"In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth." That's how it all begins, and so that's where I'm starting. Every Wednesday, I am going to take a look at a portion of this crazy book called the Bible, starting with the very first of the creation stories it contains. I am no Biblical expert, nor do I think I have some kind of special (divine) knowledge everyone else is lacking. I don't even know Greek, Hebrew, or Aramaic. I present only one opinion on what may be the world's most controversial book and share my own journey. As we go, I'll be using the Revised Standard Version and cross-referencing other versions as well. With all that said, let's begin.
Genesis 1. Right here, on page one, we get the very first story of creation, the most famous of all creation stories. Now, I love creation stories, and I've read all kinds of different ones, but this is one of my favourite. Every time God makes something, God looks at it—God sees it!—and finds it to be good. God is an artist, and an artist who actually likes their work! When I read this, I see a mystical forming of the world like a vague picture slowly becoming clearer and clearer. I get to watch God's brush strokes.
I hear a lot of arguments about the creation story, and I've never understood them. Those who argue that it is a literal, factual story which disproves evolution seem to have missed the poetry, and those who argue that its factually erroneous account of things that happened long before humanity even existed disprove the Bible's usefulness also seemed to have missed something crucial.
"And God saw that it was good." I read this very first (in the Bible) creation story, and what I read is a story about an artist, a creator, which loves its work. As an artist, I find it hard to like, let alone love, most everything I make. I get annoyed, emotional, moody, upset because what I made is imperfect. And then here's this artist, this creator, who looks at all of creation and says, "Hey, I like that!" I read this story, and I want to be like God.
I also see here something profoundly human: the desire to understand the hows and whys of existence. Cultures from every corner of the world had their own creation stories, all attempts at understanding the world in which they lived, and the Israelite people were no different. The Bible, from the very first page, recounts for me one culture's journey toward greater knowledge and understanding of the world. There is a hunger to understand and make sense of the unknowable here, and it is a universal hunger, a hunger to which I can relate, to which we all can relate.
Maybe I'm supposed to think the Bible is the perfect, infallible Word of God and to treat it like a book of law and scientific and historical fact, but why would I even want to read that? The Bible is an invitation to think and consider, an invitation to engage, and that's what compels me to read it. It connects me to people who lived in a far away land a very long time ago, and it connects me to people who are alive today in my very own hometown. And, somewhere along the line, the Bible connects me to "God," whoever and whatever God is. I am no Biblical expert, but neither were the writers of the Bible.
04 May 2011
02 May 2011
Not By the Sword
I cannot rejoice in the murder of Osama bin Laden. Mourning, however, is not an easy reaction. I would love to feel the joy. And, in fact, I almost could. It wouldn't take much for me to change my stance and rejoice. It's the easy choice. So why not choose it? Why not do what is easy? Why put myself through this misery and sorrow and bitterness when jubilation and triumph is just as readily available right now? Why choose to suffer?
I chose to struggle and to wrestle with my own beliefs, rather than give into fleeting joy. It was a choice made easier by others around me making the same choice. That's what church is for me: a community of people who will struggle and wrestle alongside me. So I went to church today to try to deal with all of the confusing emotions that have come as a result of the murder of Osama bin Laden.
I have reason to rejoice, and it has nothing to do with Osama bin Laden. I can rejoice in the knowledge that, in spite of all of the hurt and pain in this world, in spite of death even, love can, will, and does conquer. Something inexplicable happened 2,000 years ago when a man preached about love so great that it conquers even death. It's not about the science or the factual details; something incredible happened. Jesus willingly walked to his death, his love infinitely greater than his fear of death, and in that loving act, he saved us all from death too. Forget the science; the story of Jesus is about the potential of humanity for inexplicable goodness and love in the face of our hatred and fear.
I do not rejoice in death, and yet I do not need to mourn either, for there is something infinitely stronger than death, and that is love. As cheesy and clichéd as it sounds, I believe with all my heart and all my soul and all my strength. We are to love our enemies, not for their sake, but for our own, for what will it do to our own souls if we are to take pleasure in the destruction of another?
Osama bin Laden lived by the sword, and thus died by the sword; let us not do the same. Let us strive to do the uncomfortable and even painful work of making room in our hearts for compassion, love, and forgiveness, like Jesus did, like the Nickel Mines Amish community did, like Ghandi and King and Harry Potter and so many others did.
UPDATE: And here is a statement by All Saints Church regarding all of this.
I chose to struggle and to wrestle with my own beliefs, rather than give into fleeting joy. It was a choice made easier by others around me making the same choice. That's what church is for me: a community of people who will struggle and wrestle alongside me. So I went to church today to try to deal with all of the confusing emotions that have come as a result of the murder of Osama bin Laden.
I have reason to rejoice, and it has nothing to do with Osama bin Laden. I can rejoice in the knowledge that, in spite of all of the hurt and pain in this world, in spite of death even, love can, will, and does conquer. Something inexplicable happened 2,000 years ago when a man preached about love so great that it conquers even death. It's not about the science or the factual details; something incredible happened. Jesus willingly walked to his death, his love infinitely greater than his fear of death, and in that loving act, he saved us all from death too. Forget the science; the story of Jesus is about the potential of humanity for inexplicable goodness and love in the face of our hatred and fear.
I do not rejoice in death, and yet I do not need to mourn either, for there is something infinitely stronger than death, and that is love. As cheesy and clichéd as it sounds, I believe with all my heart and all my soul and all my strength. We are to love our enemies, not for their sake, but for our own, for what will it do to our own souls if we are to take pleasure in the destruction of another?
Osama bin Laden lived by the sword, and thus died by the sword; let us not do the same. Let us strive to do the uncomfortable and even painful work of making room in our hearts for compassion, love, and forgiveness, like Jesus did, like the Nickel Mines Amish community did, like Ghandi and King and Harry Potter and so many others did.
UPDATE: And here is a statement by All Saints Church regarding all of this.
01 May 2011
Osama bin Laden
Osama bin Laden is dead, and I feel sick. My Facebook News Feed is flooded with jubilation and celebration of murder.
Three specific events in my life were brought vividly to mind again tonight: the first destructive fire I ever witnessed, the collapse of the ceilings in my house, and the fire and collapse that resulted from hijacked planes crashing into the Twin Towers.
I assume I was pretty young when I witnessed that first destructive fire. It was a pumpkin patch. Everything was ablaze, and it horrified me. My dreams turned to blazing nightmares after that. I could not escape the fear that my house might, too, become engulfed in flames. I still fear fires. Every time I see black smoke rising into the sky, I feel that terrified young child crying inside me. I cried a lot.
The ceiling first fell above my parents' bed at 5AM. It was June, our roof was off for construction, and it had unexpectedly started raining. So my parents were up all night mopping and dealing with leaks everywhere. Once the ceiling fell, they woke my sister and I up and had us both move to the bottom bunk of our bunk bed. The ceiling above our bed fell just after we had gone to school. I was probably around six-years-old.
Nearly ten years ago, I was once again awoken to witness a building collapse, but this one was also on fire. I remember staring at the television screen in horror. I remember watching the second plane crash into the second tower. I remember all of the images, the stories, the terrifying reality my nine-year-old mind could not comprehend. I remember the rumours that L. A., my home, would be next. I remember the language of fear and hate which filled every mouth.
The "terrorist attacks" on 11 September, 2001 were everything I could barely even dream of fearing made real. The days that followed are a blurry haze. My teachers all struggled and failed to help me and my classmates make sense of all of it. It didn't make sense. How could anyone hate so much? I met hate for the first time the day those towers collapsed.
Osama bin Laden is dead, and I feel nothing but that same empty, meaningless haze that surrounded me ten years ago. A man has been murdered, and people have taken to the streets to rejoice. Blood has been shed once again. I don't know how to process this. I want to know that bin Laden wasn't actually human, so I could feel relief, but relief doesn't come. I want to know that this is the end, the conclusion, of the horror we witnessed ten years ago, but no idea has died today, only a man. And more than anything, I just want to know that there is another solution, a solution that does not require bloodshed. I want to know that peace and love really can win, and I want to know that I am not the only one foolish enough to feel empty rather than joyous.
Three specific events in my life were brought vividly to mind again tonight: the first destructive fire I ever witnessed, the collapse of the ceilings in my house, and the fire and collapse that resulted from hijacked planes crashing into the Twin Towers.
I assume I was pretty young when I witnessed that first destructive fire. It was a pumpkin patch. Everything was ablaze, and it horrified me. My dreams turned to blazing nightmares after that. I could not escape the fear that my house might, too, become engulfed in flames. I still fear fires. Every time I see black smoke rising into the sky, I feel that terrified young child crying inside me. I cried a lot.
The ceiling first fell above my parents' bed at 5AM. It was June, our roof was off for construction, and it had unexpectedly started raining. So my parents were up all night mopping and dealing with leaks everywhere. Once the ceiling fell, they woke my sister and I up and had us both move to the bottom bunk of our bunk bed. The ceiling above our bed fell just after we had gone to school. I was probably around six-years-old.
Nearly ten years ago, I was once again awoken to witness a building collapse, but this one was also on fire. I remember staring at the television screen in horror. I remember watching the second plane crash into the second tower. I remember all of the images, the stories, the terrifying reality my nine-year-old mind could not comprehend. I remember the rumours that L. A., my home, would be next. I remember the language of fear and hate which filled every mouth.
The "terrorist attacks" on 11 September, 2001 were everything I could barely even dream of fearing made real. The days that followed are a blurry haze. My teachers all struggled and failed to help me and my classmates make sense of all of it. It didn't make sense. How could anyone hate so much? I met hate for the first time the day those towers collapsed.
Osama bin Laden is dead, and I feel nothing but that same empty, meaningless haze that surrounded me ten years ago. A man has been murdered, and people have taken to the streets to rejoice. Blood has been shed once again. I don't know how to process this. I want to know that bin Laden wasn't actually human, so I could feel relief, but relief doesn't come. I want to know that this is the end, the conclusion, of the horror we witnessed ten years ago, but no idea has died today, only a man. And more than anything, I just want to know that there is another solution, a solution that does not require bloodshed. I want to know that peace and love really can win, and I want to know that I am not the only one foolish enough to feel empty rather than joyous.
27 April 2011
Religion's Compass
I spent a lot of time thinking about religion during my time off from blogging. I read the whole Bible. I went to church services everyday during Holy Week, sometimes more than once. I probably put in 40 hours at church last week between services, rehearsals, vigils, and my own time alone in the church. I am in no way an expert on religion, but after spending so much time within my own church community recently, I have been reflecting a lot on what religion means to me.
Religion has a lot of creeds and rules. We spend a lot of time defining God, and seem to argue about things like whether Mary was really a virgin or not, whether Jesus was a Jew or not, and whether God prefers pie or cake.
And that's exactly where religion gets lost. When we talk about religion "dying" and people leaving the wider church en masse, what they're leaving is the creeds and the rules and the stiff-necked Israelites of today's churches. It's nothing new, actually. The Hebrew Scriptures consist of a lot of God getting frustrated because the "stiff-necked Israelites" are too stubborn to hear the really simple message God is sending: love your God and love each other.
It's no different today than it was in B.C. Egypt and Israel. I left the church when the creeds and rules and stiff-necked Israelites of today ruined religion for me. I got tired of being told that there was only one way to be a "Christian," and, more so, I loathed the idea that anyone who wasn't a "Christian" would be subject to eternal damnation.
But that's all what religion is not about. It is not about creeds and rules. It is not about where you go when you die, fire and brimstone, and eternal damnation. And it is definitely not about whether God looks like Gandalf or not. Because what religion really is, what it's real purpose and relevancy is, is to be a guide for how we treat ourselves, our friends, our enemies, and our world. Religion, when stripped down to the bare bones, is not a litany of unforgiving laws, but a moral compass to help us figure out where we're going. Religion spends a lot of time pretending to be a treasure map, but there is no "X marks the spot" in religion, except all of the arbitrary "facts" we've made up.
Jesus could have been a space alien with seven legs and a purple tail, and it wouldn't matter because Christianity is not about historical facts. What I get from Christianity is a compass for finding the person I want to be and the life for which I strive and, more importantly, a community in which I can exchange notes with others and work together to figure out which direction we want to go.
Jesus is a sign post, pointing toward the direction of love—love for God expressed through love for oneself, love for friends, love for enemies, and love for all of creation—and following Jesus means striving to follow his example of love for all. Arguing about what font was used on the signpost has nothing to do with Jesus and nothing to do with religion or Christianity, nor does Jesus-as-a-sign-post mean that it is impossible that there might be other signposts pointing in the same direction.
Jesus may have said, "I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. No one comes to the Father except through me," but everything else he said was that creeds and rules don't get you anywhere, especially not into "the kingdom of God." Maybe Jesus should have worded it a little more clearly: "No one comes to 'the kingdom of God' except through living as I do: in love."
Religion has a lot of creeds and rules. We spend a lot of time defining God, and seem to argue about things like whether Mary was really a virgin or not, whether Jesus was a Jew or not, and whether God prefers pie or cake.
And that's exactly where religion gets lost. When we talk about religion "dying" and people leaving the wider church en masse, what they're leaving is the creeds and the rules and the stiff-necked Israelites of today's churches. It's nothing new, actually. The Hebrew Scriptures consist of a lot of God getting frustrated because the "stiff-necked Israelites" are too stubborn to hear the really simple message God is sending: love your God and love each other.
It's no different today than it was in B.C. Egypt and Israel. I left the church when the creeds and rules and stiff-necked Israelites of today ruined religion for me. I got tired of being told that there was only one way to be a "Christian," and, more so, I loathed the idea that anyone who wasn't a "Christian" would be subject to eternal damnation.
But that's all what religion is not about. It is not about creeds and rules. It is not about where you go when you die, fire and brimstone, and eternal damnation. And it is definitely not about whether God looks like Gandalf or not. Because what religion really is, what it's real purpose and relevancy is, is to be a guide for how we treat ourselves, our friends, our enemies, and our world. Religion, when stripped down to the bare bones, is not a litany of unforgiving laws, but a moral compass to help us figure out where we're going. Religion spends a lot of time pretending to be a treasure map, but there is no "X marks the spot" in religion, except all of the arbitrary "facts" we've made up.
Jesus could have been a space alien with seven legs and a purple tail, and it wouldn't matter because Christianity is not about historical facts. What I get from Christianity is a compass for finding the person I want to be and the life for which I strive and, more importantly, a community in which I can exchange notes with others and work together to figure out which direction we want to go.
Jesus is a sign post, pointing toward the direction of love—love for God expressed through love for oneself, love for friends, love for enemies, and love for all of creation—and following Jesus means striving to follow his example of love for all. Arguing about what font was used on the signpost has nothing to do with Jesus and nothing to do with religion or Christianity, nor does Jesus-as-a-sign-post mean that it is impossible that there might be other signposts pointing in the same direction.
Jesus may have said, "I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. No one comes to the Father except through me," but everything else he said was that creeds and rules don't get you anywhere, especially not into "the kingdom of God." Maybe Jesus should have worded it a little more clearly: "No one comes to 'the kingdom of God' except through living as I do: in love."
25 April 2011
Back!
And I'm back! The last two months flew by, and I cannot believe we're already a third of the way through the year! I have lots to say about the past two months, but all I'm going to say is that I really appreciate custodians. Again and again, custodians always seem to be saving my butt. Go hug a custodian.
Anyway, I'll have a real post up next Monday at the lastest, but I'll try to get something else up this week. I'm just in the midst of yet another tech week this week, and I'm trying to re-adjust to the real world, after my hermit fast.
Happy Easter!
Anyway, I'll have a real post up next Monday at the lastest, but I'll try to get something else up this week. I'm just in the midst of yet another tech week this week, and I'm trying to re-adjust to the real world, after my hermit fast.
Happy Easter!
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