Constructive Faith

Latin is generally referred to as a dead language. You may be surprised to know that it wasn’t exactly that vibrant to begin with. The Romans may have had a mighty empire, but they were all roads and legions, not culture, which generally came from the Greeks. It was Greek, not Latin, that was the lingua franca of the eastern half of the Empire, including the province of Judea where Jesus lived and died.

While we go to great lengths to paint Jesus as a rustic, if there are echos of history to be found in the gospels, then the historic Jesus was likely a polyglot, speaking Hebrew, the language of his religious tradition, Aramaic, the language of the streets, and Greek, for he interacts with a significant number of Gentiles, including Roman soldiers.

The generation of Jesus followers that would record the story and spread the faith throughout the empire read and wrote in a form of Greek known as Koine, even reading the Hebrew holy texts in translation, and sometimes importing mistranslations into their new covenant with God. They also imported Greek ideas into their new faith, soon called Christianity, pulled by the gravity of Platonic thought and later by Neo-Platonism.

And so it is that we come to Epiphany. In truth, Epiphany is tomorrow, the 12th day of Christmas, though Mainline Protestants, if we celebrate it at all, tend to do so on a convenient Sunday.

It is all Three Kings, though the text never gives a number and never calls them kings. I suppose “Some unknown number of Persian Scientists” Sunday doesn’t fit on the church calendar, though it is probably more accurate, for these astrologers certainly thought of themselves as rigorous scientists.

Epiphany is, of course, a Koine word, a root that comes in many forms with multiple prefixes, but that generally means in the verb form to make known, to show or to make manifest. An inscription from a little over a decade after the execution of Jesus reads “theon epiphane sotera,” which translates as “god revealed, savior,” though the inscription refers not to Jesus, but to the Roman emperor Claudius.

Traditional Christian thinking celebrates Epiphany as the revelation of Jesus as the Christ to the Gentiles. This one particular branch of the Hebrew religion understood itself as radically open, no longer bound by race or tribe, and it would spread first and most quickly among Gentiles who were already attracted to Hebrew belief, who were attached to synagogues throughout Asia Minor and Greece and who were known as “theophobes,” or God-Fearers, which had a much more positive connotation at the time than it might have today.

This might be though of as a second form of Hebrew “universalism.” First came the critical move when they stopped thinking of their tribal god as one among many, something called henotheism, and began to believe that there was only one universal God, creator of heaven and earth. Their ethical monotheism was hard won, later making them resistant to Christian claims about the divinity of Jesus. Still, the Hebrews believed they were a privileged people, specially chosen by that singular creating God. The Christian cult would throw open those doors, erasing that sense of privilege, an opt-in faith.

Universalism as a framework, an idea of inclusiveness, would reappear many times throughout history. The form that would eventually be expressed in the Unitarian Universalist movement is one such expression, but probably not at all what you think. That Universalism was a rejection of a particular Calvinist doctrine, that of predestination. Named after a second generation leader in the Reform Branch of Christianity, Calvinists might have gone a bit too far in trying to figure out God, though they were not the first nor would they be the last to make that mistake.

They had decided that since God knew everything and was all-powerful, God must already know who would be saved and who would be condemned. This meant that from the moment you were created, you were either among the elect or doomed through no choice of your own. Never mind the ways this doesn’t square with the idea of freewill, the simple truth is that many would consider a god who created sentient beings predestined to eternal torment a monster. The Universalists argued that a God of Love would have to make salvation universally available. While our heritage springs from Calvinism, we were not particularly hardliners, and we have long since accepted this form of Universalism.

A more recent form of Universalism created shockwaves in some Christian communities during the last decade. Rob Bell came from a fairly Conservative Christian tradition, and was the founding pastor of a mega-church in Michigan. But Bell had a problem with a certain point of Conservative Christian belief, the notion that only those who fit within a fairly narrow definition of “saved” Christian would know eternal life. Like the anti-predestination Universalists, Bell objected to the god this created. As he wrote in his 2011 bestseller “Love Wins”:

Many have heard the gospel framed in terms of rescue. God has to punish sinners because God is holy, but Jesus paid the price for our sin, and so we can have eternal life. However true or untrue that is technically or theologically, what it can do is subtly teach people that Jesus rescues us from God.

Let’s be very clear, then: we do not need to be rescued from God. God is the one who rescues us from death, sin, and destruction. God is the rescuer.

He would go on to write that:

We shape our God, and then our God shapes us. A distorted understanding of God, clung to with white knuckles and fierce determination, can leave a person outside the party, mad about a goat that was never gotten, without the thriving life Jesus insists is right here, all around us, all the time.

Arguing that love wins and God is good, Bell proclaimed the doors of heaven to be open to Muslims and Hindus and all good people. Needless to say, his universalist salvation was resoundingly denounced by many other Christians.

Now, I don’t care if you buy Bell’s universalism, the anti-Calvinist universalism, the universalist salvation that takes in all who believe that we traditionally celebrate on Epiphany, or even the universalism of the ancient Jews who decided that there could only be one God, and that God must be good. They all happen to work for me, but maybe not for all of you.

Our tent is built wide enough to take in universalists of all stripes as well as atheists and doubters and those who check all of the boxes of the traditional creeds. But our tent is built that wide precisely because of something we see taking place in each of these moments of universalism, the ability to re-examine old ideas, to think creatively.

Hope United Church of Christ exists as it does precisely because of the sort of open heads and open hearts we see in each of these moments of universalism, because of a willingness to go deep into our tradition and bringing it into conversation with new experiences, new contexts. Hope exists as it does because when John Robinson said goodbye to the Pilgrims at Leiden, Holland 500 years ago this July, he gave them permission to continue to think, to learn, to critically engage their faith, proclaiming that there was “yet more light and truth to break forth from God’s holy word.”

Light. Truth. Made manifest. Revealed. Epiphany.

We call this “continuing testament,” the radical notion that no single generation gets to shackle all that follow, for every generation brings new gifts, new ideas, new experiences and encounters with the divine. We sometimes express this as “God is Still Speaking,” though we should immediately add “and We are Still Speaking Back.”

The good people of Hope wanted a Baptist in 1881, but they chose Congregationalism in 1883, inspired by this church’s first pastor, the Rev. Mr. George Prescott. They chose a denomination that ordained women when no other Christian denomination would ordain a woman. They chose a denomination that upset a whole lot of folks when it spoke out against slavery.

Ninety years ago, just as Hope was celebrating its first fifty years as a Congregational Church, the Congregationalist movement itself joined with another movement known simply as Christian. From them we learned the right of Christian conscience, the idea that the individual Christian must decide for themselves what they did and did not believe, that if, after study and prayer, their conscience demanded that they reject a belief, dogma, or practice, that was okay.

When this combined and open-minded Congregationalist and Christian Church later merged with the German Evangelical and Reform Church, well represented here in Wisconsin, to form the United Church of Christ, we carried forward this tradition of open-minded and open-hearted engagement with our traditions and the world around us, as well as a commitment to being a church in the world, a church committed to changing lives and a society that did not value all lives equally.

This is our living tradition, this is the extravagant hospitality of the United Church of Christ and of Hope. It is not a consumer product, not a pick-and-choose religion that misappropriates other cultures and tells us only what we want to hear. It is an arduous journey across the desert, bearing gifts, following the light, driven by hope, open to what might be revealed.

So while the entire Three Kings story might be a myth, and that seems more than likely than not, let us listen to it with open hearts for the light and truth that might yet break forth from this story, the truth that anyone can opt-in to the Kingdom of God, a kingdom defined not by dogma, not by creed, not by race, but by love, a love that will always win in the end. Let there be light.

Unless you live under a rock, you know that unto us a child is born, a powerful and mysterious child that disrupts everything. Not in Bethlehem, you silly goose, but in a galaxy far, far away. Even if you don’t watch The Mandalorian, a Star Wars universe television series streaming on Disney+, you’ve probably seen the memes, so I’m not giving away a whole lot when I say “the Child,” and that is the only name we have at this point, is wrinkly, green, and has big ears.

For a certain group of Star Wars fans, those who fell in love with the series during the first trilogy, from 1977 to 1983, this is probably yet one more disappointment, for nothing can compare to that first feverish encounter. We humans do this all too often, holding things up against some idealized whirlwind affair, when true love actually grows and morphs until it is no longer dependent on time and place, produces something more powerful than endorphins. Or maybe we aren’t as good at the hard work of love anymore, for it takes too long for Instagram or Snapchat in a world of outraged tweets about paper straws.

I am fortunate that I did not fall in love with Star Wars as a 14 year-old, when the first film came out. I was a geek, but a nerd of a different color. A whole rainbow of nerdy colors. I only came to appreciate the series in the run up to the second trilogy, for I was consulting with Hasbro, the company making all of the tie-in toys, and wanted to know more about the incredible secrets to which I was privy. These days, I’m still well short of a Jedi Master, though I’ve most certainly joined the Resistance, and yes, I’ve seen the new film, and no, there won’t be any spoilers in this sermon.

But stars and a baby. Seems like the right night.

So here’s the thing. The Baby Yoda memes are not the story. The story, at least on The Mandalorian, is more complex, people from a variety of species and planets with competing interests, unique and amazing in their own ways, no small amount of conflict and violence. In other words, exactly like the Nativity story.

For the most part, our engagement with the Nativity story, actually stories, for there are two and they contradict one another on several important points like the stable, our engagement with the Nativity is often superficial. We harmonize the two versions, gloss over the rough parts or cut them out altogether. Conservative Christians still understand incarnation as connected to crucifixion, resurrection, and redemption, but the church that is secularized and social has mostly lost that thread, cannot see Golgotha for the immensity of the manger, never mind the big jolly guy, elves and reindeer.

This baby, this messiah, is disruptive. You can’t have the healing and miracles and not have turning over tables and whipping the merchants on the Temple. You can’t have the words of forgiveness and comfort and not have the demanding and challenging words about sin. You can’t cut away half of everything and expect what is left to be alive, to be a living faith. This sweet baby was going to make people so mad that they would ask their enemies, the occupying army, to kill him.

Because that is real. Bad stuff happens in this world. The stories we love, from Star Wars and Harry Potter to this baby we celebrate tonight, all of these stories involve struggle, just like most real lives. The stories have the power to inspire and shape our lives precisely because there are Sadducees in our lives that are willing to compromise their values in exchange for comfort. Because most of us contain the Force, but we also contain a little of the Dark Side. Because “He who shall not be named” is filled with hatred and rage.

The victory of love is not passive. Go to Bethlehem, for unto you a child is born. Follow a star, for a great king has been born. Flee to Egypt, for you must protect the child.

The little green child re-orders the priorities of the Mandalorian and all who surround him. The little child of Bethlehem re-ordered the priorities for all of those who surrounded him. Sing the carols, enjoy the bright eyes of the children, the family feast, the afternoon nap. Then, with that first cup of Thursday coffee, rejoice also in the disruptive child. Rejoice that it isn’t all quaint talking animals and cooing, because your life is not all quaint talking animals and cooing. But for tonight…

For tonight, tidings of comfort and joy. For tonight, angels singing, in the sky and right here in this room. For tonight, peace on earth, goodwill… for tomorrow, laughter and love. Then, then, after a winter’s sleep, the real work begins. May the Force be with you.

It is not surprising that those of us in the Abrahamic religious traditions, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, have constructed an understanding of God that is both anthropocentric, that is, centered on humanity, and anthropomorphic, that is, shaped like a human. We understand the world through the lens of our experience of it, so it makes sense. We can’t think like a squirrel, because we are not squirrels, though our friends on the reincarnating wheel of samsara maybe have been a squirrel in some previous life.

We do the same thing with other creatures, projecting on to them human traits and feelings. We do it with our pets, like my Oscar, and with wild animals too, even squirrels. One story that touched the hearts of many a few years back, especially members of the LGBTQ community and their allies, was that of the “gay” penguin couple, Roy and Silo, who co-parented a chick at the Central Park Zoo at the end of the last century. One couldn’t help but see them as an expression of love and longing in another species, even if projecting the term “gay” onto penguins seems a bit absurd. The more we learn, the more we understand that we are not so unique when it comes to emotion, to grief and what looks like love, that there is a continuum of emotional depth across species, which can be both eye-opening and in some ways deeply disturbing.

Roy and Silo were not as unique as some thought at the time. Same-sex coupling has been recorded in more than 1500 animal species. This has been a stumbling block for biologists since it was first observed. The scientific framework articulated by Charles Darwin holds that every trait and adaptation is measured against the survival of the species, either provides a reproductive advantage or disappears. Darwin’s ideas are a fairly late expression of a world-view that reached an apex with the physics of Isaac Newton, the idea of an orderly and mechanistic universe, a universe with rules we could figure out, that made sense, that humans could dec-code. Scientific understanding of physics has changed radically since the time of Newton. Scientific understanding of evolution, of natural selection, while a bit more nuanced than it was in the mid-19th century, is still primarily mechanistic, reductionist, so every time same-sex behavior is observed in other species, researchers go to extraordinary lengths to explain it away.

The November 30th issue of The Economist reported on a recent paper in another journal, Nature Ecology and Evolution, which took a radically different approach to same-sex behavior in animal species. Instead of arguing that it was an energy wasting failure to reproduce, and therefore an aberration, the authors suggested that as animals evolved, genders were not always well differentiated, and sensory organs not particularly well developed, so attempts at mating were pretty haphazard, a bit chaotic, that same-sex behavior was not a weird development in some species. Evolution is, to indulge in a bit of anthropomorphism, inherently bisexual and non-binary.

This new research is pretty awesome in a way, but still sort of reductionist, mechanistic, still grounded in the world of reason and rules, and that just isn’t how the world really works. For example, human intellect and adaptation have given us amazingly efficient linguistic skills, languages a bit like a Lego kingdom, made up and built up of small little bits, combining in a way that makes them capable of expressing almost anything that comes into our heads. Yet that efficiency doesn’t explain a Shakespeare sonnet, despite the attempts of my undergraduate Shakespeare professor to lecture on the formula and meaning. Sure meter and form help make some poetry work, but many poems don’t use meter and form, and all poetry relies on the slipperiness of language. A good poem is an electric eel, charged and uncontrollable.

There is a magic in creation, an exuberance. Some of us may name that magic holiness, see it as the result of some first cause, whether we see that first cause as anthropomorphic and anthropocentric or see that first cause in newer and more ambiguous ways. My late teacher Gordon Kaufman understood God as serendipitous creativity. I understand that holy magic as love, think the ancient authors got closer than they realized when they described God as love. Some of you may not even be willing to go to the point of first cause, may not see themselves reflected in the slowly unfolding story of a Hebrew and Christian thought that is so grounded in radical love, but I hope that you can at least see that there is this magic, this force, this state of being toward and for the other, that is worthy of celebration, that is worth cultivating.

That doesn’t mean love is easy. Nothing could be further from reality. We are, each of us, an imperfect and glorious tangle of flesh and spirit, of fear and courage, of selfishness and sacrifice. It is sometimes hard to embrace our whole selves, the whole selves of others.

Love God, love your neighbor, love yourself, in that order. This is the greatest commandment in the Hebrew and Christian traditions, love, love, and love. The ancient texts we have received are a thousand year long love story between the Hebrew people and the power they named Yahweh, a love story with fights and near break-ups, with blessings and great joy. It isn’t two-dimensional, easy. But it is oh so very real, resonates with our own experience of relationship.

The very particular story we celebrate this season isn’t just Nativity and a babe in a manger, for our tradition says this part of the story is meaningless without the other half of the story. The story is not just that God’s love is with us, not just the acts of healing and teaching, but is also the story that reminds us that all of the worst we humans can muster, all of the worst pettiness, self-righteousness, and violence we could inflict on this human embodiment of love, could not defeat it.

Love is in Bethlehem, but love is also on Golgotha. Love appears suddenly in a locked room and says “It’s true, Thomas. Hate didn’t win.” The campfire on the beach came after the Via Delarosa, the way of sorrow and sacrifice, sunrise and fish for breakfast.

Love is sticking in there. It is forgiving. And it is worth it, for only in the triumph of love do we discover our true selves.

Almost every wedding I’ve officiated in a decade of ministry has included 1st Corinthians 13, Paul’s famous love passage, and though it is out of season it is worth repeating. It reminds us that:

“Love is patient; love is kind,” which is a great start, all warm and fluffy. But then it describes some traits that are harder to pull off. “Love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude.” And especially hard in this age of constant outrage, “It does not insist on its own way.”

Boy, in this day and time… let’s just say the world could do with a lot more love, a lot less insistence, and a whole mess less hubris. Jimi Hendrix nailed it when he said “When the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace.”

Two thousand years after Paul and a few decades after Jimi Hendrix and we still sing about love, write stories about the power of love, for the power of love is there if you are willing to see it. What saves Harry Potter? A magic greater than any magic that can be taught in a Hogwarts classroom. Harry is saved by the power of love. That is a magic I can choose. Harry is the boy who lived, and if we read the Nativity narrative in Matthew honestly, the same could be said of this babe we are preparing to celebrate.

Love is the magic found in the Buddhist call to compassion. It is the magic found in the Jewish call to radical hospitality and justice for those at the margins of society. It is the magic found in the Third Pillar of Islam, charity. It is the magic expressed in the words of Hindu faith we read as we lit our Advent candle, Rabindranath Tagore reminding us that “In love, loss and gain are harmonized. In its balance-sheet, credit and debit accounts are in the same column.”

Explain it away with science all you want. Reductionists can have at altruism as an evolutionary imperative, have art and music and poetry as some bizarre misfiring of neurons. I could be totally wrong. Maybe we are just an accident, random and impossible. Maybe that works for them. I don’t think I could live that way.

Love is my chosen magic, whether I’m projecting it onto some cold-climate birds in a zoo in Manhattan, hearing it in the cadences of poetry by Walt Whitman or Audre Lorde or some Elizabethan playwright, experiencing it in the hard and messy work of being in relationship, of not insisting on my own way. I choose to believe that a crocus will shoot up from the frozen ground, love made real in the power of life itself.

Paul tells us that faith, love, and hope abide, and the greatest of these is love. May it always be so.

Hope United Church of Christ
Sturgeon Bay, WI

Matthew 3:1-12
Isaiah 11:1-10

Cultural divides are not exactly new, no matter what we might think. The nation was torn apart during the Vietnam War, just one example, people not speaking to one another, fights at the holiday dinner table, and worse. It is easy to romanticize the past, but we do well to remember the shootings at Kent State University, the innocent victims, how everything was us vs. them in those days. We’ve been here before, and for many of us, in our own lifetimes. The man in the White House at that time was engaged in an ongoing series of criminal activities, targeting and smearing his perceived enemies, including one lad from Liverpool who had held protests against the war the year before, along with his partner, bed-ins for peace in Montreal and Amsterdam. Nixon wanted John Lennon deported in the worst possible way, any way it could be made to happen. And all Lennon was saying, as the song reminds us this season, is give peace a chance.

Another big but slightly less important cultural divide for that generation existed between the pro-Yoko and anti-Yoko folks, and I am definitely in the latter group. I tend to see post-Beatles Lennon as an emotional and psychological hostage, Stockholm Syndrome if you will, yet we cannot disentangle the bearded Lennon laying in the bed next to Yoko from his powerful voice against the war, and against the institutions that supported it. I totally get the impulse behind his “Imagine,” as anti-religious as it is, for religion has often been an agent of warfare and destruction rather than a force for peace, co-opted by political and nationalist agendas. But there have been Christian voices for peace as well, not only the pacifist branches of Protestant and Anabaptist Christianity, but also notable individuals, Father Daniel Berrigan, the Rev. Dr. King…

And here we sit, on this Second Sunday in Advent, speaking of peace. But what does peace mean? What does it mean in scripture? What does it mean for the progressive Christian, and particularly in our own theological trajectory? Continue reading “Sharknado Redux: December 8, 2019”

Hope United Church of Christ
Sturgeon Bay, WI

Matthew 24:36-44
Romans 13:11-14

The term Black Friday is not as new as you might think. At one point, it was schoolhouse slang for the day when most tests were given. In 1951, a manufacturing industry publication used Black Friday in specific relation to the day after Thanksgiving, but it had to do with employee absenteeism, not retail accounting. In the 1960’s, police in Philadelphia took up the same term for the same day, pure coincidence. They were irked at the terrible traffic, pedestrian and vehicular congestion, that made the day difficult. It wouldn’t be until the 1980’s before Black Friday took on the meaning we give it today, the day when retailers supposedly go from being “in the red” to being “in the black,” that is, when they begin to net a profit. I’m not even sure this is financially true, but it is a fine example of how meanings change, and especially about how we create stories to explain things we don’t understand. I don’t remember Black Friday being a thing when I was a kid, certainly not something that was on the evening news for a week, and Cyber Monday? Yeah, not so much. My telephone had a cord attached, and I was an adult before personal computers became affordable.

Of course, Black Friday is no longer the start of the Christmas season. Plastic trees and inflatable reindeer can be spotted while we still have jack-o-lanterns on the porch. Christmas itself has changed. New traditions are invented, sometimes for profit, like that creepy little voyeur who sits on the shelf and spies on our children. That sort of behavior can get you arrested in some jurisdictions.

Advent is, for us at least, the start of the preparation for Christmas. This was not always so. Congregationalism comes from the merger of the Pilgrims and Puritans in the New England colonies, no longer divided at that point by their relationship to the Church of England, which seemed pretty irrelevant on this side of the Atlantic. Puritans, the far larger of the two, not only didn’t celebrate Christmas, they made it illegal to do so for decades, punishing offenders. They found no scriptural warrant for the celebration, associated it with pagan rites and debauchery. And the pagan rites are there, as is, if tales from office Christmas parties are to be believed, the debauchery.

While the Congregationalists relented and got on board the Yuletide train by the early 18th century, we probably get most of our Advent impulse from the German side of our UCC heritage, especially the Evangelical and Reform branch, which had managed to retain a sense of liturgy and the seasons of the church. We get things like paraments, the cloths on the altar, and vestments, the alb I am wearing, from that more liturgical side of the family. But given that Advent is an adopted tradition for most of us, we can still get it wrong, or at least, like the explanation of Black Friday, make a meaning for ourselves that was not originally intended. Continue reading “Hope: December 1, 2019”

Hope United Church of Christ
Sturgeon Bay, WI

Luke 23:33-43
Jeremiah 23:1-6

Last Sunday, rap performer and semi-Kardashian Kanye West stood on the stage of a megachurch in Houston and told the crowd that the greatest artist God had ever created was now on God’s team. He meant himself, of course, apparently missing the Micah 6:8 memo on walking humbly with your God. In that, he was in the right place, there in a former NBA arena, for he was standing next to Joel Osteen, charlatan of the prosperity gospel, who chooses to ignore everything that Jesus said about the challenges of following the Way, all of that inconvenient stuff about being attacked for your faith. Osteen’s idea of damnation and suffering is fabric upholstery in the private jet instead of leather and off-the-rack suits.

The two are about as far from that itinerant rabbi on the dusty streets of Galilee as they could be, even further from Calvary. Jesus did not offer a get-rich-quick scam in ancient Palestine, and wealth is not a measure of righteousness. We all know or know of good people who barely get by and truly awful people who are wealthy. There simply is no correlation between faith and wealth. The reward for righteousness comes in other forms.

West, Osteen, and Paula White are a reminder to us of the captivity of the church in every age. Today’s Prosperity Jesus may be one particularly egregious example, particularly flagrant, but this is by no means our only sin. A perversion occurs every time we try to domesticate Jesus, turning him into a puppet that says what we want to say and hates who we already hate, or into a cartoon Jesus that is all “be not afraid” and “you are loved,” but that never asks for anything, no sacrifice.

This latter can be an opioid Jesus, sometimes needed in the short-term, but all too often numbing and doing more harm than good. Worse still is partisan Jesus, nationalist Jesus, racist Jesus, a blue-eyed European doppelganger for that swarthy Middle Eastern prophet.

And it is not my Jesus, for my Jesus is not mine. My Jesus belongs to a God I cannot control. My Jesus is a Jesus that gives me hope, but also a Jesus that unsettles and challenges. Continue reading “Kanye: November 24, 2019”

Isaiah 65:17-25
2 Thessalonians 3:6-13

There may be Canadians who do not like hockey. I’m not sure about that, for I’ve never met one as far as I know. And of course, there are people who like hockey who are not Canadian, though I confess to personally supporting a Canadian team, so I’m a bit iffy on all that. But if you did a Venn diagram of hockey fans and Canadians, I think we can all agree that there would be a whole lot of overlap.

If you are Canadian or a hockey fan, you have heard of Don Cherry. This past week, many people heard of Don Cherry who belonged to neither group, for he made the news. Even the New York Times, the Washington Post, and the Guardian.

Cherry, known for his flamboyant suits among other things, is eminently Canadian, descended from a founding member of the Mounties and from one of the Home Children, the United Kingdom’s infamous child emigration scheme. He had a long career in minor league hockey as a player and a middling career as a coach in the minors and in the NHL. He’s done some laudable work for charitable causes over the years, including organ donation, children’s homes, and animal welfare. He is a Canadian patriot, as long as by patriot, you mean loudmouth bigot and worshipper of a glorious past that was glorious only for white males like Don Cherry.

He got very rich as a hockey analyst, including 37 seasons of a segment called “Coach’s Corner.” As Shireen Ahmed writes in the Guardian, “Cherry was appreciated for being brash and propagating a retrograde ‘rock’ em sock’ em’ type of hockey that glamorized fighting, peppered with unapologetic vitriol directed at “Francophones, newcomers, women, racialized minorities, and Indigenous peoples” and anyone with an appreciation for humanity and justice whom he labeled ‘left-wing pinkos’.”

He lost his job this week, resigned if you accept the official version, after criticizing Canadian immigrants for supposedly not wearing “Remembrance Day” poppies. And by Canadian immigrants, what he really meant was anyone not white like him.

Most Canadians take pride in their nation’s hospitality, diversity, immigration policies. They did not appreciate Cherry once again revealing his racism, creating division, and attaching it to Queen and Country. Social media exploded with images of “non-white” Canadians who have served in that nation’s military, who were and are proud Canadian patriots. The real kind. Of course, only in polite Canada can you lose your job for racism and have people still thank you for your contribution. Continue reading “Sweat Equity: November 17, 2019”

Hope United Church of Christ
Sturgeon Bay, WI

Video here

1 Kings 22:29-38
Job 7:7-15

He appeared as a spaghetti-eating fanatic in Terry Gilliam’s Pythonesque 1977 film Jabberwocky, the movie inspired by Lewis Carroll’s nonsense poem of the same name, but the actor behind the spaghetti was a poet in his own right off screen. Christopher Logue, Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire, was many things actually, including screenwriter, ex-con, and pacifist. Joan Baez sang his words, set to music by Donovan, on her eponymous first album.

Logue is known as much though for what he did not accomplish as for what he did. When he died in 2011, he left behind an unfinished modernist retelling of Homer’s Iliad titled “War Music.” Some portions had already been published, the slow and painful delivery of what looked to be a masterpiece. The poet’s death before the work was complete was a bit like when one of those new puzzle television series is abruptly cancelled and we never get the answers, but for the literary set. At least we know how the Iliad actually ends!

What was complete at the time of his death, those previously published portions of “War Music,” and what could be reconstructed from Logue’s notebooks, was posthumously published in a single volume in 2015. Early in, we find Antenor counseling the Trojan king, advising the return of Helen, the woman central to the decade-long siege of Troy. Antenor asks.

‘My King,
The winners of a war usually get
Something out of it.
What will we get?
Their camp. Their ditch. And who wants those?
Only Lord Koprophag, the god of filth.’

He continues:

Impatient now:

‘Stand Helen on a transport floored with gold,
And as they rumble through the Skean Gate
Let trumpets from the terracing
Bray charivari to her back’s bad loveliness.”

Logue uses the unusual word charivari, which means a noisy and mocking serenade. Let’s just say Antenor is not a slave to Helen’s legendary beauty. He’d be happy to see her gone.

While Logue’s version may be new and modernist, he has not altered one bit the mood of the ancient poem, which begins in medias res, that is to say, in the middle of the action. The Iliad was written at about the same time the Assyrians were destroying the northern portion of the divided kingdom, the portion known as Israel or Samaria, or in today’s second reading, Shomron, where they take the body of the wicked King Ahab, immoral and corrupt. His character is made clear by the ancient author who has Ahab enter battle in disguise, abandoning his allies when he is wounded. Continue reading “War Music: November 10. 2019”

Hope United Church of Christ
Sturgeon Bay, WI

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Sermon Reading Isaiah 1:10-18 (The First Testament: A New Translation)

He was a man out of time, much like his magician advisor, the actual king at the turn of the 6th century unsuccessfully defending Britain against invading Saxons. Arthur’s story would be fictionalized, lifted from that context, and reset in the Middle Ages, all knights and chivalry, though with a hint of druids and witches to remind us of the ancient. We can see this anachronism in John Boorman’s 1981 film “Excalibur,” in T.H. White’s “The Once and Future King,” required school reading for my generation, in Lerner and Loewe’s “Camelot,” and above all in the greatest Arthurian masterpiece ever, “Monty Python and the Holy Grail,” which includes a scene where Arthur rides through a town ravaged by the Black Death, the classic macabre scene where the carter cries “Bring out your dead!”

In this swirling space of All Hallow’s Eve, of ghosts and ghoulies, and of Reformation Sunday, commemorating that singular expression of the shift from the medieval to modernity, it seems right to revisit the Black Death, the first and greatest episode of the Bubonic Plague to hit Europe, dropping the world population by an estimated 100 million people during the 14th century. To celebrate the end of the Black Death, Florence, in what is today Italy, decided on new doors for their Baptistry. A grand competition was held, with seven sculptors entering, and Giovanni de’ Medici as the judge. Lorenzo Ghiberti won the competition. Many of us have gazed on those very doors, on Ghiberti’s work, in that city filthy with masterpieces.

One of the other contestants was Filippo Brunelleschi, who, it turns out, was not a particularly graceful loser. His entry drew particular attention, can still be seen today as a Renaissance masterwork in Florence’s Il Bargello. He might have gone on to be a legendary sculptor, but he refused to work in that medium ever again. Instead, he would focus on architecture and optics, designing the groundbreaking dome of the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, Florence’s Duomo. If that is one particular piece in one particular place, his other great gift to humankind is everywhere, still impacts us today, for he is considered the inventor of linear perspective, that art of creating the illusion of three dimensions in a two dimensional drawing or painting, of using technique to invoke more.

Six centuries later, another approach to multiple dimensions rendered in the flat space of drawing and painting would contribute to the development of cubism, the reduction of objects to basic shapes, often seen from multiple angles at once. It was inspired by Paul Cezanne, who was a living bridge between Impressionism and new forms, his paintings attempting to represent three-dimensional form. The Cubist style took its name from words by Henri Matisse, who described a painting submitted for exhibition by Georges Braque as being made of little cubes. Braque, along with Pablo Picasso, would be most closely associated with the style.

There were folks who despised Cubism, still are folks who despise Cubism, and if I am honest, I personally prefer pre-Cubist Picasso, the Blue Period and the Rose period, but you can already see the trajectory, flat spaces creating angles, even there. There were folks who despised Impressionism too. The Académie des Beaux-Arts had no room for the work of the Impressionists at its annual juried art show, the Salon de Paris, so the young artists eventually showed their work at the Salon des Refusés, the Salon of the Refused.

We know how that story ends. The Impressionists included Renoir, Sisley, Manet, Pissarro, and the artist who painted the painting that would give name to the movement, Claude Monet. Paintings by these “refused” artists rarely come up for sale, so the prices reflect the economic insanity of a particular moment, but Monet’s “Meules,” not one of his best known works, sold for $110 million in May, while Picasso’s cubist “Les Femmes de l’Alger” sold for $179 million in 2015.

Then again, Vincent Van Gogh died broke, so maybe folks aren’t always so good at seeing what is happening, appreciating innovation and vision, in the moment. Continue reading “Brunelleschi to Braque: November 3, 2019”

Hope United Church of Christ – Sturgeon Bay

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Ephesians 1:11-23

They include Wang Zhiming, a clergy person who fell victim to China’s Cultural Revolution, that conflagration of Maoist purity that killed only a million or so, far fewer than the 30 million that died five years earlier in the Great Leap Forward, and not really that big of a deal since authoritarian communism takes a utilitarian view human life, no inherent worth, just use.

Then there is Esther John, a Pakistani Christian nurse, Elizabeth, a Russian Grand Duchess, and Archbishop Janani Luwum of Uganda. Others are better known, like Maximilian Kolbe, a Franciscan friar who gave his life in place of another at Auschwitz. Archbishop Óscar Romero is there, as is the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and the Rev. Dr. Dietrich Bonhoeffer.

They are in a class we might hope to never join, martyrs for their faith, ten men and women of the Twentieth Century carved above the Great West Door of Westminster Abbey.

Some have been officially recognized as saints by denominations that have a formal process for that sort of thing, while others are considered saints informally. Lutherans, Anglicans and other Protestant riff-raff like, you know, us, considered Romero a saint long before the Vatican got around to it, that recognition blocked in Rome by conservatives who suspected him of commie pinko leanings, or worse still, of believing in a liberating God, the core concept in the theology that bears that name.

Ironically, Romero was chosen as Archbishop of San Salvador because he was conservative, a milquetoast of a man who would ruffle the feathers of neither the twelve families that controlled all of El Salvador’s arable land nor the assassins and thugs they employed in the nation’s military. His spirituality was heavily influenced by Opus Dei, a Catholic movement with close ties to the Fascist regime of Spain’s Francisco Franco. He was anything but a commie pinko.

But Romero was able to maintain friendships with people who had different opinions on things, something few manage these days. It was the assassination of one of his close friends, the Jesuit Rutilio Grande, that opened the Archbishop’s eyes to the human rights abuses taking place in his country, to the incredible poverty all around him. He went first and always to scripture, to Jesus, was a pastor before all else, and it made him radical, at least in the eyes of the corrupt and powerful. He spoke about justice, was clear that God’s law superseded any earthly power. So those with earthly power did what they did, what they always do.

On March 24, 1980, as he celebrated mass at the Hospital de la Divina Providencia, Archbishop Óscar Romero, like his friend Padre Grande, was assassinated.

He was an ordinary man in extraordinary circumstances who found strength in prayer and scripture, a most improbable saint. Continue reading “St. Phyllis: October 27, 2019”