Midnight Rendezvoux

Photo by Rudy Van der Veen

In his book, Hoping Against Hope (Confessions of a Postmodern Pilgrim), John D. Caputo reflects on a dialogue of those who seek a faith “without protection from doubt.”  His words spoke to my heart.  He names the place at which I find myself these days.

“Derrida once said of himself that he ‘rightly passed for an atheist.’  When asked, why he did not say I am an atheist, he said it was because he did not know if he were.  That is what people say of him and, by the standards of the local rabbi, that is correct.  But the deeper truth (beyond correctness) and the deeper faith (beyond belief) is that there are many voices inside him, and they give each other no rest, so that he cannot say who or what he is, as if that were something final or finished.  Atheist and theist have to do with beliefs, positions that condense into propositions meant to represent entities, which are contingent and even birth-switchable.  The truth has to do with a deeper and more ambiguous faith and hope.  His ‘rightly passing for’ provides a splendid formula for theology, for any deeper faith in the unconditional.  What better way to describe the nature of the hold we have on any belief we think we hold, for any contingent opinion we have formed based on the shifting times and tides of circumstances and accidents of birth.  Do we not all ‘rightly pass’ for something or other, for Christian or Muslim, theist or atheist, right-wingers or left-wingers, ‘or whatever,’ as we say in our postmodern age – while more deeply considered we are all a great question to ourselves? Derrida’s remark parallels a famous saying by Johannes Climacus, one of Kierkegaard’s most important pseudonyms, who declined to claim he was a Christian and said instead that he was ‘trying to become’ one.

“In sum, and this is what I cannot find in my catechism, the more unconditional model of hospitality is the rule without rule that reigns in the kingdom of God.  The kingdom is made up of beings of a deeper darker faith communicating in a midnight rendezvoux, whatever they may ‘rightly pass for’ during the daylight hours. The darker dialogue takes place among communities of faith, communities of those without communities practicing an unconditional faith, a faith without protection from doubt.  Such people dare to let their beliefs weaken in order to allow a more underlying but unstable faith break through and to permit the appearance of a more elementary hope in a more indelible but indiscernible promise.  The rose blossoms among communities of non-knowers, gathered in the night of non-knowing, among those who cannot see what is coming.  There a smile breaks out on the surface of matter, a rose blossoms unseen in a remote corner of infinity, and then all too soon is gone.  The cosmos – that vaunting arch that Jackie had been contemplating these many years – movies on, en route to the absolutely unthought.  About this religion, the priests and nuns kept their counsel.”

John D. Caputo, Hoping Against Hope (Confessions of a Postmodern Pilgrim), Minneapolis, Fortress Press, 2015, pages 101-102. The quotation from Jacques Derrida is from the essay, “Circumfession: Fifty-Nine Periods and Paraphrases,” in Geoffrey Bennington and Jacques Derrida, Jacques Derrida (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 155.


“The Apologist’s Evening Prayer”

Since I first came across this prayer among C.S. Lewis’s poems, it has been an encouragement to me.  As Lewis reminds us, our thoughts are mere images, not to be trusted.  Even our thoughts of God, if not seen for what they are, are mere trumpery.

The Apologist’s Evening Prayer, by C. S. Lewis

From all my lame defeats and oh! much more

From all the victories that I seemed to score;

From cleverness shot forth on Thy behalf

At which, while angels weep, the audience laugh;

From all my proofs of Thy divinity,

Thou, who wouldst give no sign, deliver me.


Thoughts are but coins.  Let me not trust, instead

Of Thee, their thin-worn image of Thy head.

From all my thoughts, even from my thoughts of Thee,

O thou fair Silence, fall, and set me free.

Lord of the narrow gate and the needle’s eye,

Take from me all my trumpery lest I die.


From: C.S. Lewis, Poems, Edited by Walter Hooper, (Orlando, FL: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1964,) 129.

“To Know the Dark”

As I have shared in earlier blogs, sometimes the walk of grace is a walk in the dark.  When people ask, “How are you doing?” what is a person to say?  If I were to say I was experiencing a time of darkness, a time of depression even, people would try to shine their light into my darkness.  “What you need to do is . . . ” they say.  But maybe they should turn off their lights and come into the darkness.  Maybe they should just be quiet and listen to the dark with me.  Maybe there are things to be learned.  I recently came across the following lovely poem by Wendell Berry that spoke wonderfully to my desire to know the dark.

To Know the Dark

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.

“To Know the Dark” by Wendell Berry, from The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry. © Counterpoint, 1999.

Drawing Circles Around God

Why is it that, as Christians, we like to draw circles around God? When I was a senior in high school, I had a fairly typical evangelical experience with God. I started thinking of my relationship with God in personal terms, as one of friendship. I got involved in a high school-age Bible study group and then, when I went to college, in an evangelical fellowship group. It was a great time of spiritual growth. My Christian friends and I felt God’s presence in our lives in ways that we hadn’t in the traditional church, whether Roman Catholic or Protestant. While the churches were filled with “nominal Christians,” we were “real Christians.” If someone had asked us if we were “born again,” we would have known exactly what they meant and said, “Yes.” To be born again set us apart from others who went to church and did religious things, but weren’t really Christians.

Several years later my wife and I were working for an evangelical campus ministry organization. Our task was to guide Christian student leaders in fellowship groups on various campuses. I remember discussing the religious faith of faculty members, basically asking, “Is he/she a real Christian?” At one small liberal arts college, for example, there was a professor in the Religion Department who had taught at an evangelical Christian college. He left his previous position (perhaps he had been forced to leave) due to doctrinal differences. He was a universalist. He didn’t believe God would send anyone to hell. He could talk the evangelical lingo better than anyone else on campus, but was he a real Christian? Similarly, I remember thinking about a Roman Catholic sister who encouraged a group on one of the Catholic campuses where we had contacts. Was she a real Christian?

I see it in my life even now, too. I am excited by new ministries and experimental ongregations doing new things, or ancient things in new ways, to interface with today’s culture, reaching people with the story of Jesus. It is so easy to say, “Look! See the Spirit at work! That is where God is, not in dying denominational churches.” But as an elder in my denomination, I sit on a committee that shares the struggles of small, rural congregations. Yes, they are struggling. They are losing the younger people in their communities, sometimes to “more evangelical” or more “contemporary” churches, sometimes to secular culture. They struggle to balance the budget and overcome personality conflicts. Sometimes it is hard for them to simply keep the doors open. But I have also come to see that a small, “dying” congregation is made up of brothers and sisters in Christ, who have been faithful through the years, being salt and light in their towns and villages. They are sinners like us all, susceptible to power fights and personality conflicts. But they are often prayer warriors, praying for God’s work around the world. They give faithfully to offerings to provide help to the poor. They send men and women, money and supplies, to help in times of disaster. They work for good in their villages and towns. But, finding it difficult to accept the rapid changes in our world, they fear that the church is dying. So, they, too, are sometimes guilty of drawing a circle around God. “How can you worship God when the worship service becomes more like a concert?” they ask. “How can those young folks with tattoos and piercings be Christians?” “How can you get to know your pastor when you watch the sermons on a big screen?” Quite simply, they have a hard time seeing God at work “over there.”

There are many ways of drawing circles: traditional denominations divisions, doctrinal disputes, different tastes in worship style, political differences, differences about what kind of lifestyle is acceptable for Christians to live. It is so easy to say, “This is the way the church ought to be. This is what it means to be a real Christian. We are right. They are wrong. God is at work here. Not over there.”

Why are we so tempted to draw lines between those we believe are ”in” and those we believe are “out.” I think it has to do with our own sin, our own need to assure ourselves that God is at work where we are. Confronted with others ways, we want to justify our own. But Jesus challenges us to change our way of thinking, to change our way of acting, in the face of otherness. One day, an expert of the law asked Jesus, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus responded with a question of his own, “What is written in the Law? What is your interpretation?” The lawyer knew his stuff. He reached into the Law and quoted the two commandments that Jesus himself is said to have identified as central: We are to love God with everything we have, and love our neighbor as ourselves. Jesus commended the lawyer for his answer. But then, Luke says, the lawyer wanted “to justify himself,” and went on to ask, “And who is my neighbor?” In short, where can I draw the line? Who do I have to love? Jesus answered with the parable of the Good Samaritan.

You probably know the story. But think again about what Jesus did. The lawyer wanted Jesus to draw a circle. He wanted Jesus to say, these are your neighbors, these are the one’s you are to love. Instead, Jesus obliterated the circle. Jesus told a story about a man who was clearly outside of the lawyer’s circle. Samaritans, after all, were racially mixed (not pure Jews!), believed the wrong things, practiced the wrong rituals, and worshiped in the wrong place. They were clearly unacceptable to God, or so thought the Jews. How could they be his neighbors? But Jesus told a story about a Samaritan man who reached from outside the circle to meet the needs of a man (probably a Jew) inside the circle. Two devout Jews on the other hand passed by. Which of the characters showed love? Which character did Jesus suggest would “inherit eternal life”? Not the devout Jews! Then, get this, Jesus says “Go and do likewise!” Go be like a Samaritan!! Love beyond the circle. Love all those God brings into your lives, especially those in need. Jesus refused to draw a circle to limit God’s love, and ours. Instead he tells us to go outside “the circle” with love. That’s what characterized his life, too. Jesus hung out with those “outside the circle.”

So why is it that we work so hard to draw a circle, to define who is in and who is out? Like the expert in the law, we draw circles around God to justify ourselves. We find security in believing that we are acting the right way, believing the right things, doing church the way God wants. But it’s false security. Real justification comes from Christ. And Jesus calls us to reach beyond our comfort zone, ignoring our various circles, and seeing God at work in all kinds of ways. I sometimes hear it suggested that the church is dying. God’s church is not dying. It is alive and well, as always , wherever two or three (sinful people) are gathered in the name of Christ. God is at work in small, struggling churches. God is at work in mega-churches we hear about on the news. God is at work outside the church as well. God is at work among people that we Christians draw circles to keep out. May God forgive us and open our eyes to see.

Slowing Down to Walk with Jesus

In my previous post I quoted from Barbara Brown Taylor’s Leaving Church.  This week I’ve been reading her more recent book, An Alter in the World.  It’s a great book.  I encourage you to read it.   If you are like me, Taylor will speak not just to your mind, but to your longing for something more.  Taylor discusses practices that help us discover God in the world.  She starts with these:  Waking up to God.  Paying attention. Wearing skin.  Walking the earth.  Apart from the first, these don’t sound like spiritual practices, do they?  But they are.  Taylor helps me see that simply paying reverent attention to the world in which I live, I encounter mystery. I begin to wake up to God right here, “in this place.”  Taylor encourages me to “take off my shoes,” both figuratively and literally, and feel the holy earth on which I live.  In short, Taylor reminds me of the presence of the divine in everyday life, if only I will open my eyes and pay attention!!

Taylor’s chapter on “The Practice of Walking the Earth,” got me thinking about walking.  Real walking, she makes clear, means paying attention, slowing down, feeling and listening to where we are.   We rush about, focusing on where we are coming from and where we are going to, seldom paying attention to the in between, where we are right now.  But Jesus walked—a lot.  I can remember musing about why Jesus lived when he did.  If Jesus is really God incarnate, God could have arranged this incredible incarnation to occur at any time.  Why would God appear in an age before the technology to get around, and the media to spread the word?  In the day of the internet, social networking and tweets, Jesus’ message could have “gone viral.”  Virtually, the whole world would know about Jesus in just one day!!  Much more efficient.

Jesus, however, lived in a time of walking.  Taylor writes,

“The four gospels are peppered with accounts of him walking into the countryside, walking by the Sea of Galilee, walking in the Temple, and even walking on water.  If Jesus had driven a car instead, it is difficult to imagine how that might have changed his impact.  Surely someone could have loaned him a fast horse.  Instead he walked everywhere he went, except for a short stint on a donkey at the end.  This gave him time to see things, like the milky eyes of the beggar sitting by the side of the road, or the round black eyes of sparrows sitting in their cages at the market.  If he had been moving more quickly—even to reach more people—these things might become a blur to him.  Because he was moving slowly, they came into focus for him, just as he came into focus for them.”

Maybe there is a reason why Jesus lived in a time of walking.  We need to start walking, too.  The world is full of sacraments, visible signs of God’s grace.  But to us they are a blur.  Taylor reminds us to slow down.  Following Jesus means taking the time to walk, both literally and figuratively, letting the things around us come into focus.  As we do, I believe we’ll see God’s grace, how incredible it is that God has placed us in bodies to walk this wonderful earth.  Our eyes will also be opened to the needs of those around us, and ways that God can use us here and now to help meet those needs.

Taylor observes a child, walking along with her parents.  “The child has only recently learned how to walk, so she still knows how.  She feels the heat radiating up from the sidewalk.  She hears the tapping of her shoes on the cement.  She sees the dime someone has dropped on the crosswalk, which she leans toward before being yanked up again.  The child is so exposed to the earth that even an acorn underfoot would topple her. . . . ”

May God help us learn to walk like children.

For more information on Barbara Brown Taylor, see http://www.barbarabrowntaylor.com/.


Faith Explorers Welcome

Recently, I was talking to my friend Jennifer.  Among other things, we started talking about religion.  Jennifer grew up in one Christian tradition and is married to a man who grew up in another.   A few years ago, they started a family, and like many couples, decided to get more serious about church.  Jennifer grew up Roman Catholic and her husband grew up Protestant, so they’ve found a local Episcopal congregation in which they feel comfortable.  I’m not sure how we got onto it, our conversation wandered to our beliefs, and questions, about God.  As long as I’ve known her, Jennifer has displayed an inquiring, questioning mind.  She thinks deeply about things.  The domain of religion and spirituality is no exception.  When it comes to God, she has lots of questions.  So, in the course of our conversation, she asked me an interesting questions:  “Is it right for a person who is not sure what she believes about God, or even who is pretty sure she does not accept a standard Christian view of God, to say the creeds during worship?”  A very interesting question.

Jennifer’s question took my mind back to a chapter in Barbara Brown Taylor’s wonderful memoir, Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith.  In chapter 14, Taylor recalls her experiences in the months following her decision to leave the parish ministry and become a professor of religion.  For her entire life to that point she had lived and breathed in the world of church.  As she stepped into her new life, she discovered a different side of reality, a side she not paid attention to before.  She also began to explore her beliefs more honestly.  Suddenly, things she had preached about and taught became objects of questioning and sometimes doubt.  “Freed from defending the faith,” she writes, “I began to revisit what faith really meant to me and found that much of the old center did not hold.”  Her view of faith changed.  “I had arrived at an understanding of faith that had far more to do with trust than with certainty.  I trusted God to be God, even if I could not say who God was for sure.”

Taylor found herself wandering off her “old spiritual map.”  But in the process she discovered something else.  She discovered “people at the edge” of “the spiritual landscape.”  I love the way she describes these pioneers.  She writes,

“ . . . All we had to do was step outside the Church and walk to where the lights of the sanctuary did not pierce the darkness anymore.  All we had to do was lay down the books we could no longer read and listen to the howling that our favorite hymns no longer covered up.  There were no slate roofs or signs to the restrooms out there, no printed programs or friendly ushers.  There was just the unscripted encounter with the undomesticated God whose name was unpronounceable – that, and a bunch of flimsy tents lit up by lanterns inside, pitched by those who were either seeking such an encounter or huddling in their sleeping bags while they recovered from one.  These people at the edge kept the map from becoming redundant.”

Taylor’s words express my own wandering and wondering thoughts as a Christian.  Sometimes publicly, but sometimes just in my mind and heart, I wonder whether I can accept all of the doctrines and formulations of the church.  Sometimes I feel like one who is exploring the edges; sometimes I feel like one who is just plain lost.  Taylor’s honesty about her own exploration frees me and affirms me.  “According to the Bible,” she writes, “both the center and the edge are essential to the spiritual landscape. . . “  And a few pages later, “If my time in the wilderness taught me anything, it is that faith in God has both a center and an edge and that each is necessary for the soul’s health.”

I don’t know whether I helped Jennifer answer her question.  I suggested that when the congregation recites the creed, it is affirming the faith of the gathered church as a whole.  It is not so much a claim by each individual that he or she holds unwaveringly to the dogma of the creed, as an opportunity for God’s people as a community to affirm the “center” of their faith, the story that forms them as a community.   And so I encouraged her, as a part of the body of Christ, to recite the creeds with all of us, some of us at the center and others at the edge, in whom and through whom the Spirit is at work.  As Barbara Brown Taylor would remind us, the church needs the center, but it needs the edge as well.   In today’s world, I am convinced that the need to be open to the edges, to the explorers, is desperate.  It is as we welcome those at the edge that the church will survive into the future.

Leaving Church is a great book.  If you find yourself exploring, read it.  Since writing Leaving Church, Taylor has also published An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith. Although I have not read it yet, Taylor’s brand new title, Learning to Walk in the Dark has got to be good.  What a perfect title for explorers.  Check out the Barbara Brown Taylor website at: http://www.barbarabrowntaylor.com/.