, maybe “love” isn’t exactly the right word, the way “love” isn’t exactly the right word for how I feel about hot buttered popcorn, but I’ve said, “I love popcorn;” so why not say I love the church. I’ll stand by the verb “love” with the church as the direct object. Otherwise why in the world do I go? I like what it is, but even more I like what it represents. I was surprised, but shouldn’t have been, when I learned that a few people consider me a heretic after reading my BLOG entries on August 8th, August 10th, and August 15th. One fellow assumed I don’t like the church, so I am trying to set the record straight. I like the church.
Maybe I like what the church represents more than I like what it has sometimes done in its long history. Surely nobody in our time who “goes” to church regularly can actually be glad for some of the uglier episodes in the church’s history. When I was a child, I was intrigued by the travel factor in the Crusades; so I guess I didn’t notice the horrific purpose of the Crusades until I became an adult and had actually met and lived among people who happened to be “infidels.” Those handsome, brave knights of the Holy Crusades went out to kill infidels as a holy duty... jihid. The Spanish Inquisition, the Church’s excuse for killing slowly in the name of God, gives modern-day monsters detailed instructions on how to torture prisoners. But all things considered, I can still say I like the church, and this “sermon” is an attempt to explain why.
I don’t know much about constructing sermons, but I do know something about essay construction; so my “sermons” read more like essays. I’ve heard ministers mention the importance of three points in a sermon; so I’m going to build this one around three important things the church represents to me: redemption, forgiveness, and hope.
First, let me begin with confession. (Fourth point in a three-point sermon?) I confess that I like very much my church, the big, beautiful cathedral soaring above the ordinariness of Mission Valley. I know, I know: It would be fair for you to think I believe it represents a great deal of money that could have been used to feed the poor or to provide homeless shelters; but I like the big, stately building; and I’m glad the decision was made fifty or so years ago to build it. I am grateful to the people who sacrificed to do it. I like and appreciate First United Methodist Church in Mission Valley the way I like and appreciate the other great cathedrals of the world. I love the drive through wide fields of sunflowers toward Chartres, where I never fail to be overwhelmed by awe and amazement when I first catch sight of the great towers and spires soaring above everything... or Cologne Cathedral rising above the surrounding square, park, old city and riverfront... and the wonderful Salisbury Cathedral and the new Coventry Cathedral sheltering the bombed-out ruin of the ancient church destroyed in the war. I remember an argument I had many years ago with my brother-in-law who firmly believed lavish ornamentation on buildings and in fact all public monuments and art work are a colossal waste of time and money. Of course, I disagreed and insisted the spirit is nurtured by great art and architecture. Neither of us convinced the other to move out of our entrenched opinions.
My church, and I think of it as “my” church, in Mission Valley thrills me. I am always reassured by the vaulting transept, crossing and chancel, by the ranks of organ pipes in back and front, and by the inspired, leaping fire in stained glass panels running the length of the church from nave to transept to altar... and I especially like the better-than-stained-glass clear window above and behind the altar that connects the inside of the church with the magnificent, albeit sometimes terrifying outside world.
Now to the three points: Redemption first.
Redemption is the action of being saved from sin, error, or evil; the action of regaining or gaining possession of something in exchange for payment; the clearing of a debt. Countless times I have been reminded by something I’ve heard in church that I need to go back out into the world to undo some tangle I have created, some mess I have made, some confusion I have caused. I needed those reminders. Mostly I have forgotten specific sermons and Sunday School lessons, but I remember some specific, cherished times in church. Of course, I remember most of the details of my wedding. The real event was nothing like the rehearsal. In the rehearsal I was instructed about where to stand in the ceremony. In the ceremony I was instructed about how to be in relationship with someone I love. The ceremony redeemed me, and the memory of it continues to redeem me more than fifty years later. Much of what I know about the life of Jesus I learned in church. He continues to show me how to live, how to redeem my short life from the mundane, the ordinary. More than any other person’s life, I trust his example to redeem me from a careless life that might inflict harm on others. I don’t particularly like the talk about eating Jesus’ body and drinking his blood that seems to be important to some people; but I put up with it, recognizing that it is a much misunderstood metaphor. Rituals are important. I am comforted by them. Symbols are important, and rituals would be impossible without them; so I have adjusted to the symbolic acts of communion and baptism. I don’t believe, as I did when I was a child, that those acts redeem me from eternal damnation; but they do remind me of qualities and purpose of life. They enrich rather than ensure. I no longer believe they are insurance bought and paid for by the shedding of Jesus’ blood and the breaking of his body. They are reminders. I partake of those symbolic rituals in remembrance of his example of living for others instead of just for himself.
FORGIVENESS: The second point...
In writing about forgiveness, I am going to use a word that Margaret absolutely hates, a phrase that makes her cringe whenever and wherever she hears it, an expression that my Grandmother probably never heard in her entire life. Sometimes in church I come face to face with the reality of my self-centeredness, my impatience, my quickness to get... now here comes the word... pissed. Although it is mostly hidden from sight and hearing of neighbors and even family, I sometimes get angry, really pissed, over some minor, sometimes accidental, mostly inconsequential action or statement by someone whom I should never let upset me. Perhaps this doesn’t happen to you, but sometimes when I am driving and listening to the radio, I hear a report of some ridiculous comment made by somebody like Rush Limbaugh, let’s call a spade a spade here, or by one of the sanctimonious prigs who claim they are protecting the sanctity of marriage from homosexuals... You see how it gets me going just to recall it... and I find myself muttering to myself, saying things out loud when I am alone in the car, something that I definitely would not write here nor would ever say out loud if Margaret or my Mother were present... In other words, I get really pissed. At the time I am probably a less safe driver; but that’s not my point. The point is that somehow in church a combination of music and poetry and visual beauty come together to help me become a more peaceful person, a person determined to become calmer in stressful situations. I think through situations from the previous few days, and something happens in my head and in my heart. I think what I feel is forgiveness... forgiveness following regret... forgiveness that doesn’t allow regret to become pathological remorse. What I feel is forgiveness. I feel that I am forgiven, and I stretch myself to try to forgive people like Rush Limbaugh. It's hard to do. If he were an ignorant bumpkin, a dim-witted person, I could manage the forgiveness; but I come away every time I think about it, convinced that he knows better but stands by his deliberately outrageous statements so he can continue to make millions of dollars a year on his radio program. So I have some forgiveness issues. It's something I have to continue to work on. However, when forgiveness happens, I go away from church feeling better and definitely more determined to be better with my family and my neighbors.
The church has helped me mature more appropriately than I might have done without the experience of church. I believe I am considerably better able to handle the stresses of living than I was when I was younger. Being old would have scared the hell out of me when I was a young man, but now I think I am handling it pretty well. At least I’m not angry about growing old. For one thing, I can appreciate that my growing into old age is better than the alternative. I am glad to be alive.
That brings me to the third point: HOPE!
How dreary life would be without the expectation that difficult situations can be resolved. Without becoming a Pollyanna, I can expect wrong circumstances to turn right. Although I admit that there is plenty of evidence to support the argument that the world has gone from bad to worse: World War I was terrible. World War II was even more awful... and here we are in the first decade of the twenty-first century with wars going on all over the place. What in the world is going on in the Middle East? Why can’t the Sunni Muslims just let the Shiite Muslims go their way in Iraq? What’s up with the Taliban? Where in the world did they get the idea that God wants a jihad against infidels, in this case that’s the rest of us; and that God will reward them in heaven if they carry it out? And those Protestants in Ireland! We are all encouraged that the situation seems to be better, but why can’t they let the Catholics be what they want to be? And can you figure out what is going on in Somalia? And that Bernard Madoff! Why in the world would someone even want as much money as he swindled? And on we could go with contemporary horrors.
But I am hopeful. I like what happens twice a year in a bird’s nest outside my window. I am thrilled by the buds that reappear in springtime on the trees along the Dnieper River after a bitter winter in Smolensk . And so far the polar bears and their cubs still come out of their frozen lairs and go out onto the Arctic ice searching for food as they have done for millions of years. We’d better not talk here about what happens to the seals; Let’s not get off on a tangent. I love kindergarten graduations. The point is that I am basically a hopeful person because the people in my life have been optimistic people. The church has had a lot to do with that.
When I was a little boy, I spent time every summer with my grandparents in Arkansas. I remember riding in a wagon drawn by two mules, and I’m not just making this up, with my Grand Dad and my Granny on the bench seat up front and me sitting behind them on the floor of the wagon, to a Baptist revival meeting. I remember the ride in the wagon, going to the church in mid-summer daylight and going back home again after dark. I remember the sounds of the night and the brightness of the stars above Pine Ridge. I remember only a bit about the revival meeting... nothing at all about a sermon except that I think I recall a preacher shouting and raising his arms.I do remember clearly one night when my Granny stood at a special time in the service to “testify.” I was no more than nine or ten years old, but I’ve never forgotten what she said: “Some people say about church that it’s the same old soup warmed over, but,” she said, “Praise the Lord, it’s better every time you warm it.” Basically, I believe it. Tomorrow will be better. I am full of hope.
SYCAMORE IN LATE SUMMER
