From Single Issue to Seamless Garment

I thought I knew what terrible and low and shallow was until I was on social media in the week after The Alabama Human Life Protection Act was signed into law. To step directly in this cow pie, both sides have been putting up terrible and hateful and (again, yes) shallow bursts of characters and images, often with undocumented claims made by unverified sources, almost never intending to engage their opponents, let alone persuade them.

For those like me, who are pro-life but who eschew the professionalized mainstream pro-life movement, the main reason to avoid that movement is that it has deliberately narrowed what “pro-life” means to the human gestation period. In a sense, the decision to narrow has been strategic. For instance, advocates for research and development of treatments for pancreatic cancer would indeed get nowhere if they tried to get people to donate to the Cancer Is Bad Foundation. It’s too broad. You must narrow to be effective in your cause.  With pro-life causes, however, it’s different, because the ultimate goal is not to be against something, but to be for something. And for what? Life. Pro-life in the sense that it has been reduced by the mainstream anti-abortion movement–pro-life from conception to birth–in fact makes no sense as a concept to stand alone, because it fails to paint a large enough picture of the meaning of life. Being against abortion must be tied to a larger, cohesive vision of what human life is for, and what worth the individual human life has. For Christians at least this means an understanding of the value of a human life which can never be diminished by anything that human being does or anything that a human being has done to it, because we believe that humans are created in the image of God.

Thankfully for those of us who are persuaded at least that pro-life must mean something beyond birth, Catholic thinkers have been working on the question for a long time. Supposedly it was Eileen Egan (friend and biographer to Mother Teresa, marcher with MLK, correspondent with Thomas Merton, co-worker with Dorothy Day and Jim Douglass, and so much more) who first referred to the Christian understanding of the value of life as a “seamless garment.” This is a reference to the garments of Christ. When Jesus was stripped naked to be crucified, the Gospels say that his garments were gambled for as a whole cloth rather than ripped into pieces. Likewise, because God’s valuing of human life is irreducible, one pro-life issue cannot be separated from another without destroying the whole. Egan’s vision–known since then as either “the seamless garment” or the “consistent life ethic”–was deepened by Cardinal Joseph Bernardin, whose thought is now being extended by Cardinal Blase Cupich, and is easy to read within some of Pope Francis’ words.

But for many of my readers, that’s a lot of thinkers and leaders and activists who aren’t very familiar. What’s it all mean? It means that truly choosing life means choosing life in every sphere in which human life is trying to flourish. Yes, widespread abortion is, of course, a threat to human life. But so is the death penalty. So is poverty. So are many of our gun laws (and lack of them). So are our nuclear arsenals, endless wars, military budgets, military presence around the world, military equipment and tactics among local law enforcement, concealed carry in our church buildings, armed teachers in our schools, for-profit prisons, mandatory minimum sentencing, lack of access to healthcare (including women’s health care, and–sorry Catholics–contraception), euthanasia, human germline modification, our valuing economic growth as the sole measure of our corporate well-being, our trade policies, our immigration policies, our drug wars, our treatment of the environment, our relationships with other nations, our relationships across human difference (race, class, gender, sex, religion, and far more) within our own neighborhoods.

The seamless garment approach is flexible enough to still recognize that in terms of numbers and impact, some threats are harming or taking more lives than others. It also recognizes that because all these “issues” deal with human flourishing, they are interconnected too deeply to be separated.

That’s a lot, and to name so many things together might indeed muddle the issue. In this blog post I seemingly tried to lose pro-choice readers at the beginning and pro-life political conservatives by the end. But my hope is not that you agree with me or Dorothy Day or President Eisenhower. Rather, I hope that you are convinced that if any human life is worthy of defense, first you must define why life matters with a big enough picture to share with others, then you must train that lens to see where one life is being valued more than another life, and then you need to see that to encourage life, to be pro-life, you must encourage a life a whole lot better than getting it to birth. Finally, you must also realize that although formal politics–laws and the courts–can do some of this work, it is not their job to form one human conscience or a whole society to recognize and value life in all its forms. That’s our job, in relationship with one another.

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A Vow Too Far (for Now)?

I’ve begun reading Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light, edited and with commentary by Brian Kolodiechjuk, M.C. This was the book that shocked many (but not all) at Mother Teresa’s death with its revelation that she had suffered from spiritual darkness and aridity for most of her ministry. But the book starts earlier than that, using her correspondence with her priest/confessor/spiritual director and her archbishop to tell the story of how she was formed and called to the streets of Calcutta.

The first piece of this calling, a “calling within a calling” was a private vow (meaning that she was already a professed nun, and then took a vow beyond her religious vows) she made in April 1942: “I made a vow to God, binding under [pain of] mortal sin, to give to God anything that He may ask, ‘Not to refuse Him anything.’” (p. 28, Kindle edition)

Just to share what this meant to Teresa, I’ll share a longer quote Kolodiechjuk supplies from her “Explanation of the Original Constitutions of the Missionaries of Charity” (p. 29, Kindle edition):

“Why must we give ourselves fully to God? Because God has given Himself to us. If God who owes nothing to us is ready to impart to us no less than Himself, shall we answer with just a fraction of ourselves? To give ourselves fully to God is a means of receiving God Himself. I for God and God for me.”

“Not to refuse God anything.” In theory, that is what being a disciple means. That is, there’s no disciple but the one who refuses Jesus nothing. The followers of Jesus we find in the Gospels and in history show us, however, that we all follow Jesus with daily varying levels of commitment and hourly varying mixtures of faithfulness and unfaithfulness in our deepest places. Sanctification can in this light be defined as our synergistic movement in the Spirit toward becoming those who refuse God nothing, just as the incarnate Son refused the Father nothing.

But I’m afraid.

There’s a common enough joke among Christians that you have to be careful about offering God all, or God might call you to the exact places where you most don’t want to go. In reality, the joke masks anxiety not about places or life conditions, but something at the bedrock: Is God to be trusted? Is God good? If God is actually trustworthy and good and loves me, then truly it wouldn’t matter where I go or what happens to me. But if I doubt those basics, it’s going to be very difficult to refuse God nothing.

We joke because we don’t want to admit that we are all that rescue dog brought home from the shelter who, at the offer of a kind touch, cowers, shakes, and pees himself. We all need a whole lot of healing and patience from a caregiver till we learn to trust. For some of us, we need a whole lot of healing before we even learn not to bite. Our hope is this: God chooses to bring us home knowing all that sometimes difficult road with us, having committed to not toss us back to the streets. Why? Not because God pities us, but because God delights in us. God is that friend you have who always has a new rescue dog, cat, squirrel, pigeon they found and are trying to home.

For now, maybe the question for me from Saint Teresa isn’t, “Will I vow to refuse God nothing?” but “Will I notice what goes on in my rescued heart (and body too) when God draws near?” Am I anxious? Am I afraid? Do I jump back? Or am I comforted? Do I more and more often jump up into God’s lap in affection and trust? After all, trust is just another word for faith. And from our dog’s-eye-view, affection is another word for love.

Did Jesus Kiss Judas?

I guess I had always pictured Judas slinking up to Jesus with exaggerated warmth–“Rabbi!”–and giving him a quick peck on the cheek. The Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture has me wondering if I’m just being too Western again. Or too US American:

How magnificent is the endurance of evil by the Lord who even kissed his own traitor, and then spoke words even softer than a kiss! For he did not say, O you abominable one or traitor, is this what you do in return for great kindnesses? He simply says, “Judas,” using his first name. This is in the voice of one commiserating with another or who wished another to come back to him, not the voice of anger.

Dionysius of Alexandria, Quoted in The anCient Christian Commentary on Scripture: Mark, p. 215

I likely would have dismissed this reading of Judas’ kiss as a two-way kiss out of hand, because some of the readings in these volumes are quite…imaginative. But on the next page of the same volume, Ephrem of Syria assumes the same kiss, writing, “Jesus kissed the mouth of him who, by means of it, gave the signal for death to those who apprehended him.”

The Anchor Bible Dictionary has a three page entry for “Kiss” (pp. 89-92 in Volume IV). It disappointingly does not say anything about whether any recent scholars think Jesus kissed Judas back, but it does say that “the holy kiss” (mentioned several times in the New Testament) was a unique practice of early Christians, without precedent in the Greco-Roman or Jewish world. Some scholars even claim that Jesus initiated the practice with his disciples, and the disciples kept up the practice in the early Christian communities. If this is true, as the ABD puts it, Judas’ kiss was “a sign which would convey one message to outsiders but would be the usual form of greeting and hence arouse no suspicions to the inside group” (91). Of course, the whole mob with torches, clubs, and short swords probably would raise suspicion.

But back to Dionysius of Alexandria. As with many of the writers quoted in the ACCoS (many of them relatively minor figures) I had to look him up. During Dionysius’ life, the Church suffered seasons of persecution, in which some Christians denied their faith verbally or in writing and some offered sacrifices to prove they were not Christians, so that they and their families would not be hurt or killed. Seasons of persecution were followed by seasons of tolerance, and as churches reconstituted themselves, Christian leaders were divided about what to do about those who had apostatized and now wanted to return.

Some, led by Novatian, argued that those who had denied Christ and offered sacrifices to idols could not return to receive the sacraments. Such idolatry and faithlessness, he argued, were unforgivable. Others–in what became the Orthodox position set against what eventually became known as the Novatian heresy–said that Christians could repent and be forgiven and restored. Dionysius of Alexandria was one of the great leaders of that Orthodox position, and I see it in his read of Jesus and Judas in the Garden.

Dionysius knew Judas-like folks. Dionysius likely knew people who had been killed due to treachery by other Christians. Even with that life experience he looked to Jesus in the Garden, and he could not imagine a Jesus who would refuse to kiss his disciple when his disciple came to kiss him. The Jesus Dionysius heard in the Gospels would not speak with the condemning voice of Novatian, but always “in the voice of one commiserating with another or who wished another to come back to him, not the voice of anger.”

I want to see, hear, and believe in a Jesus who would kiss Judas back.

(Related public service announcement: Scorsese’s stunning Silence, which deals with faith, apostasy, reconciliation, and grace upon grace upon grace, is streaming on Amazon Prime.)

Our Hope Was Never in General Conference, Part II

In his post-General Conference briefings, my own Bishop Frank Beard urged us to trust in the process–not merely the United Methodist process, but God’s process with us on this discipleship journey, however long and winding and painful it may be. For him that means that we prayed for years for the work of General Conference 2019, so the fact that we might not like its outcome is not a good enough reason to summarily dismiss its conclusions and legislation. To put words in his mouth, “Did we pray or not? Does God answer prayer or not?”

I don’t dismiss General Conference 2019’s work. This was our 2019 step on our journey with God as a global United Methodist Church. It was neither our first nor our last step on our journey with God, even if some of us decide to part ways with this particular institutional form of God’s one Church.

The reason I write this is because you might get the wrong idea from my last post on the relative importance of General Conferences, that I am flippant about the conclusions of church councils. I’m not. Rather, the Christian Tradition itself is what teaches me to receive the Tradition itself critically. That’s how all living traditions work, as wide rivers with many currents rather than tiny capillaries with single currents.

I have known people who claim to aim to be “first five hundred year Christians” (meaning, the stuff the Church agreed about for the first 500 years is what they will name as essential doctrine, and everything that cannot be connected to that is adiaphora). I was once ordained in a denomination which claimed the first seven ecumenical councils were its theological core, but I’ve only ever met one person who I believe actually knows those councils intimately. (She died several years ago and was Roman Catholic, not this other denomination, anyway.) Either of those frameworks seem nice, but what they really are are “fragments [we] have shored against [our] ruin,” our sense that things are falling apart, and we are the ones who must save the Church. Those two examples in particular are entirely modernist attempts to create something stable and lasting in an uncertain world, which is in the end the attempt to create a foundation other than Christ (1 Cor. 3:10-11). (Alternate Old Testament reference: Genesis 11.)

I myself am temperamentally conservative. That is, I want to live a traditioned life. I am convinced that human beings over time have learned to live life well, to ask and to answer important questions well. I am convinced that to ignore those human voices of the past is the definition of foolishness. When I read a book about any topic at all, I want to go back and read the primary sources. When I listen to music, I want to plot where parts of a band’s or a composition’s sound comes from. And when I do theology I want to dig all the way to the tips of the roots. In fact, when doing theology, I am convinced that ignoring human beings and their thoughts and actions and lives over time is not just foolishness. This is truly for one part of the living, eternal body of Christ to say to another, “I have no need of you” (1 Cor. 12:21).

Conservative in the sense in which I describe myself does not have to do with a particular political party, especially not a US political party. Traditioned in this sense also doesn’t mean I pretend that there is some single Tradition to be formed by. That’s utopia (sentimental nonsense literally meaning “nowhere”). For my greatest interest–the Church–I don’t believe there is some single faithful Methodist, or Protestant, or Western Christian, or universal Christian tradition. Instead I mean that I am always going to be suspicious when a “new” theology seems to have no roots, or makes no claim to roots, or claims to need no roots in the Christian past. The Tradition may be a massive river with many currents, but rivers still have banks.

All that is a long-winded way to say, yes, I believe church councils have proclaimed the Gospel, but I still believe they have erred. Yes, I believe General Conferences have both proclaimed the Gospel and have erred. Finally, no, I don’t dismiss their workings easily. The Tradition I value is what teaches me to question the Tradition and to know it is certainly not infallible.

That’s the real point: the life of faith–whether for global denominations or for the individual Christian–must be lived in uncertainty (“the conviction of things not seen,” says Hebrews 11:1), because faith lives in the world, and the world is uncertain. Faith which is certainty is not faith at all. God keeps speaking through people (councils, conferences), people sometimes faithfully proclaim and sometimes mangle the message we’ve been given, and the Church’s life and our individual lives are lived in that uncertainty and on that journey. We live in our uncertainty, because God is the only one who is certain. We live without the foundations we lust after, because Christ is our one foundation. Thank God that God’s grip on us is infinitely stronger than our ability to grasp God.

Or if you prefer less Kierkegaard and more Wesley in your tea, the church has not yet been perfected in grace, but it is on the way. Even if you find yourself among those United Methodists who believe that in St. Louis you witnessed the death of your beloved denomination, still you must know: best of all, God is with us.

How Do I Live If I Am Dust?

Some years I need Lent, and some years I want Lent. This year is both kinds. (See my post from yesterday afternoon, A Holy Lent After General Conference 2019.)

I am dust, and to dust I shall return. Why do I even find that to be a life-giving thought? For one, because it’s true. One minute a little over thirty-five years ago there was me, and the minute before that there was no me. A whole lot happened before me. The creation of at least one whole universe and probably more. The lives and deaths of an uncountable array of living things and non-living things too. And one day soon–and yes, even 60 years from now is soon–I’ll die. The world won’t stop turning to mark that moment any more that it stopped turning to mark my beginning.

How then do we live? No…How then do I live? If next-to-nothing that I build will have any quantifiable effect on any other thing 100 years from today, how then do I live?

Qohelet, that “Preacher” in Ecclesiastes, asks these questions, and I think he’s right to ask them. Jesus also asks these questions. He talks about that man that kept prospering and prospering, so he pulled out all the stops and built giant barns. And then he died before he could even use them. Yes, the message of Jesus is a warning to rich people, but not just to rich people, to anyone who tries to build anything in this life. A career, a retirement account, a credit history, a skill, a family, a friendship, a porch swing.

This is where Jesus comes back to the foreground. Life must be lived for life itself, and the Christian life is the grace-enabled response to Life’s open invitation to live in Life itself. Not to build a reputation. Not to build a church. Not to build a denomination. Not to build a kingdom, let alone rule it. But to live and to love and to be loved. And over time to become satisfied that Love and Life are enough, because that’s all that eternal Life is going to be anyway.

Why wait to start living it? Why wait to share our Love and Life with one another?

A Holy Lent After General Conference 2019

In three hours, General Conference ends. It appears to be the case that, just as I had said to anybody that directly asked two weeks ago, nothing will be passed, and everyone will go home to re-legislate it all again in 2020 in Minneapolis. What I had not anticipated was how much grief there would be even if nothing changed.

Psychologists call this “denial.”

What I had not anticipated was how much grief I myself would feel, even though I am entirely insulated from any outcome–progressive, traditional, or status quo–of General Conference as a white, cis-gender, heterosexual male who has already made it through the fiery gauntlet that United Methodists have welded together into an ordination process. Today I almost got in a car accident because I was just in my own thoughts about it all.

All this is preamble to say this: I have nothing at stake personally, and still I am distracted, anxious, and grieving. There are those for whom all this is entirely personal, and I can’t imagine what they’re going through. And I pray we each reach out to those others in our lives who are in that place. If there is ever a time for grieving, it is now. If there is ever a time for embracing, it is now. (Okay, yes, I may be currently leading a Bible study on Ecclesiastes.)

This Sunday, I’m preaching from Mark 10:32-45. The passage begins with Jesus and the disciples on the road to Jerusalem (and the Cross) once again, with Jesus out in front, on his own. The disciples are all hanging back, some out of amazement and some out of fear (and presumably some out of both amazement and fear). Jesus has had his face set on Jerusalem for a long time already, and now in verse 33 he gives the disciples a very specific prediction of exactly how it will happen.

As soon as Jesus finishes telling of his imminent arrest, trials, mocking, torture, crucifixion, and resurrection, this is when James and John decide they want to break away from the pack and draw near to him. Why? Because they want power in his kingdom. Their hearts skipped all the suffering and have jumped straight to the glory. They haven’t yet understood, even as he has told them and showed them and told them and showed them again and again the whole time they have known him, that the Kingdom he has come to bring good news about is upside down and sideways from the kingdoms of the world. It is not the same old kingdom now under new management

In verse 41, the disciples get mad at James and John for their requests, but their anger does not seem to be, “Haven’t you heard the good news of the Kingdom of Peace?” Instead, their anger is more, “No, that’s my seat!” Or at least that’s my assumption, because Jesus doesn’t direct his teaching to just James and John, but rather to the whole group. The rulers of the nations of the earth lord it over one another, and lords higher in the hierarchy lord it over lesser lords below. Jesus concludes: “But it is not so among you; but whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant…For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.”

If the first disciples didn’t hear Jesus the Son of God, when the literal sound waves from his human vocal chords vibrated the literal bones in their skulls, then we disciples are surely going to sometimes–even often–miss his voice. We’re even more certainly going to miss one another’s voices.

I am so grateful this year that Lent follows so close after General Conference. The discipline of Lent takes different forms. I know for myself that I need a time to be silent as ashes, silent as dust, silent so I can hear someone else’s voice who is currently hearing the call of God to give up silence for Lent.

Pungent Savior

https://www.wikihow.com/images/thumb/9/9a/Make-Mustard-from-Scratch-Step-4.jpg/aid62057-v4-728px-Make-Mustard-from-Scratch-Step-4.jpg

With what can we compare the kingdom of God, or what parable will we use for it? It is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.

(Mark 4:30-32)

It is up to us to sow this mustard seeds in our minds and let it grow within us into a great tree of understanding reaching up to heaven and elevating all our faculties; then it will spread out branches of knowledge, the pungent savor of its fruit will make our mouths burn, its fiery kernel will kindle a blaze within us inflaming our hearts, and the taste of it will dispel our unenlightened repugnance. Yes, it is true: a mustard seed is indeed an image of the kingdom of God. Christ is the kingdom of heaven. Sown like a mustard seed in the garden of the virgin’s womb, he grew up into the tree of the cross whose branches stretch across the world. Crushed in the mortar of the passion, its fruit has produced seasoning enough for the flavoring and preservation of every living creature with which it comes in contact. As long as a mustard seed remains intact, its properties lie dormant; but when it is crushed they are exceedingly evident. So it was with Christ; he chose to have his body crushed, because he would not have his power concealed…Christ became all things in order to restore all of us in himself.

(Peter Chrysologus, Sermons 17)