In the United Methodist Church there is a concept called "connectionalism." The idea is that every congregation is connected to each other -- not just as part of the same denomination, or even in a broadly Christian kind of way, but in a deeper way. It harkens back, in some ways to the circuit rider days on the American frontier (when ordained ministers were in short supply, but congregations were springing up in every new community it seemed). It also has deeper, Biblical roots (see I Corinthians 12:12, where St. Paul compares the human body to the church/body of Christ).
I thought about this today because, for a variety of reasons, in the past five years, we as a family have attended Christmas Eve services at five different Methodist churches. For our part, it isn't because we've moved five times in five years, or indulged in something I talk about in The Mainline (church shopping), or had a falling out with minister or congregations, or anything like that. It is just how it worked out. One year was at our current home church, one year it was because we were visiting relatives out of town, one year we went back to the church we were married in, and twice it was because friends or family had invited us to worship with them. All five of those services were fine in their own right, and all added to our family's preparation for celebrating Christmas.
The reason I bring it up on Christmas Eve, is that even within a denomination so devoted (on some level) to this concept of connection, there can be division. At this time of year, we don't want to dwell on such things of course. We should want to focus on those things that bind us together in that connection, not that which divides us (even if those issues aren't likely to go away and are very important ones to discuss). Interestingly enough, one of the other common things that connects my personal Christmas Eves of the recent past (and for several years beyond the last five actually) has been watching the Christmas Mass from St. Peter's Basilica. This year, was Pope Francis's first, and Time magazine's "Person of the Year" did not disappoint.
And maybe there is something to all that. Maybe if Christians listened to the Church's various branches (whether Protestant or Catholic, connected within the same denomination or not), it would act more and more like the Body of Christ. Maybe that would make us more willing to speak out on behalf of our fellow Christians who aren't just seeing some form of secularism or cultural apathetic persecution, but actual life and death persecution. And perhaps, on a night like tonight, if we aren't able to listen to each other, perhaps we'll listen (in good Methodist fashion) to the angels:
Hark! The herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King;
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!”
Joyful, all ye nations rise,
Join the triumph of the skies;
With th’angelic host proclaim,
“Christ is born in Bethlehem!”
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Monday, December 23, 2013
This Holy Tide of Christmas
A few years ago I watched "A Christmas Carol" starring Patrick Stewart for the first time. I knew the story of Scrooge of course--thanks to Disney's version with Scrooge McDuck when I was younger and then having read Charles Dickens tale myself when I was older. And as great a job as Stewart did in the role, it wasn't his portrayal that stuck with me. Rather, perhaps for the first time, I was introduced to the hymn, "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen."
Now, I'd probably heard and sung that hymn before first watching and hearing it on television. But it was the first time I'd really paid attention to what the song was saying. You can read the words for yourself here. What caught my attention that night, and what has stuck with me since are the lines:
To save us all from Satan’s power,
When we were gone astray.
Here, in twelve words or less, was the summation of the Christian message--that God so loved the world, a world He had created, a world that had fallen, that He had devised a means to save us. This is the story of why Christians believe Christmas had to happened, all presented in song form.
To sing those words, to believe them, is to be reminded not only of God's love, but also that sin is a very real part of the world we live in--and in order for us to be reconciled to God, we must be redeemed. Indeed, what else should we expect from a holy God--one who can not abide sin, but loves sinners enough to do something about it? We might debate what constitutes a sin, whether there is a hierarchy of sins, even the role culture plays in helping us determine sins (see all of this, and more -- including politics, television contracts and the like in the recent "Duck Dynasty" controversy). But Christians should be able to agree that sin is real. That it keeps us from God. But that God devised a means to take away its eternal sting. This then, is the story of Christmas. As the hymn relates:
This holy tide of Christmas,
Doth bring redeeming grace.
May that grace, that peace, be with you and yours this holiday season.
Now, I'd probably heard and sung that hymn before first watching and hearing it on television. But it was the first time I'd really paid attention to what the song was saying. You can read the words for yourself here. What caught my attention that night, and what has stuck with me since are the lines:
To save us all from Satan’s power,
When we were gone astray.
Here, in twelve words or less, was the summation of the Christian message--that God so loved the world, a world He had created, a world that had fallen, that He had devised a means to save us. This is the story of why Christians believe Christmas had to happened, all presented in song form.
To sing those words, to believe them, is to be reminded not only of God's love, but also that sin is a very real part of the world we live in--and in order for us to be reconciled to God, we must be redeemed. Indeed, what else should we expect from a holy God--one who can not abide sin, but loves sinners enough to do something about it? We might debate what constitutes a sin, whether there is a hierarchy of sins, even the role culture plays in helping us determine sins (see all of this, and more -- including politics, television contracts and the like in the recent "Duck Dynasty" controversy). But Christians should be able to agree that sin is real. That it keeps us from God. But that God devised a means to take away its eternal sting. This then, is the story of Christmas. As the hymn relates:
This holy tide of Christmas,
Doth bring redeeming grace.
May that grace, that peace, be with you and yours this holiday season.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
From Saint Nicholas to Santa Claus to S-A-T-A-N!?!
On this third Sunday of Advent, I found in my Facebook feed a posting from a friend about the sermon he was listening to at his church. The pastor had just made a reference to "Satan Claus," which my friend thought was funny (which in turn prompted his wife to roll her eyes, per his comments). Now, I don't know what else the pastor in question said, or even what the sermon was about (I'll take a guess that secularization of the holiday may have been a theme), but it did get me thinking a bit about how some Christians have declared a war on Santa (and in the process forgotten about the man who inspired the myth, Saint Nicholas).
If you don't know anything about Saint Nicholas, you should. Though there is some dispute about all the details of his life's work, he is widely acknowledged to have been the Bishop of Myra during the 300s. He was known to give gifts (foreshadowing the eventual Santa Claus of course), but was perhaps known during his own time (and in perhaps the biggest gift to orthodox Christianity) for his staunch opposition to the Arian heresy (which cast doubt on the divinity of Jesus Christ) -- including slapping Arius himself in the face at the Council of Nicea!
For a fairly detailed account, read this or this. For a more humorous take (though with some crude language, so be warned), read this. But by all accounts, he was a no none sense defender of the faith, and very much worthy of being celebrated (and hardly surprising that his real exploits might take on the stuff of legends in their own rights).
So, how did Saint Nicholas become Santa Claus? As those first two articles point out, one of the most popular saints in both the Eastern and Western churches got transformed by the Reformation. Protestants, starting perhaps, with Martin Luther, who wanted to focus Christians away from venerating saints, cast aside St. Nicholas in favor of having Christian parents talk about the Christ Child. The Christkindl of Protestant Germany found its way to the United States, where it became "translated" (we'll use that term loosely) as "Chris Kringle." The next step to Santa then came with Episcopalian Clement Moore's "A Visit from Saint Nicholas" (you can read more about him and the poem here) in 1822, followed by Thomas Nast (himself of German Protestant extraction) creating a visual image in 1863 that can now be found (and copied) virtually anywhere today.
Christians have enough to worry about in this day and age I think, than whether to welcome Santa down their chimney. While I don't believe that Christianity in America is persecuted in the same way that say Christians in Syria are, nor that even this season's round of atheistic actions (see here for more on the "who needs Christ to celebrate Christmas" campaign -- which should prompt, I'd hope, at least some head scratching on the part of those who claim to be so well educated about how that realistically is supposed to work), harken the end of the faith in the United States, I really don't think Santa is to blame, or even a real worry. If you don't want to talk about Santa, fine. But you are going to be hard pressed to shield your eyes (or the eyes and imaginations of your children from it). And no, even with secularization, Santa doesn't mean "S-A-T-A-N", no matter what the Church Lady might tell you! By all means, focus on the Nativity, but maybe also talk a bit about the man who inspired the story to begin with. It couldn't hurt and it is probably better for all of us than devoting more time to real danger to Christmas: the Elf on a Shelf!
If you don't know anything about Saint Nicholas, you should. Though there is some dispute about all the details of his life's work, he is widely acknowledged to have been the Bishop of Myra during the 300s. He was known to give gifts (foreshadowing the eventual Santa Claus of course), but was perhaps known during his own time (and in perhaps the biggest gift to orthodox Christianity) for his staunch opposition to the Arian heresy (which cast doubt on the divinity of Jesus Christ) -- including slapping Arius himself in the face at the Council of Nicea!
For a fairly detailed account, read this or this. For a more humorous take (though with some crude language, so be warned), read this. But by all accounts, he was a no none sense defender of the faith, and very much worthy of being celebrated (and hardly surprising that his real exploits might take on the stuff of legends in their own rights).
So, how did Saint Nicholas become Santa Claus? As those first two articles point out, one of the most popular saints in both the Eastern and Western churches got transformed by the Reformation. Protestants, starting perhaps, with Martin Luther, who wanted to focus Christians away from venerating saints, cast aside St. Nicholas in favor of having Christian parents talk about the Christ Child. The Christkindl of Protestant Germany found its way to the United States, where it became "translated" (we'll use that term loosely) as "Chris Kringle." The next step to Santa then came with Episcopalian Clement Moore's "A Visit from Saint Nicholas" (you can read more about him and the poem here) in 1822, followed by Thomas Nast (himself of German Protestant extraction) creating a visual image in 1863 that can now be found (and copied) virtually anywhere today.
Christians have enough to worry about in this day and age I think, than whether to welcome Santa down their chimney. While I don't believe that Christianity in America is persecuted in the same way that say Christians in Syria are, nor that even this season's round of atheistic actions (see here for more on the "who needs Christ to celebrate Christmas" campaign -- which should prompt, I'd hope, at least some head scratching on the part of those who claim to be so well educated about how that realistically is supposed to work), harken the end of the faith in the United States, I really don't think Santa is to blame, or even a real worry. If you don't want to talk about Santa, fine. But you are going to be hard pressed to shield your eyes (or the eyes and imaginations of your children from it). And no, even with secularization, Santa doesn't mean "S-A-T-A-N", no matter what the Church Lady might tell you! By all means, focus on the Nativity, but maybe also talk a bit about the man who inspired the story to begin with. It couldn't hurt and it is probably better for all of us than devoting more time to real danger to Christmas: the Elf on a Shelf!
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Nutcracker Theology
Yesterday, my family enjoyed attending a performance of Tchaikovsky's The Nutcracker at Butler University. This is the fifth year in a row all of us have gone and it has become one of the "kick off" events for us when it comes to getting ready to celebrate Christmas. It is always a fun time, made even more special for me because I get to see several of my students each year take part in the performance (including this year, the Mouse Queen herself!) and as part of the orchestra.
But the performance we watched on got me thinking a bit about the theological implications of the ballet. Now, I'm not going to assert that Tchaikovsky was a "secret theologian," nor that there is a whole bunch of hidden, symbolic meaning (implied or even unconsciously presented because of cultural norms) akin to what some literary and film critics do. Rather, it simply struck me while watching the performance this is a story set at Christmas whose story in many ways is a tale of good triumphing over evil, and the celebration of beauty that comes about because of that victory. That may or may not seem very much like the Christmas sermons some of you heard today on this second Sunday of Advent (though if you want to read a really good one, might I suggest this message by the Rev. William Willimon), but to me it gets in a very artistic way shall we say, at the heart of the Christian message, the Gospel's Good News, which the Church proclaims this time of year.
Of course part of my epiphany may have been because of this article, which details recent comments by Bill Gates on charitable giving. As the author (Terry Teachout) of that post notes, Gates criticized some of his wealthy peers for giving money to art museums and the like, when that money could be donated to medical research or foundations (like Gates's own) that fund such research and programs that combat diseases and ailments. While there, much to ponder in what Gates said and implied (and what has been implied with his comments), I thought that Teachout struck exactly the right chord by noting in the last line of his post that "Of course it's admirable to help prevent blindness—but it's also admirable to help ensure that we have beautiful things to see."
Yesterday, in Butler's production of The Nutcracker I got to sit alongside my children and see a beautiful performance. And in light of what Teachout had to say, let me add that the baby of Bethlehem (the one right now depicted all over the world in a manger) grew up, the Bible says, to both heal the sick he encountered and save us all from our sins (Matthew 1:21). One action need not be divorced from the other, and both in their own way can be good things to be cherished.
But the performance we watched on got me thinking a bit about the theological implications of the ballet. Now, I'm not going to assert that Tchaikovsky was a "secret theologian," nor that there is a whole bunch of hidden, symbolic meaning (implied or even unconsciously presented because of cultural norms) akin to what some literary and film critics do. Rather, it simply struck me while watching the performance this is a story set at Christmas whose story in many ways is a tale of good triumphing over evil, and the celebration of beauty that comes about because of that victory. That may or may not seem very much like the Christmas sermons some of you heard today on this second Sunday of Advent (though if you want to read a really good one, might I suggest this message by the Rev. William Willimon), but to me it gets in a very artistic way shall we say, at the heart of the Christian message, the Gospel's Good News, which the Church proclaims this time of year.
Of course part of my epiphany may have been because of this article, which details recent comments by Bill Gates on charitable giving. As the author (Terry Teachout) of that post notes, Gates criticized some of his wealthy peers for giving money to art museums and the like, when that money could be donated to medical research or foundations (like Gates's own) that fund such research and programs that combat diseases and ailments. While there, much to ponder in what Gates said and implied (and what has been implied with his comments), I thought that Teachout struck exactly the right chord by noting in the last line of his post that "Of course it's admirable to help prevent blindness—but it's also admirable to help ensure that we have beautiful things to see."
Yesterday, in Butler's production of The Nutcracker I got to sit alongside my children and see a beautiful performance. And in light of what Teachout had to say, let me add that the baby of Bethlehem (the one right now depicted all over the world in a manger) grew up, the Bible says, to both heal the sick he encountered and save us all from our sins (Matthew 1:21). One action need not be divorced from the other, and both in their own way can be good things to be cherished.
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Revisiting Christmas at Disney (Part II): Lt. Dan Edition
The older I've gotten, the more I've come to enjoy Christmas Eve services. While it is true that when I was younger, my home church didn't offer one (at least not that I recall), since college it has become a staple of the season. Sometimes it is the music that makes it so special. Sometimes it is the sermon. Sometimes it is just being with friends and family by candlelight. If Advent is all about getting prepared for Christmas, then the Christmas Eve service has become for me the moment that the season "gets real." This year, however, all that's ruined, because the bar has been set ridiculously high by Walt Disney and Gary Sinise.
Being at Disney during the Holidays is pretty special I think (and not just because I'm the father of two children in one of their key demographic groups), as I've related on this blog before. That being said, the Candlelight Processional at Epcot is just down right moving. There is an orchestra, what appeared to be three choirs (or at least three different robe colors) in addition to featured singers, and celebrity readers. At the Processional we attended, star of stage and (small and big) screen, Gary Sinise was the reader. As Mr. Sinise reminded the audience, this was a Disney tradition he was proud to be a part of (his tenth time serving as a reader), and one that was started by Walt Disney himself.
What, for those of you who've not attended one, is going on here? The music and singin is mostly (though there were to be sure a few more secular/popular tunes interspersed in the orchestral opening section) what you might expect at a Christmas Eve service, the most popular, well known hymns you can think of, played and sung wonderfully. At what are these readers reading? Just the Gospel accounts of the annunciation and birth of Jesus Christ. Mr. Sinise did offer a few remarks towards the end (a well scripted homily on peace on earth, the theme, if you could imagine of this Epcot event in the midst of the World Showcase, as well as some others about the origins of the hymn "Silent Night"), but most of what he had to say came straight from the Gospels of Mathew, Mark, Luke and John. I've attended Christmas Eve services in churches that didn't have as much scripture read as what I heard at Disney.
And maybe that's what made it so special and powerful for me. For all intents and purposes my family were strangers to the roughly 1000 people or so that made up this "congregation." But for the hour we were together, we weren't just park guests. We were part of something bigger. And it wasn't Disney "magic" or glitz or glam (the Epcot facility is outside, with great lighting and sound, but minimal in the way of set decoration and effects of any kind) that made it so. It was the music, the songs, and the message, the very Good News itself. If the folks at Walt Disney have anything to say on this to churches, it might be that you don't always need the bells and whistles, or to be trendy or cutting edge. Sometimes, maybe just talking about the basics, of what made you you to begin with, is exactly all you need.
Although Black Friday is behind us, and Cyber Monday still lies on the other side of the first Sunday of Advent, I'd make a small suggestion to you dear readers. First, take a look at the Gospel accounts for yourself, let the remind you what the "reason for the season" is all about. But then second, if you find that you need one more present (perhaps in honor of someone), might I suggest Mr. Sinise's Foundation (you can link to it here), which is dedicated to helping the men and women of the American Armed Forces and their families. The bar for Christmas Eve services is now high. But the service that these men and women perform for their country, and the sacrifices they and their families make on our behalf, so that those church services can happen in peace, is greater still. They deserve our support as well as our prayers and thanks.
Being at Disney during the Holidays is pretty special I think (and not just because I'm the father of two children in one of their key demographic groups), as I've related on this blog before. That being said, the Candlelight Processional at Epcot is just down right moving. There is an orchestra, what appeared to be three choirs (or at least three different robe colors) in addition to featured singers, and celebrity readers. At the Processional we attended, star of stage and (small and big) screen, Gary Sinise was the reader. As Mr. Sinise reminded the audience, this was a Disney tradition he was proud to be a part of (his tenth time serving as a reader), and one that was started by Walt Disney himself.
What, for those of you who've not attended one, is going on here? The music and singin is mostly (though there were to be sure a few more secular/popular tunes interspersed in the orchestral opening section) what you might expect at a Christmas Eve service, the most popular, well known hymns you can think of, played and sung wonderfully. At what are these readers reading? Just the Gospel accounts of the annunciation and birth of Jesus Christ. Mr. Sinise did offer a few remarks towards the end (a well scripted homily on peace on earth, the theme, if you could imagine of this Epcot event in the midst of the World Showcase, as well as some others about the origins of the hymn "Silent Night"), but most of what he had to say came straight from the Gospels of Mathew, Mark, Luke and John. I've attended Christmas Eve services in churches that didn't have as much scripture read as what I heard at Disney.
And maybe that's what made it so special and powerful for me. For all intents and purposes my family were strangers to the roughly 1000 people or so that made up this "congregation." But for the hour we were together, we weren't just park guests. We were part of something bigger. And it wasn't Disney "magic" or glitz or glam (the Epcot facility is outside, with great lighting and sound, but minimal in the way of set decoration and effects of any kind) that made it so. It was the music, the songs, and the message, the very Good News itself. If the folks at Walt Disney have anything to say on this to churches, it might be that you don't always need the bells and whistles, or to be trendy or cutting edge. Sometimes, maybe just talking about the basics, of what made you you to begin with, is exactly all you need.
Although Black Friday is behind us, and Cyber Monday still lies on the other side of the first Sunday of Advent, I'd make a small suggestion to you dear readers. First, take a look at the Gospel accounts for yourself, let the remind you what the "reason for the season" is all about. But then second, if you find that you need one more present (perhaps in honor of someone), might I suggest Mr. Sinise's Foundation (you can link to it here), which is dedicated to helping the men and women of the American Armed Forces and their families. The bar for Christmas Eve services is now high. But the service that these men and women perform for their country, and the sacrifices they and their families make on our behalf, so that those church services can happen in peace, is greater still. They deserve our support as well as our prayers and thanks.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Revisiting Christmas at Disney (Part 1)
My wife loves Christmas. Each year it seems, our celebrations get bigger, and our traditions grow. And I love every minute of it right along side her, and the joy it brings us to be with family and friends, and the memories we are making with our children. So, it was little surprise that, have really enjoyed coming to the Magic Kingdom in January, we decided that we would kick off the 2013 Holiday Season at Walt Disney World as well.
As such, we found ourselves partaking, once again, and this time truly soaking in (because we knew better what to expect) the Osborne Family's light display at Disney's Hollywood Studios. As readers of this blog know, this experience back in January prompted a blog post as well (indeed, to date, it is the most visited post I've made as part of this blog).
The experience, to borrow a word so often heard at Disney, is magical. The lights, the music, the "snow" (soap foam). It is nearly perfect. I'll not rehash the arguments I made in that earlier post here. Rather I'll simply say that it is very special, and a very nice way to start thinking about Christmas during this holiday season.
This trip has gotten me thinking about Disney in other respects as well on the academic front. And that is to what degree Walt Disney (and the Company that continues to bear his name) were actively involved in not just story telling, but in creating a working, modern, mythology -- both for Americans and one might argue Western Civilization. In some respects, that involves a standardization of stories (akin to what the Brothers Grimm once did). In others, it might be crafting an agenda of sorts (what do the stories, as Disney related them, say about children or parents, men and women, etc). How has globalization (as well as say consumerism changed/altered that vision)? What role should historic accuracy play in telling these stories? For me, thinking about those lights again, I'm also left asking what the role of faith/religion/Christianity is in all that story telling as well.
These are all good questions I think. But for now, still warmed by the memories, I'll look once again at those lights and be thankful for the family that first put them up and the company that keeps on doing it.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Why it Matters
When I was in high school I became a JFK Assassination Conspiracy buff. Part of it had to do with the JFK movie that came out in the early 1990s of course, in which Oliver Stone directed an all start cast in a truly skilled way. I bought every book I could find (and thanks to that movie, there were many more than I could afford) and what I couldn't buy, I checked out from my local library. For one of my senior English classes (with the late Mr. Kip Prenkert) I even wrote a paper on it. I didn't know which conspiracy theory to believe (and there are plenty -- some more outlandish than others) just that the official version didn't seem to hold up.
Like many youthful passions, this one cooled over the years. Oh, I still enjoyed the topic from a certain standpoint of course. When the opportunity arose to purchase a first edition of the Warren Commission Report a few years ago at a rare bookshop, I took it. But the adore of my younger self was long gone. Part of it had to do with finding other things to study, reflect, and be upset about! Part of it had to do with a book that my grandparents got me for Christmas (one of the few fiction books I've read as an adult) The Fourth K, by Mario Puzo...which surprisingly, to me, perhaps because I didn't see it coming until the very end, got me to believe that a random assassin could kill a president after all. Other than bringing it up when I lectured on the Kennedy years, and even then only in passing (and mostly as a means to talk about why we like/need conspiracy theories), I'd mostly left it behind me. Indeed, a few years ago when I had the chance to interview then Senator Arlen Specter (who had come up with the "magic bullet theory"), it never crossed my mind to ask him about his work on the Warren Commission!
But how could I, or anyone, really escape it this week? In the midst of the 150th anniversary of the Gettysburg Address, as well as thinking about the 50th anniversary of C.S. Lewis's death (a Christian apologist whose writings have probably had a bigger impact on me personally than either Lincoln or Kennedy's writings), we were confronted with the fact that Lewis died the same day as Kennedy was murdered. Even then, I wasn't planning on writing anything about it on this blog (we've got to much going on), until that is, I read this.
Now, yes, it was written by a conservative journalist. And yes, he does have a "spin" to put on all of this on when it comes to conservatives and liberals politically (which you may or may not agree with). But that isn't the reason for this post. Rather, I think it gets at something very real. If we can all agree that there wasn't a conspiracy (because if there was, it is maybe the best kept secret, ever) involved and that Lee Harvey Oswald is the lone gunman (watch this if you can for the ballistics/science angle of the shooting and what that gun could do), then we need to remind ourselves who Lee Harvey Oswald was.
The answer to that is that he was a communist. That doesn't mean much to younger readers (or very younger eventual readers, like my children). Communism for all intents and purposes isn't part of their/your reality. Oh sure, there are still, officially, some communist nations -- China, North Korea, Cuba and the like -- but in reality the communism they have is a an ideological veneer for oligarchical and often time totalitarian governmental structures. Not that the old Soviet Union (and associated Eastern bloc) was much better of course (to date, no nation has lived up to all of Karl Marx's requirements), but what is left of communism isn't much, at least not when compared to when the Cold War was at its height. And that apex is right about the same time when John F. Kennedy was killed. The fact that Oswald was a communist, had lived in the Soviet Union after serving in the U.S. Marines (he'd defected and then defected back when he realized that the old USSR wasn't quite the worker's paradise he'd expected), had supported "fair" treatment of Cuba (at a time when the United States, and President Kennedy in particular were fixated on getting rid of Fidel Castro), and had attempted to kill a right wing former Army general (and leader in the Texas John Birth Society), are all known.
At the time, highlighting them may very well have provoked World War III. Remembering them now serves a different purpose though. Communism is a seductive doctrine. It melds disciplines like history and political science and economics together. It seems to be very rational and "fair", on paper. But the paper version neglects the element of the real world most important, and the one that it is missing is taking into consideration (what most Christians would assert to be, fallen) human nature. Every government that has proclaimed itself to be a communist one to date (every one) has ended up spending at least some of it its time as a totalitarian dictatorship. Once given massive amounts of power (often with scores to settle) people find it much easier to use that power to stay in power rather than to do the right thing. And of course, this shouldn't be a surprise either. Some people recognized it early on (read George Orwell's Animal Farm for starters), but when we forget the past (or just don't consider it, as perhaps has been the case with Oswald and the Kennedy assassination), we do a disservice to those who come after us. Because even if the Cold War is over, the seductive reasoning that once (esp. in the 1930s) made communism so popular with many intellectuals (including in the US), is still there, claiming that the previous attempts just didn't get it right, but don't worry, this time it will work.
But remembering Oswald's communism is important for another reason. Communism is officially atheistic. The reason is simple of course. Communist doctrine expects that the state (or more to the point, the government) should be the highest authority in a person's life. It is a doctrine about control (whether the economy, the people, the flow of information), and it cannot survive if there is a place that reminds people of other obligations. Communists were among the first (but by no means only ones) to argue that the state should take care of its citizens. Whatever the merits (and there are many) of a social welfare state, one of the things its introduction did in the first half of the twentieth century, it disrupted older forms of charity. The moment Person A is taxed to help Person B, rather than Person A either directly helping or giving money to an organization, such as a church, to help Person B, the action stops being charitable (which requires a personal connection) and becomes something else entirely. Communists (and other totalitarians, the Nazis are the best example) couldn't have churches doing such things (reminding citizens that they had an obligation to aid the poor for example), because if they did, then the Church (or organized religion) might also remind people that they had other obligations as well that surpassed or super ceded the state's demands on the individual. That God might be more important than the government, or that God's word might run counter to what the state said should be done, could not be allowed.
Historians often remind our students that "those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it" (the words of George Santayana). And even though events in different times are never exactly alike, we should all hope that we, in the United States, live through the assassination of a president. Likewise, we should also that we don't live through a resurgence of communism (or other totalitarian movements) which were such the hallmark of the twentieth century (and were perhaps the greatest killers in World History). The best way to do that is to remember the words once uttered (though he was hardly alone) of one of Lincoln's contemporaries (and like JFK, a Bostonian), the abolitionist Wendell Phillips, who said "eternal vigilance is the price of liberty."
Like many youthful passions, this one cooled over the years. Oh, I still enjoyed the topic from a certain standpoint of course. When the opportunity arose to purchase a first edition of the Warren Commission Report a few years ago at a rare bookshop, I took it. But the adore of my younger self was long gone. Part of it had to do with finding other things to study, reflect, and be upset about! Part of it had to do with a book that my grandparents got me for Christmas (one of the few fiction books I've read as an adult) The Fourth K, by Mario Puzo...which surprisingly, to me, perhaps because I didn't see it coming until the very end, got me to believe that a random assassin could kill a president after all. Other than bringing it up when I lectured on the Kennedy years, and even then only in passing (and mostly as a means to talk about why we like/need conspiracy theories), I'd mostly left it behind me. Indeed, a few years ago when I had the chance to interview then Senator Arlen Specter (who had come up with the "magic bullet theory"), it never crossed my mind to ask him about his work on the Warren Commission!
But how could I, or anyone, really escape it this week? In the midst of the 150th anniversary of the Gettysburg Address, as well as thinking about the 50th anniversary of C.S. Lewis's death (a Christian apologist whose writings have probably had a bigger impact on me personally than either Lincoln or Kennedy's writings), we were confronted with the fact that Lewis died the same day as Kennedy was murdered. Even then, I wasn't planning on writing anything about it on this blog (we've got to much going on), until that is, I read this.
Now, yes, it was written by a conservative journalist. And yes, he does have a "spin" to put on all of this on when it comes to conservatives and liberals politically (which you may or may not agree with). But that isn't the reason for this post. Rather, I think it gets at something very real. If we can all agree that there wasn't a conspiracy (because if there was, it is maybe the best kept secret, ever) involved and that Lee Harvey Oswald is the lone gunman (watch this if you can for the ballistics/science angle of the shooting and what that gun could do), then we need to remind ourselves who Lee Harvey Oswald was.
The answer to that is that he was a communist. That doesn't mean much to younger readers (or very younger eventual readers, like my children). Communism for all intents and purposes isn't part of their/your reality. Oh sure, there are still, officially, some communist nations -- China, North Korea, Cuba and the like -- but in reality the communism they have is a an ideological veneer for oligarchical and often time totalitarian governmental structures. Not that the old Soviet Union (and associated Eastern bloc) was much better of course (to date, no nation has lived up to all of Karl Marx's requirements), but what is left of communism isn't much, at least not when compared to when the Cold War was at its height. And that apex is right about the same time when John F. Kennedy was killed. The fact that Oswald was a communist, had lived in the Soviet Union after serving in the U.S. Marines (he'd defected and then defected back when he realized that the old USSR wasn't quite the worker's paradise he'd expected), had supported "fair" treatment of Cuba (at a time when the United States, and President Kennedy in particular were fixated on getting rid of Fidel Castro), and had attempted to kill a right wing former Army general (and leader in the Texas John Birth Society), are all known.
At the time, highlighting them may very well have provoked World War III. Remembering them now serves a different purpose though. Communism is a seductive doctrine. It melds disciplines like history and political science and economics together. It seems to be very rational and "fair", on paper. But the paper version neglects the element of the real world most important, and the one that it is missing is taking into consideration (what most Christians would assert to be, fallen) human nature. Every government that has proclaimed itself to be a communist one to date (every one) has ended up spending at least some of it its time as a totalitarian dictatorship. Once given massive amounts of power (often with scores to settle) people find it much easier to use that power to stay in power rather than to do the right thing. And of course, this shouldn't be a surprise either. Some people recognized it early on (read George Orwell's Animal Farm for starters), but when we forget the past (or just don't consider it, as perhaps has been the case with Oswald and the Kennedy assassination), we do a disservice to those who come after us. Because even if the Cold War is over, the seductive reasoning that once (esp. in the 1930s) made communism so popular with many intellectuals (including in the US), is still there, claiming that the previous attempts just didn't get it right, but don't worry, this time it will work.
But remembering Oswald's communism is important for another reason. Communism is officially atheistic. The reason is simple of course. Communist doctrine expects that the state (or more to the point, the government) should be the highest authority in a person's life. It is a doctrine about control (whether the economy, the people, the flow of information), and it cannot survive if there is a place that reminds people of other obligations. Communists were among the first (but by no means only ones) to argue that the state should take care of its citizens. Whatever the merits (and there are many) of a social welfare state, one of the things its introduction did in the first half of the twentieth century, it disrupted older forms of charity. The moment Person A is taxed to help Person B, rather than Person A either directly helping or giving money to an organization, such as a church, to help Person B, the action stops being charitable (which requires a personal connection) and becomes something else entirely. Communists (and other totalitarians, the Nazis are the best example) couldn't have churches doing such things (reminding citizens that they had an obligation to aid the poor for example), because if they did, then the Church (or organized religion) might also remind people that they had other obligations as well that surpassed or super ceded the state's demands on the individual. That God might be more important than the government, or that God's word might run counter to what the state said should be done, could not be allowed.
Historians often remind our students that "those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it" (the words of George Santayana). And even though events in different times are never exactly alike, we should all hope that we, in the United States, live through the assassination of a president. Likewise, we should also that we don't live through a resurgence of communism (or other totalitarian movements) which were such the hallmark of the twentieth century (and were perhaps the greatest killers in World History). The best way to do that is to remember the words once uttered (though he was hardly alone) of one of Lincoln's contemporaries (and like JFK, a Bostonian), the abolitionist Wendell Phillips, who said "eternal vigilance is the price of liberty."
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
"It is for us the living"
I have been lucky enough to travel to Gettysburg twice. The first time was with my family, when I was about nine years old. The second time was in Eighth Grade, as part of a school trip to Washington, D.C. (still among my favorite trips ever, thanks Mr. Smith!). As an historian, I've talked about the Civil War that made Gettysburg world famous nearly every semester of my professional career. Indeed, I teach an entire class on the Civil War and just today got to the war in my US History survey class.
But today is special. Today marks the 150th Anniversary of the Gettysburg Address. It is a speech that generations of Americans have memorized (and rightfully so). It is a speech with a rich history (you can see the various versions, and why there are various versions here). It is a speech that has been considered both "scripture" and "Gospel" in its use of religious imagery, language and cadence to construct a civil religion (see here). It is a speech that eclipsed the main speech of the day, which was delivered by Edward Everett. It is a speech that was panned by many when it was first given (an opinion that has now been overturned). And it is one that continues to be a touchstone for many, still capable of inspiring Americans and generating news.
None of that is really what I'm interested in today though. My friend, Thomas Kidd, posted this article today about the Address, in which he focuses on the phrase "new birth of freedom"and how Lincoln's use of familiar religious language not just helped create the aforementioned civil religion, but also perhaps divorced that language from it religious origins. As Kidd notes, "But what is lost when the new birth becomes tied to a nation’s history, rather than a redeemer’s saving work?" I think that is a very important question to ask, and one that perhaps academics (including theologians) should ponder.
But Kidds' question is also not one I'm going to attempt to answer, at least not today. Rather, I'm going to focus on a phrase in the speech that I've been pondering of late, the one that starts the final section of the speech "It is for us the living." I think it is often easy to overlook that phrase, but it shouldn't be, and not just because of where Lincoln was when he gave the Address. Of course, he builds to it rhetorically in the speech, which was given in the midst of a battlefield that was rapidly being turned into a cemetery: Death would have been omnipresent in those surroundings for his listeners. But I think there is more to it than that. Ever since visiting the Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum a few years ago, I've thought that many scholars, commentators, and folks interested in Lincoln have missed out on how much death was a part of Lincoln's life, and how it shaped him.
Think about it, long before the war related deaths during his presidency, long before there were "great battlefield[s]" to visit, Lincoln's life was never far from death. His mother's death scarred his childhood.
'
His sister's death was difficult for him as well. Ann Rutledge (often thought to have been Lincoln's great love before he married Mary Todd) died from typhoid fever (perhaps prompting Lincoln to pen a poem on death and suicide is often attributed to him). He, along with Mary, buried two of their children (one before his presidency and another during).
Of course, none of these deaths was all that uncommon in nineteenth century America. Indeed, death was much more "common" in very real ways for people of Lincoln's time than it is for us today. And yet, each of these death's is also quite "uncommon" or special, because Lincoln to us is so exceptional. How he reacted to these deaths shaped him as a man, and as a president. To neglect how much death stalked Lincoln, culminating not just in the wartime deaths of soldiers, but in his own death at the hand's of John Wilkes Booth, we neglect how significant it really was to making him the president we now encounter in all those books.
Which is why that phrase, "It is for us the living" so sticks out to me. For all the death he had faced, for all the death that surrounded him, Lincoln never lost sight of the fact that whatever the dead have been able to accomplish before (or because) they died, ultimately it is up to those they left behind to actually finish the work they started, to see it through (or to borrow from St. Paul in Second Timothy 4:7, to "finish the race"). Whatever else the Address may have been at the time or has become; whether or not we now (to flip its words on its head) remember it more than the "honored dead" who fought at Gettysburg, it is good for us to remember Lincoln's charge--the work that needs to be done, is up to the living to actually achieve.
But today is special. Today marks the 150th Anniversary of the Gettysburg Address. It is a speech that generations of Americans have memorized (and rightfully so). It is a speech with a rich history (you can see the various versions, and why there are various versions here). It is a speech that has been considered both "scripture" and "Gospel" in its use of religious imagery, language and cadence to construct a civil religion (see here). It is a speech that eclipsed the main speech of the day, which was delivered by Edward Everett. It is a speech that was panned by many when it was first given (an opinion that has now been overturned). And it is one that continues to be a touchstone for many, still capable of inspiring Americans and generating news.
None of that is really what I'm interested in today though. My friend, Thomas Kidd, posted this article today about the Address, in which he focuses on the phrase "new birth of freedom"and how Lincoln's use of familiar religious language not just helped create the aforementioned civil religion, but also perhaps divorced that language from it religious origins. As Kidd notes, "But what is lost when the new birth becomes tied to a nation’s history, rather than a redeemer’s saving work?" I think that is a very important question to ask, and one that perhaps academics (including theologians) should ponder.
But Kidds' question is also not one I'm going to attempt to answer, at least not today. Rather, I'm going to focus on a phrase in the speech that I've been pondering of late, the one that starts the final section of the speech "It is for us the living." I think it is often easy to overlook that phrase, but it shouldn't be, and not just because of where Lincoln was when he gave the Address. Of course, he builds to it rhetorically in the speech, which was given in the midst of a battlefield that was rapidly being turned into a cemetery: Death would have been omnipresent in those surroundings for his listeners. But I think there is more to it than that. Ever since visiting the Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum a few years ago, I've thought that many scholars, commentators, and folks interested in Lincoln have missed out on how much death was a part of Lincoln's life, and how it shaped him.
Think about it, long before the war related deaths during his presidency, long before there were "great battlefield[s]" to visit, Lincoln's life was never far from death. His mother's death scarred his childhood.
'His sister's death was difficult for him as well. Ann Rutledge (often thought to have been Lincoln's great love before he married Mary Todd) died from typhoid fever (perhaps prompting Lincoln to pen a poem on death and suicide is often attributed to him). He, along with Mary, buried two of their children (one before his presidency and another during).
Of course, none of these deaths was all that uncommon in nineteenth century America. Indeed, death was much more "common" in very real ways for people of Lincoln's time than it is for us today. And yet, each of these death's is also quite "uncommon" or special, because Lincoln to us is so exceptional. How he reacted to these deaths shaped him as a man, and as a president. To neglect how much death stalked Lincoln, culminating not just in the wartime deaths of soldiers, but in his own death at the hand's of John Wilkes Booth, we neglect how significant it really was to making him the president we now encounter in all those books.
Which is why that phrase, "It is for us the living" so sticks out to me. For all the death he had faced, for all the death that surrounded him, Lincoln never lost sight of the fact that whatever the dead have been able to accomplish before (or because) they died, ultimately it is up to those they left behind to actually finish the work they started, to see it through (or to borrow from St. Paul in Second Timothy 4:7, to "finish the race"). Whatever else the Address may have been at the time or has become; whether or not we now (to flip its words on its head) remember it more than the "honored dead" who fought at Gettysburg, it is good for us to remember Lincoln's charge--the work that needs to be done, is up to the living to actually achieve.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
One Year On
A year ago today my grandfather died.
I was at home when I got the call, which wasn't unexpected. For the last decade or so of his life my grandfather had battled various ailments, though what ultimately felled him was a broken hip and a heart that could no longer continue to work as it once had. He had been hospitalized for about a week and the doctors had given him little chance of a full recovery. When the phone rang that morning, I knew even before I picked it up what the message from my parents would be. I was prepared. And I was prepared as well when my grandmother asked me to say a few words at the private, family service a few days later. This is what I posted on Facebook at the time, and the sum of what I managed to say at the funeral (being prepared doesn't always make for an non-emotional delivery):
"A bit before 6 this morning, I received word that my grandfather's struggle was over. If I were going to sum him up for people who did not know or had never met him, it would be that he was always there. He may not have said very much, he was not an overly emotional or expressive man, but he was always there for his family. When he and my grandmother celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary in 2003, he nixed a large celebration because, as he told me, "we have always been a family" and that is who he wanted gathered together. His physical presence is going to be missed as we gather together this holiday season. RIP, John R. Lantzer."
I have thought about him, and those words, quite a bit over the past few days as this anniversary approached. But it isn't a rumination of mortality (or even the immortal soul) that this post is about, rather it is about vocation. Perhaps both make sense this time of year, not only have we just passed on the calendar Halloween (October 31st), All Saints (November 1st) and All Souls (November 2nd) days (the latter two on the Christian calendar), but also because October 31st marks Reformation Day (at least for Protestants who remember such things).
Martin Luther, the German monk (and, as I like to point out to students, college professor) who sparked both a split and reform movement (or at least came to personify both) within the Western Church by his posting of his 95 Thesis, wrote a good deal about vocation. For those of you who only think of it in terms of another word for "job", here is the Bing dictionary's definition: "(1) somebody's job: somebody's work, job, or profession, especially a type of work demanding special commitment (2) urge to follow specific career: a strong feeling of being destined or called to undertake a specific type of work, especially a sense of being chosen by God for religious work or a religious life." It is not just what you do for money, or for a living, but also what you do with your time and talent, at the time and place you find yourself living in.
My vocation, and I have little difficulty thinking in such terms (perhaps a reflection of a portion of my family tree having Germanic Lutheran roots) is that of a professional Historian. That vocation could not be more different than that of my grandfather, who worked as an electrician (owning his own company) and in construction, not to mention having grown up on farm, during his lifetime. And yet the words that my grandfather said to me over the phone time and time again, whenever we talked while I was in college (and separated from my family by nearly 4 hours) still echo in my head, and reflect those principles about work (what once might even have been called a Protestant work ethic): "Just keep your nose to the grindstone."
Beyond the importance to family then, perhaps my grandfather's greatest legacy to those he left behind was that work ethic. To work hard at whatever it is you are doing. To finish the work that you start, no matter what it is you are working at. These might seem like platitudes, or even simplistic, but they are harder to achieve than many of us like to think. And hard work, in the service of God, for the benefit of others, in whatever it is we are called to do, is a worthy endeavor to pursue. To paraphrase and borrow from St. Paul in 2 Timothy 4:7, it is a goal to strive for, a race worth running, a task worth doing. And, I might add, doing well.
I hope that the pages of The Mainline, my second book (which I was pleased to be able to send a copy of to my grandparents a few months before my grandfather died), reflected some of that vocational passion as well.
I was at home when I got the call, which wasn't unexpected. For the last decade or so of his life my grandfather had battled various ailments, though what ultimately felled him was a broken hip and a heart that could no longer continue to work as it once had. He had been hospitalized for about a week and the doctors had given him little chance of a full recovery. When the phone rang that morning, I knew even before I picked it up what the message from my parents would be. I was prepared. And I was prepared as well when my grandmother asked me to say a few words at the private, family service a few days later. This is what I posted on Facebook at the time, and the sum of what I managed to say at the funeral (being prepared doesn't always make for an non-emotional delivery):
"A bit before 6 this morning, I received word that my grandfather's struggle was over. If I were going to sum him up for people who did not know or had never met him, it would be that he was always there. He may not have said very much, he was not an overly emotional or expressive man, but he was always there for his family. When he and my grandmother celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary in 2003, he nixed a large celebration because, as he told me, "we have always been a family" and that is who he wanted gathered together. His physical presence is going to be missed as we gather together this holiday season. RIP, John R. Lantzer."
I have thought about him, and those words, quite a bit over the past few days as this anniversary approached. But it isn't a rumination of mortality (or even the immortal soul) that this post is about, rather it is about vocation. Perhaps both make sense this time of year, not only have we just passed on the calendar Halloween (October 31st), All Saints (November 1st) and All Souls (November 2nd) days (the latter two on the Christian calendar), but also because October 31st marks Reformation Day (at least for Protestants who remember such things).
Martin Luther, the German monk (and, as I like to point out to students, college professor) who sparked both a split and reform movement (or at least came to personify both) within the Western Church by his posting of his 95 Thesis, wrote a good deal about vocation. For those of you who only think of it in terms of another word for "job", here is the Bing dictionary's definition: "(1) somebody's job: somebody's work, job, or profession, especially a type of work demanding special commitment (2) urge to follow specific career: a strong feeling of being destined or called to undertake a specific type of work, especially a sense of being chosen by God for religious work or a religious life." It is not just what you do for money, or for a living, but also what you do with your time and talent, at the time and place you find yourself living in.
My vocation, and I have little difficulty thinking in such terms (perhaps a reflection of a portion of my family tree having Germanic Lutheran roots) is that of a professional Historian. That vocation could not be more different than that of my grandfather, who worked as an electrician (owning his own company) and in construction, not to mention having grown up on farm, during his lifetime. And yet the words that my grandfather said to me over the phone time and time again, whenever we talked while I was in college (and separated from my family by nearly 4 hours) still echo in my head, and reflect those principles about work (what once might even have been called a Protestant work ethic): "Just keep your nose to the grindstone."
Beyond the importance to family then, perhaps my grandfather's greatest legacy to those he left behind was that work ethic. To work hard at whatever it is you are doing. To finish the work that you start, no matter what it is you are working at. These might seem like platitudes, or even simplistic, but they are harder to achieve than many of us like to think. And hard work, in the service of God, for the benefit of others, in whatever it is we are called to do, is a worthy endeavor to pursue. To paraphrase and borrow from St. Paul in 2 Timothy 4:7, it is a goal to strive for, a race worth running, a task worth doing. And, I might add, doing well.
I hope that the pages of The Mainline, my second book (which I was pleased to be able to send a copy of to my grandparents a few months before my grandfather died), reflected some of that vocational passion as well.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Times Three
Over the past three weekends, I've had the pleasure to be a part of three very different congregations, which are part of three different denominations, and taken away three very different lessons and insights that apply to talking about American Christianity, lessons that perhaps we all need to hear and think about in this Sunday after All Saints.
Two weeks ago, I attended worship service at Fishers United Methodist Church. The sermon and fellowship, as always, was good. But what struck me, as I look back on the service, was something that I read this week about the future of United Methodism. The gist of the article was that perhaps, in the future, people will once again "return" (as throughout much of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries Methodism was one of the largest denominations in the United States) to the UMC. Not because this member of the Seven Sisters is "trendy" but rather that its doctrine (even if local congregations might vary) remains remarkably orthodox/traditional, the denomination, which remains united, is growing internationally (and that growth is taking place in the more theologically conservative places, such as Africa), but maybe more importantly, it has a blend of traditional worship practices in its services that give it a sense of structure that many non-denominational and mega church minded churches simply don't have. Of course, we'll have to see what develops with that, but surely it might be a sign of hope, and not just wistful thinking.
A week ago, as I noted at the time, I had the pleasure of speaking at Bloomington's First Presbyterian Church. Now, I don't plan on rehashing that post here, but what I do want to add was something I was very impressed with at that visit that I only mentioned in passing at that time, and that is that the congregation had a history and was, I think from my hour or so there, and reading some of the literature I picked up, is trying to build upon that legacy, of reaching out to the students who come to Indiana University. I wish more congregations near colleges and universities did more of this. Of course it is easier to say than do, but there is no reason for congregations to write off college students (or young people in general). Yes, they might only be a part of a congregation for a few years, but that does not mean they cannot have an impact during that time, nor that congregations can't have an eternal impact on the souls of young people. If you doubt that, and need a "named" historical example, you need to look no further than Lyman Beecher (who himself spent some time as a Presbyterian minister), who was saved (or at least convinced) at a revival that swept over his college town. The elder Beecher is often credited with being one of the leaders of the Second Great Awakening, which transformed American religious and cultural life in the nineteenth century.
And then this week, I had the opportunity to spend some time in the Basilica of the Sacred Heart on the campus of the University of Notre Dame. What can this Catholic Church (and hence a member of the new Mainline I argue for in my book) tell us, packed as it was, with football fans (most of whom were praying for a victory by the Fighting Irish over Navy)? Perhaps that we shouldn't dismiss the power of grandeur.
To often, I think, the trend in architecture and church design has been "simple" or even to make a church building not look like a church. There is to much "baggage" attached to such terms we are told. It is "cool" to sit in folding chairs in a gym/multi-use room rather than in a formal sanctuary with pews. But maybe, just maybe, it is fine to invoke, visually, that what is being talked about is bigger, indeed, awe-some. Maybe, just maybe, it is fine for the Church to be (and I'd argue even look like) a church, as this article argues.
Two weeks ago, I attended worship service at Fishers United Methodist Church. The sermon and fellowship, as always, was good. But what struck me, as I look back on the service, was something that I read this week about the future of United Methodism. The gist of the article was that perhaps, in the future, people will once again "return" (as throughout much of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries Methodism was one of the largest denominations in the United States) to the UMC. Not because this member of the Seven Sisters is "trendy" but rather that its doctrine (even if local congregations might vary) remains remarkably orthodox/traditional, the denomination, which remains united, is growing internationally (and that growth is taking place in the more theologically conservative places, such as Africa), but maybe more importantly, it has a blend of traditional worship practices in its services that give it a sense of structure that many non-denominational and mega church minded churches simply don't have. Of course, we'll have to see what develops with that, but surely it might be a sign of hope, and not just wistful thinking.
A week ago, as I noted at the time, I had the pleasure of speaking at Bloomington's First Presbyterian Church. Now, I don't plan on rehashing that post here, but what I do want to add was something I was very impressed with at that visit that I only mentioned in passing at that time, and that is that the congregation had a history and was, I think from my hour or so there, and reading some of the literature I picked up, is trying to build upon that legacy, of reaching out to the students who come to Indiana University. I wish more congregations near colleges and universities did more of this. Of course it is easier to say than do, but there is no reason for congregations to write off college students (or young people in general). Yes, they might only be a part of a congregation for a few years, but that does not mean they cannot have an impact during that time, nor that congregations can't have an eternal impact on the souls of young people. If you doubt that, and need a "named" historical example, you need to look no further than Lyman Beecher (who himself spent some time as a Presbyterian minister), who was saved (or at least convinced) at a revival that swept over his college town. The elder Beecher is often credited with being one of the leaders of the Second Great Awakening, which transformed American religious and cultural life in the nineteenth century.
And then this week, I had the opportunity to spend some time in the Basilica of the Sacred Heart on the campus of the University of Notre Dame. What can this Catholic Church (and hence a member of the new Mainline I argue for in my book) tell us, packed as it was, with football fans (most of whom were praying for a victory by the Fighting Irish over Navy)? Perhaps that we shouldn't dismiss the power of grandeur.
To often, I think, the trend in architecture and church design has been "simple" or even to make a church building not look like a church. There is to much "baggage" attached to such terms we are told. It is "cool" to sit in folding chairs in a gym/multi-use room rather than in a formal sanctuary with pews. But maybe, just maybe, it is fine to invoke, visually, that what is being talked about is bigger, indeed, awe-some. Maybe, just maybe, it is fine for the Church to be (and I'd argue even look like) a church, as this article argues.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
All Hallow's Eve
While walking across campus yesterday, I ran into a colleague who asked me where I was going. I told her that I was off to teach a section of US History I (roughly 1492-1876, give or take). She asked me what books I used for the course, and though I started to tell her, stopped me shortly after I uttered "Morgan's Meaning of Independence." As it turned out, she had been a graduate student under Prof. Edmund S. Morgan, who passed away earlier this year at the age of 97. After telling me that she was so happy that I was using one of his books, as well as a few stories about what a wonderful mentor he was, we parted ways, and I started thinking about writing a post about Morgan (as she also told me she was going to a memorial service in his honor this coming weekend) about his influence on me as an historian.
But then the annual "Halloween Controversy" reared its head. As a child, my family always celebrated Halloween. By celebrate, I of course mean wearing costumes, carving pumpkins into Jack-O-Lanterns, and eating candy....and then eating more candy! What my parents didn't confiscate that is. It would be several years after I stopped "trick or treating" that I discovered that my father and I apparently had liked some of the same types of candy for years....but interestingly enough, those had been the ones that had always been confiscated when I was younger! At the same time, we lived in an area where there were many friends and neighbors who did not, often for religious reasons. One neighborhood family, in particular, once referred to it as "celebrating the devil" or some such. That statement aside, we all still played together the next day (and maybe even shared some candy), we just didn't walk around in costume together the night before.
And yet, there it was. All over social media these past few days, people posting pictures of themselves or their kids in costume, talking about parties they had or would attend, but also included in the mix of posts were some about how some friends weren't celebrating Halloween, or had stopped doing so, or who didn't understand why people used Halloween as an excuse to dress a certain way. Now, the point of this post isn't to get into an argument over whether or not Christians should or should not celebrate or take part in Halloween activities (if you want to read something from both sides of that argument you can take a look at this and this). It isn't even to get into the history of All Hallow's Eve, which you can read about here (and while you are at it, remember that the day after Halloween is All Saints Day). Rather, it is ponder ways in which Christians can learn from secular culture even while they engage it.
To do that, I return to Morgan. I am very thankful that a little over two decades ago I decided to take the first half of the US Survey (the very class I talked to my colleague about) as a freshman at Indiana University. Prof. Bernard Sheehan was my first college history professor, and he opened my eyes to what History could be and (and that it might even be a profession). He also introduced me to the work of Gordon Wood and Edmund Morgan (amongst other wonderful historians), and for that I am thankful. Over the years, I think I've read every book Wood and Morgan have written (at least once), and I've also learned more about both men (indeed, I literally bumped into Prof. Wood at a convention, and was so "star struck" that I could only mutter an apology). In the case of Morgan, one of my favorite quotes of his came from an interview in 2006, in which he talked about his conversion to being a "Calvinist atheist."
Those two words aren't often combined together, nor would they make much sense to some either in or outside of the Church. But in Morgan's story, it makes perfect sense. In 1938, after studying under Perry Miller (who shared both his interest in the Puritans as well as his atheism), Morgan found himself in Germany (while doing some post graduate work in Europe), and quite literally just a few feet from Adolph Hitler. It was, while being in the presence of the Nazis, that Morgan suddenly "came face to face with evil" and understood it as such, even before the world knew of such things as the Holocaust or extermination camps, and on another level, the Puritan theology he had studied under Miller suddenly made a great deal of sense. There was evil in the world, and the same people who could accomplish so many good things, were also capable of doing horrible wrongs.
Morgan, the atheist, was also a first rate historian, who probably did more than anyone else (save for perhaps his mentor Miller) to salvage not just the reputation but also the Calvinistic/Reformed theology of the Puritans for future generations. And yet, because he was an atheist, there could be some Christians who would refuse to read him (even, in the case of this historian, Morgan's writings kept me from all sorts of "derange[d] . . . fairy tales" -- to borrow the words of historian Oscar Handlin, written about the work of another practitioner of the historian's craft --along the way.
Professor Morgan may only be "sainted" in the Cathedral of Clio come All Saints Day, but there is every reason to celebrate what he accomplished professionally, and for Christians to find much that is good in his scholarship. Could Christians then, find something redeemable even in Halloween? Maybe. Perhaps it will never revert to All Hallows Eve. Perhaps there are all sorts of problems with it from a nutritional stand point (candy is very tasty, and thus good, but to much of it is very bad as well), or a consumerism stand point (we have to buy costumes, and decorations, and this and that...and surely the money could be better spent on other things), and maybe even a moral ones (I won't speak for others, but there are certainly some costumes I'd never allow/hope that my kids would never wear). There are, in other words, all sorts of reasons one could think to be "against" it. And if that is where you are, I'm not going to say you are wrong. There may even be counter arguments for those who have arguments in its favor (such as, it is just a bit of fun. Or that in dressing up and giving out candy/getting it you are hard pressed to argue that people are really worshiping the devil or consecrating chocolate bars to evil. Or even, to borrow from/paraphrase C.S. Lewis, that it is good to see make believe monsters, so that we might be better prepared to fight real ones). But I'd assert that for Christians, whether inside or outside of the Mainline, there are also much bigger cultural issues facing our nation and world than Halloween. And maybe, rather than focusing on this holiday and arguing over it, we should all turn our attention to those wider issues of much greater importance. After all, it is largely because of the work of a Calvinist atheist that we remember the Puritans for being more than just "kill joys" and people who tried witches.
But then the annual "Halloween Controversy" reared its head. As a child, my family always celebrated Halloween. By celebrate, I of course mean wearing costumes, carving pumpkins into Jack-O-Lanterns, and eating candy....and then eating more candy! What my parents didn't confiscate that is. It would be several years after I stopped "trick or treating" that I discovered that my father and I apparently had liked some of the same types of candy for years....but interestingly enough, those had been the ones that had always been confiscated when I was younger! At the same time, we lived in an area where there were many friends and neighbors who did not, often for religious reasons. One neighborhood family, in particular, once referred to it as "celebrating the devil" or some such. That statement aside, we all still played together the next day (and maybe even shared some candy), we just didn't walk around in costume together the night before.
And yet, there it was. All over social media these past few days, people posting pictures of themselves or their kids in costume, talking about parties they had or would attend, but also included in the mix of posts were some about how some friends weren't celebrating Halloween, or had stopped doing so, or who didn't understand why people used Halloween as an excuse to dress a certain way. Now, the point of this post isn't to get into an argument over whether or not Christians should or should not celebrate or take part in Halloween activities (if you want to read something from both sides of that argument you can take a look at this and this). It isn't even to get into the history of All Hallow's Eve, which you can read about here (and while you are at it, remember that the day after Halloween is All Saints Day). Rather, it is ponder ways in which Christians can learn from secular culture even while they engage it.
To do that, I return to Morgan. I am very thankful that a little over two decades ago I decided to take the first half of the US Survey (the very class I talked to my colleague about) as a freshman at Indiana University. Prof. Bernard Sheehan was my first college history professor, and he opened my eyes to what History could be and (and that it might even be a profession). He also introduced me to the work of Gordon Wood and Edmund Morgan (amongst other wonderful historians), and for that I am thankful. Over the years, I think I've read every book Wood and Morgan have written (at least once), and I've also learned more about both men (indeed, I literally bumped into Prof. Wood at a convention, and was so "star struck" that I could only mutter an apology). In the case of Morgan, one of my favorite quotes of his came from an interview in 2006, in which he talked about his conversion to being a "Calvinist atheist."
Those two words aren't often combined together, nor would they make much sense to some either in or outside of the Church. But in Morgan's story, it makes perfect sense. In 1938, after studying under Perry Miller (who shared both his interest in the Puritans as well as his atheism), Morgan found himself in Germany (while doing some post graduate work in Europe), and quite literally just a few feet from Adolph Hitler. It was, while being in the presence of the Nazis, that Morgan suddenly "came face to face with evil" and understood it as such, even before the world knew of such things as the Holocaust or extermination camps, and on another level, the Puritan theology he had studied under Miller suddenly made a great deal of sense. There was evil in the world, and the same people who could accomplish so many good things, were also capable of doing horrible wrongs.
Morgan, the atheist, was also a first rate historian, who probably did more than anyone else (save for perhaps his mentor Miller) to salvage not just the reputation but also the Calvinistic/Reformed theology of the Puritans for future generations. And yet, because he was an atheist, there could be some Christians who would refuse to read him (even, in the case of this historian, Morgan's writings kept me from all sorts of "derange[d] . . . fairy tales" -- to borrow the words of historian Oscar Handlin, written about the work of another practitioner of the historian's craft --along the way.
Professor Morgan may only be "sainted" in the Cathedral of Clio come All Saints Day, but there is every reason to celebrate what he accomplished professionally, and for Christians to find much that is good in his scholarship. Could Christians then, find something redeemable even in Halloween? Maybe. Perhaps it will never revert to All Hallows Eve. Perhaps there are all sorts of problems with it from a nutritional stand point (candy is very tasty, and thus good, but to much of it is very bad as well), or a consumerism stand point (we have to buy costumes, and decorations, and this and that...and surely the money could be better spent on other things), and maybe even a moral ones (I won't speak for others, but there are certainly some costumes I'd never allow/hope that my kids would never wear). There are, in other words, all sorts of reasons one could think to be "against" it. And if that is where you are, I'm not going to say you are wrong. There may even be counter arguments for those who have arguments in its favor (such as, it is just a bit of fun. Or that in dressing up and giving out candy/getting it you are hard pressed to argue that people are really worshiping the devil or consecrating chocolate bars to evil. Or even, to borrow from/paraphrase C.S. Lewis, that it is good to see make believe monsters, so that we might be better prepared to fight real ones). But I'd assert that for Christians, whether inside or outside of the Mainline, there are also much bigger cultural issues facing our nation and world than Halloween. And maybe, rather than focusing on this holiday and arguing over it, we should all turn our attention to those wider issues of much greater importance. After all, it is largely because of the work of a Calvinist atheist that we remember the Puritans for being more than just "kill joys" and people who tried witches.
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Back to Bloomington (Presbyterian)
I am a proud Hoosier in more ways than one. Indiana is the state of my birth, but I also hold three degrees from Indiana University. For four years, I was an undergrad in Bloomington. For another six years I commuted weekly (and for part of that time nearly daily) from Indianapolis to the IU campus. When I first arrived the city and campus wasn't that far removed from how it was portrayed in the movie Breaking Away (which is a great movie still in many ways).
That being said, even in the years since I finished by doctorate both the city and campus have changed a great deal. And with professional and personal obligations here in Indianapolis, I've had less time (or reason) to head down to B-Town.
But that changed today. An old friend from middle school and high school, who is now a professor in the Kelley School of Business contacted me to see if I'd be willing to come down and talk at his church about The Mainline. Once we settled on a good Sunday, and I'd convinced my wife that it would make a great "day trip for the kids" (since they've never been to Bloomington before), off we went down the Interstate to old IU.
And so, we arrived at Bloomington's First Presbyterian Church. The congregation, in many ways, is reflective of the Mainline of the Seven Sisters in a college town. It has plenty of older members, but with a strong young family contingent as well. It is trying to have a good outreach to the campus (and if you read its history, and know IU's history, it wouldn't surprise you to learn that once upon a time, this church had a very active connection to the school, which itself was led by Presbyterians) that it is only a few blocks away from. I had never been there before, I could certainly understand why my friend had made his church home here.
The talk, I think, went quite well. While the group was small, they listened attentively and asked wonderful questions. So, we got to talk about if the liberal/conservative split was also an urban/rural one, whether or not some conservative churches would ever allow women to have leadership roles, the degree to which secular culture influences the Church and the Church can influence secular culture, the role of missionaries/missionary boards (both at the denominational and trans-denominational level) were and were not in competition with one another (and how that might fit within the Global Church as well as in a Religious Right/Left divide), the usefulness of the Mainline as a conceptual tool, and even a little discussion about Philadelphia (the original home of the mainline). These are all important lines of inquiry, and ones that I hope get more attention in the future (either from myself or from other scholars). And if there is one thing I took away from the hour or so we spent in conversation, it was to reinforce my argument that the local matters in ways that just talking about denominations will never fully capture when it comes to talking about American Religious History.
When all was said and done, it was a wonderful day to start our "one tank getaway." We got to eat lunch at one of the all time best pizza places, and we got to take our kids around the campus where "mommy and daddy met and fell in love." And though our son pronounced it "mushy," I think both he and his sister had a great time (and he really enjoyed his time at Sunday School this morning).
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| Best Pizza in Bloomington |
And then we made the trek home, in time to take part in a "trunk or treat" event at Fishers United Methodist Church. But the tale of candy acquired and consumed will have to wait for another day!
Monday, October 14, 2013
Cherry Picking
This past weekend, my son got called for "cherry picking" at his soccer game. He had beaten the defense and happened to be in the right place at the right time when a teammate kicked the ball his way. The goal he scored was rescinded by the opposing coach, over the protest of my son's coach (even though goals and wins/losses only matter in the spring tourney), all to the dismay of my son (who was being congratulated by his teammates and was confused by the call). To add to the situation, what my son did wasn't in technical violation of the rules (as his coach pointed out) and the goal was only scored because the other team's defender (the boys are still young enough where there is no goalie) had abandoned his post to go where the action was.
In the non-sporting, academic world, cherry picking isn't about having a player near the other team's goal or basket, it is when we pick what we want to talk about to the neglect of other things in a given book or article. Out of the many articles and posts I've read in the past week or two, these are the ones I'm going to talk about, in the context of The Mainline and the state of American Christianity and Religion.
The first is over Carol Howard Merritt's post in The Christian Century from September, in which she argues against the continued use of the name "mainline" to describe the Seven Sisters. It is a brief post and is one that is focused on making an argument for a recasting of those denominations as a sort of Progressive/liberal religious force, abandoning "mainline" (not because they are no longer the majority denominations, as I argue in my book) but rather because the term seems to her to describe people who "hang out at the Country Club and eat cucumber sandwiches in fancy hats." Her post has generated some interest in the possibility of finding a new name to classify the Seven Sisters (see the Religion News Service article here if you'd like to vote and/or read the commentary/discussion).
While such a discussion is interesting and fun (even if it isn't likely to catch on), there are a few problems with Merritt's post. The first is that the term "mainline" predates sociologist E. Digby Baltzell's use of it in talking about "upper crust" Philadelphia society. The reason it got attached to the Seven Sisters to begin with (as I discuss in my book) is because the Federal Council of Churches was organized in Philadelphia some fifty years before Baltzell's piece was even written. The mainline is older than the 1950s, it has a history (and yes baggage), but there is power in the name and to abandon it, to allow it to fall into disuse, is not something to be done lightly.
The second problem is that Merritt's argument is based on two additional assumptions: That by accepting the term "mainline" the Seven Sisters are "white-washes our influences" and that keeping it somehow limits the Sisters from answering the call to "who we want to become." As to the notion of "white-washing," Merritt accurately points out that it could be construed that the Seven Sisters have only been influenced by white theologians (more precisely, dead white males), whereas she points to a wide a diversity (whites, blacks, Hispanic, men, women, Catholic, and Protestant) of influences on theological trends within the Seven Sisters. The problem here is two-fold: First, the notion of white-washing is somewhat the creation of the Seven Sisters themselves (and to a larger degree, the Federal/National Council of Churches), and somewhat missing the point that when the organization was first created by those denominations, for a wide variety of historical reasons (including racism and sexism to be sure), it was the creation of largely white males. While such a history does not preclude change to be sure ("who we want to become"), as I read Merritt here, what she seems to be advocating is not just a move away from the past but all most a rejection of it. In short, taking this line to its extreme, one might see the repudiation of much good along with much of what one might disagree with. Institutions without moorings (or a firm foundation) are not likely to stand the test of time, even with a name change. And while the list of theologians are impressive and make for a strong argument, they are not the whole story nor are they the only theologians who deserve mention and consideration.
Indeed, Merritt's argument presupposes that the Seven Sisters are only home to liberals (both theological and political) since the 1960s. That isn't backed up by the evidence, even today you can find theological diversity within the Seven Sisters, perhaps most obviously at the local level. And that gets at her second point ("who we want to become"). Which "who" is Merritt talking about? The conservative, evangelical United Methodist congregation in Indiana? The liberal Episcopalian church in New York City? The Presbyterian Church (USA) in Texas? It assumes a consensus within and between denominations that is largely a fiction. It is a useful fiction in many respects (esp. for denominational leaders) but it is a fiction nevertheless. Just like no one voted to start calling the Seven Sisters, the founders of today's National Council of Churches, the Mainline to begin with, no one (even those taking part in the Religion News Service poll) is going to be able to craft a new label that really captures who those denominations are today. The diversity that Merritt alludes to (and celebrates) in her post insures that. Furthermore, while those churches and denominations aren't likely to disappear (let alone the Church--a topic I'll return to later in the week perhaps), the Seven Sisters do have a problem with "median age" that a name change or re-branding isn't likely to change either.
In the non-sporting, academic world, cherry picking isn't about having a player near the other team's goal or basket, it is when we pick what we want to talk about to the neglect of other things in a given book or article. Out of the many articles and posts I've read in the past week or two, these are the ones I'm going to talk about, in the context of The Mainline and the state of American Christianity and Religion.
The first is over Carol Howard Merritt's post in The Christian Century from September, in which she argues against the continued use of the name "mainline" to describe the Seven Sisters. It is a brief post and is one that is focused on making an argument for a recasting of those denominations as a sort of Progressive/liberal religious force, abandoning "mainline" (not because they are no longer the majority denominations, as I argue in my book) but rather because the term seems to her to describe people who "hang out at the Country Club and eat cucumber sandwiches in fancy hats." Her post has generated some interest in the possibility of finding a new name to classify the Seven Sisters (see the Religion News Service article here if you'd like to vote and/or read the commentary/discussion).
While such a discussion is interesting and fun (even if it isn't likely to catch on), there are a few problems with Merritt's post. The first is that the term "mainline" predates sociologist E. Digby Baltzell's use of it in talking about "upper crust" Philadelphia society. The reason it got attached to the Seven Sisters to begin with (as I discuss in my book) is because the Federal Council of Churches was organized in Philadelphia some fifty years before Baltzell's piece was even written. The mainline is older than the 1950s, it has a history (and yes baggage), but there is power in the name and to abandon it, to allow it to fall into disuse, is not something to be done lightly.
The second problem is that Merritt's argument is based on two additional assumptions: That by accepting the term "mainline" the Seven Sisters are "white-washes our influences" and that keeping it somehow limits the Sisters from answering the call to "who we want to become." As to the notion of "white-washing," Merritt accurately points out that it could be construed that the Seven Sisters have only been influenced by white theologians (more precisely, dead white males), whereas she points to a wide a diversity (whites, blacks, Hispanic, men, women, Catholic, and Protestant) of influences on theological trends within the Seven Sisters. The problem here is two-fold: First, the notion of white-washing is somewhat the creation of the Seven Sisters themselves (and to a larger degree, the Federal/National Council of Churches), and somewhat missing the point that when the organization was first created by those denominations, for a wide variety of historical reasons (including racism and sexism to be sure), it was the creation of largely white males. While such a history does not preclude change to be sure ("who we want to become"), as I read Merritt here, what she seems to be advocating is not just a move away from the past but all most a rejection of it. In short, taking this line to its extreme, one might see the repudiation of much good along with much of what one might disagree with. Institutions without moorings (or a firm foundation) are not likely to stand the test of time, even with a name change. And while the list of theologians are impressive and make for a strong argument, they are not the whole story nor are they the only theologians who deserve mention and consideration.
Indeed, Merritt's argument presupposes that the Seven Sisters are only home to liberals (both theological and political) since the 1960s. That isn't backed up by the evidence, even today you can find theological diversity within the Seven Sisters, perhaps most obviously at the local level. And that gets at her second point ("who we want to become"). Which "who" is Merritt talking about? The conservative, evangelical United Methodist congregation in Indiana? The liberal Episcopalian church in New York City? The Presbyterian Church (USA) in Texas? It assumes a consensus within and between denominations that is largely a fiction. It is a useful fiction in many respects (esp. for denominational leaders) but it is a fiction nevertheless. Just like no one voted to start calling the Seven Sisters, the founders of today's National Council of Churches, the Mainline to begin with, no one (even those taking part in the Religion News Service poll) is going to be able to craft a new label that really captures who those denominations are today. The diversity that Merritt alludes to (and celebrates) in her post insures that. Furthermore, while those churches and denominations aren't likely to disappear (let alone the Church--a topic I'll return to later in the week perhaps), the Seven Sisters do have a problem with "median age" that a name change or re-branding isn't likely to change either.
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Spectacle of Toleration
Back in January, when I was in the midst of both enjoying and having an epiphany about Disney World and religion (which remains the most popular post on this blog), I was standing in line at the Barnstormer with my children checking my email when I came upon a call for panelists for a conference to be held in Rhode Island. The conference was dedicated to the notion of religious toleration in American History, with a focus on Rhode Island's colonial charter. As I've always enjoyed going to Rhode Island, including when I got to speak in Newport back in 2006, I jumped at the chance to make a return to the Ocean State.
I agreed to be a commentator for a panel that was built around how the notion of toleration had played out in the early and mid-twentieth century. The papers covered topics ranging from the granting of peyote usage in religious ceremonies by Native Americans starting during the New Deal, to the legal struggles of Jehovah's Witness around World War II (the famed Gobitis case), the mainstreaming of Mormons, and (in light of my own work on the Mainline) the attempt by the National Council of Churches to silence conservative religious voices on the radio by using the FCC. I was really looking forward to being a part of the Spectacle of Toleration conference, but alas, for a variety of reasons, I ended up not being able to go. Thankfully, my panel was both gracious (allowing me to email in my commentary for today's event) and tolerant of my absence. The papers I read, each in their own way, open the door for further research. Not just on their own, particular topic, but also the affect that World War II had the course of American Religious History.
Though I wasn't able to attend, and have been quite busy on my own both personally and professionally in the past few weeks, I've also been doing some very interesting reading about topics I've addressed on this blog before, namely on the issue of the Millennials. There is this intriguing piece on how the Religious Left (or maybe, liberal evangelicals to be more precise) are attempting to reach out to Millennials. Whether or not they are successful, or whether or not some of them are genuine in their attempt (if I'm reading the author of the article correctly, she believes their chief goal is simply to shore up political support for liberal politics), like most things with the Millennials, we'll have to see. But that is the future (beyond the speculation), in an attempt to understand how we got to the point where we are talking about Millennials and the Church at all by far the best article I have read on the subject is this one.
I really can't say enough good things about Matt Marino's post. Not only do I think it hits on something that needs to be discussed, but it is one of the most obvious things that might be an answer to the question about Millennials and the Church to begin with....and thus one of those things that might easily be over looked. The history of Sunday School in the United States is a long one, with several twists and turns, and there is also no doubt that there is much to recommend it even today. As someone who went through Sunday School, whose parents have taught/helped in Sunday School, and who has himself taught Sunday School classes, I have lots of positive memories and am sure that it helped shape my faith. And yet, at the exact same time, Marino's point that American churches and their Sunday Schools, at times, have put "programing" ahead of the Gospel and that children can grow up in a church without ever spending much time participating in the life of the church, really hits home. For the Mainline, who made an effort to raise Christians rather than seek to save/convert people (even little ones) to Christianity, Marino's post seems to make even more sense. And if reading his post doesn't also make you wonder whether or not it would be better to have your kids with you in the sanctuary with you tomorrow rather than in a Sunday School classroom, then I'd urge you to read it again!
I agreed to be a commentator for a panel that was built around how the notion of toleration had played out in the early and mid-twentieth century. The papers covered topics ranging from the granting of peyote usage in religious ceremonies by Native Americans starting during the New Deal, to the legal struggles of Jehovah's Witness around World War II (the famed Gobitis case), the mainstreaming of Mormons, and (in light of my own work on the Mainline) the attempt by the National Council of Churches to silence conservative religious voices on the radio by using the FCC. I was really looking forward to being a part of the Spectacle of Toleration conference, but alas, for a variety of reasons, I ended up not being able to go. Thankfully, my panel was both gracious (allowing me to email in my commentary for today's event) and tolerant of my absence. The papers I read, each in their own way, open the door for further research. Not just on their own, particular topic, but also the affect that World War II had the course of American Religious History.
Though I wasn't able to attend, and have been quite busy on my own both personally and professionally in the past few weeks, I've also been doing some very interesting reading about topics I've addressed on this blog before, namely on the issue of the Millennials. There is this intriguing piece on how the Religious Left (or maybe, liberal evangelicals to be more precise) are attempting to reach out to Millennials. Whether or not they are successful, or whether or not some of them are genuine in their attempt (if I'm reading the author of the article correctly, she believes their chief goal is simply to shore up political support for liberal politics), like most things with the Millennials, we'll have to see. But that is the future (beyond the speculation), in an attempt to understand how we got to the point where we are talking about Millennials and the Church at all by far the best article I have read on the subject is this one.
I really can't say enough good things about Matt Marino's post. Not only do I think it hits on something that needs to be discussed, but it is one of the most obvious things that might be an answer to the question about Millennials and the Church to begin with....and thus one of those things that might easily be over looked. The history of Sunday School in the United States is a long one, with several twists and turns, and there is also no doubt that there is much to recommend it even today. As someone who went through Sunday School, whose parents have taught/helped in Sunday School, and who has himself taught Sunday School classes, I have lots of positive memories and am sure that it helped shape my faith. And yet, at the exact same time, Marino's point that American churches and their Sunday Schools, at times, have put "programing" ahead of the Gospel and that children can grow up in a church without ever spending much time participating in the life of the church, really hits home. For the Mainline, who made an effort to raise Christians rather than seek to save/convert people (even little ones) to Christianity, Marino's post seems to make even more sense. And if reading his post doesn't also make you wonder whether or not it would be better to have your kids with you in the sanctuary with you tomorrow rather than in a Sunday School classroom, then I'd urge you to read it again!
Friday, September 20, 2013
Peace
Peace. The word, the phrase, the idea, has been on my mind of late. The last post to this blog was about the possibility of the United States taking military action in Syria, and whether or not that fit into Just War theory. As it turned out, a few days after that post, such action was averted (at least for the time being), when a diplomatic solution emerged. Whether that particular solution was in the best interests (long term) of the United States, indeed whether or not that solution is even a solution (some suspect that Syria and Russia have out maneuvered both the White House and the State Department -- see here), remains to be seen. But, if peace is the absence of armed conflict, then at least for the time, we have peace (even if civil war continues to rage in Syria itself). If nothing else, and as I hope that post helped to point out, there is much discussion that can (and should) take place within America's churches about war and peace, and when the State can and should act in the wider world, and what the faith thinks about that (see here for more in that vein).
No sooner had we achieved peace, at least for the time, at least in one place on an international level, America was reminded how fragile that peace can be at home. Earlier this week a disgruntled civilian contractor walked into one of the building at the Washington Navy Yard and opened fire with weapons, killing thirteen people for no reason we now know, and in a random way that leaves many questions, and only grief in its wake. If in the case of Syria, American Christians were asked to think about what constitutes a just war, in the case of the Navy Yard shooting they are called much more to grieve with the families of the victims than to discuss policy changes to gun laws or mental health or security at government facilities, at least for now, and at least for the most part.
And then came news that hit closer to home. I awakened Friday morning to word (both via social media and from the local news) that someone I went to high school with, Officer Rod Bradway, had been killed in the line of duty. Rod was a police officer (a term that has largely replaced the notions of law enforcement from the nineteenth century and before of a "peace officer" and the related "justice of the peace"...those officials who were charged by the state to enforce the laws of peace upon our civil society) in Indianapolis, who had responded to a call of a suspected domestic violence incident, and from initial reports, was ambushed upon entering the apartment. Both he, and the man who shot him, died. Rod was two years older than me, and I won't pretend to that we were friends or even knew each other well, but I do remember him. He was always nice (not all upper class men were of course), and then there was the 50 yard field goal he made in a close football game!
It is ironic, if that is the right word, how tragedies such as these make us think about life and about concepts about peace in different ways. I can't say that I'd thought of Rob in years, nor seen him (probably since he graduated, or perhaps when my class did, as his younger brother was in my grade). And yet, seeing his official picture today (as well as old ones from our time at NorthWood High School) brought back memories of him and others. My prayers tonight are for his wife and family, that they may know peace in this time of tragedy. And that they may remember, as one of our classmates put it, that while life is not fair (though we wish it were), it is very precious.
And the search for peace, for our world, our country, ourselves, and for others continues despite these stories of success, progress, setbacks, and sadness. At Butler University, where I spend part of my professional life, in the past week or so there have been stories of trying to work for peace. A peace pole was unveiled on campus in an interfaith prayer service. Situated between the union building and the main classroom building, the pole, it is hoped, will be a visual reminder to strive for peace on earth. Likewise, the university announced plans to launch the Desmund Tutu Center, named for the Anglican Archbishop Emeritus of South Africa (who visited and spoke on campus earlier this month), that will be dedicated to "social justice and reconciliation, international relationships, and interreligious and community bridge-building."
What will become of these and other attempts to craft a more peaceful world remain to be seen. Christians, of course, recognize that while Jesus is the Prince of Peace, He did not promise that peace would reign on Earth (see Matthew 10:34) until He does. But they are also called to be peacemakers (Matthew 5:9), and that can come in a variety of forms. Perhaps these words from a song turned into a hymn (written by Jill Jackson and Sy Miller in 1955) are worth repeating as we start this weekend and think of such things:
Let there be peace on earth
And let it begin with me.
Let there be peace on earth
The peace that was meant to be.
With God as our father
Brothers all are we.
Let me walk with my brother
In perfect harmony.
No sooner had we achieved peace, at least for the time, at least in one place on an international level, America was reminded how fragile that peace can be at home. Earlier this week a disgruntled civilian contractor walked into one of the building at the Washington Navy Yard and opened fire with weapons, killing thirteen people for no reason we now know, and in a random way that leaves many questions, and only grief in its wake. If in the case of Syria, American Christians were asked to think about what constitutes a just war, in the case of the Navy Yard shooting they are called much more to grieve with the families of the victims than to discuss policy changes to gun laws or mental health or security at government facilities, at least for now, and at least for the most part.
And then came news that hit closer to home. I awakened Friday morning to word (both via social media and from the local news) that someone I went to high school with, Officer Rod Bradway, had been killed in the line of duty. Rod was a police officer (a term that has largely replaced the notions of law enforcement from the nineteenth century and before of a "peace officer" and the related "justice of the peace"...those officials who were charged by the state to enforce the laws of peace upon our civil society) in Indianapolis, who had responded to a call of a suspected domestic violence incident, and from initial reports, was ambushed upon entering the apartment. Both he, and the man who shot him, died. Rod was two years older than me, and I won't pretend to that we were friends or even knew each other well, but I do remember him. He was always nice (not all upper class men were of course), and then there was the 50 yard field goal he made in a close football game!
It is ironic, if that is the right word, how tragedies such as these make us think about life and about concepts about peace in different ways. I can't say that I'd thought of Rob in years, nor seen him (probably since he graduated, or perhaps when my class did, as his younger brother was in my grade). And yet, seeing his official picture today (as well as old ones from our time at NorthWood High School) brought back memories of him and others. My prayers tonight are for his wife and family, that they may know peace in this time of tragedy. And that they may remember, as one of our classmates put it, that while life is not fair (though we wish it were), it is very precious.
And the search for peace, for our world, our country, ourselves, and for others continues despite these stories of success, progress, setbacks, and sadness. At Butler University, where I spend part of my professional life, in the past week or so there have been stories of trying to work for peace. A peace pole was unveiled on campus in an interfaith prayer service. Situated between the union building and the main classroom building, the pole, it is hoped, will be a visual reminder to strive for peace on earth. Likewise, the university announced plans to launch the Desmund Tutu Center, named for the Anglican Archbishop Emeritus of South Africa (who visited and spoke on campus earlier this month), that will be dedicated to "social justice and reconciliation, international relationships, and interreligious and community bridge-building."
What will become of these and other attempts to craft a more peaceful world remain to be seen. Christians, of course, recognize that while Jesus is the Prince of Peace, He did not promise that peace would reign on Earth (see Matthew 10:34) until He does. But they are also called to be peacemakers (Matthew 5:9), and that can come in a variety of forms. Perhaps these words from a song turned into a hymn (written by Jill Jackson and Sy Miller in 1955) are worth repeating as we start this weekend and think of such things:
Let there be peace on earth
And let it begin with me.
Let there be peace on earth
The peace that was meant to be.
With God as our father
Brothers all are we.
Let me walk with my brother
In perfect harmony.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Just War or just war?
I grew up in an area of the United States where there was a strong presence of Amish and Mennonite churches. For those of you unfamiliar with these denominations, one of the facets of their faith is a very strong peace, or pacifistic, testimony. While many of my childhood classmates and friends came from this heritage, I did not. Though my family wasn't what I'd call militaristic (though extended members on both sides of my family had served in the United States military), we were patriotic, and believed that there were certain times and certain principles worth fighting for if called upon to do so by our nation. That being said, I have a healthy intellectual respect for those who hold to Christian call to be peacemakers, even if I might argue that there are times when the only way peace can be made or preserved is through first engaging the enemy on the field of combat.
Historically, Christians have summed up their arguments in favor of supporting their government's call to arms via the Just War doctrine. Formulated by the early Church (much of it by St. Augustine), and embraced (and perhaps made famous) by the Roman Catholic Church (you can read more here), Just War theory argues the following:
1. The use of force is something that must be considered in the gravest of terms.
2. The use of force should be in defense, against an aggressor who is seeking to do great harm.
3. The use of force should be a last resort, after other (peaceful) options have been tried.
4. The use of force should carry with it a good chance of success when it comes to the conflict.
5. The use of force should not cause worse conditions than those that prompted their use at the outset.
6. It is up to the government to decide these factors.
7. The war should be conducted morally, this means fair treatment for non-combatants, wounded, and prisoners. Genocide and large scale destruction of whole cities is immoral.
Of course, one need not be Catholic to embrace the tenants of Just War Doctrine, most Protestant Churches have some variation on the above, even if most of the old Mainline denominations have become more pacifistic (and like my old Amish neighbors) over the course of the twentieth and into the twenty-first centuries. The interplay between growing American military, political, economic, and cultural influence, and the turn against many American foreign policy pronouncements by the Seven Sisters over the second half of the twentieth and into the twenty-first centuries is something I talk about in The Mainline. For more on the growth of pacifistic thought in America's churches, see these posts (here and here)
All of this theological discussion on the nature of war takes on a new meaning this week. The United States is currently set to debate, at the request of President Obama, a Congressional authorization for the use of military force in Syria (you can read more about it here, here, and here for starters). And if you read these (and other posts) the complexity of that request becomes clear. Democrats who have been anti-war are being asked by an administration of their own party to authorize war (as an aside, let us no longer kid ourselves about such "use of force" requests -- there might be technical differences, but this has simply become the modern "declaration of war" -- and cloaking it in any other language or denying it as such does a disservice to the American armed forces that are asked and tasked with undertaking such operations). Republicans are torn between wanting to protect (historically) bipartisan means by which the nation now fights its wars (some, no doubt, thinking ahead to the next presidential election), while also showcasing mistrust of the Obama Administration's intentions and plans. Some of the public appears to be "war weary," while others argue that this is not "our fight," and others still calling on the U.S. to embrace a non-violent, pacifistic role.
If we were to apply Just War doctrine to the Syrian case (and few supporters or detractors seem to be doing so), I think it would be a hard one to make. One might argue that since earlier this year, when a "red line" was first pronounced about the use of WMDs, that the U.S. government has been thinking about the use of force in "grave terms," so criteria 1 would have been met. Criteria 3 also has likely been met (war as a last resort). Criteria 4 (that of success) is a bit murky, though any air strike would likely be "successful" (the murkiness comes, rather, from how we define total success). Criteria 6 (a governmental decision) obviously is met. And criteria 7 (because of the likely limited nature of U.S. involvement -- Secretary of State Kerry having said that there would be no deployment of U.S. ground forces) might also be considered achieved.
The problem is that for Just War doctrine to be applied in the affirmative ALL the criteria must be met. Criteria 2 (that force be used defensively to halt a great harm) is somewhat problematic. Syria is in the midst of (at best) a civil war. On the one hand is the Assad family dictatorship (which is ruthless, fighting for its survival, and may very well have used WMDs). On the other, is a group of rebels, which includes some moderates, but also some with terrorist links (the latter, it has been alleged, may have used WMDs themselves). Neither side, in other words, is blameless. And while both sides may, on some level, be "bad," neither is actually posing a current, direct threat to the United States either. The argument that might be made is that they could pose such a threat in the future, or that what is happening is genocide that must be stopped, but I've yet to really hear that be articulated. Indeed, what the Obama Administration is proposing is akin to the Bush Doctrine it claimed to have rejected when the president took office in 2009. Likewise, it is not clear that a U.S. strike would meet criteria 5 either (that the use of force would not make the situation worse than it already is). After all, civil wars are, by their very nature, terrible for the nation involved. More bombs are not likely to make it better or more tolerable for either side, nor for those trapped in between them.
In short then, it is hard to see the Syrian case in a Just War doctrine light. Indeed, it seems like any U.S. action would be just war, not Just War, in its implications. Be that as it may, like most things in the real world (one where theory has to be applied, not just debated in the abstract), the present situation is much more complicated than mere words on a page can articulate. Perhaps all that can be done is that people of good will pray for peace, even as war clouds seem to gather yet again. That isn't a pacifistic nor militaristic view, nor is it a Republican or Democrat, or even a Old Mainline or New Mainline point of view. It is simply the right thing to do, no matter the ultimate decision or outcome. "Wars and rumors of wars" (Matthew 24:6) are part of the real world experience for those who are blessed as "peacemakers" (Matthew 5:9) in the Christian tradition.
Historically, Christians have summed up their arguments in favor of supporting their government's call to arms via the Just War doctrine. Formulated by the early Church (much of it by St. Augustine), and embraced (and perhaps made famous) by the Roman Catholic Church (you can read more here), Just War theory argues the following:
1. The use of force is something that must be considered in the gravest of terms.
2. The use of force should be in defense, against an aggressor who is seeking to do great harm.
3. The use of force should be a last resort, after other (peaceful) options have been tried.
4. The use of force should carry with it a good chance of success when it comes to the conflict.
5. The use of force should not cause worse conditions than those that prompted their use at the outset.
6. It is up to the government to decide these factors.
7. The war should be conducted morally, this means fair treatment for non-combatants, wounded, and prisoners. Genocide and large scale destruction of whole cities is immoral.
Of course, one need not be Catholic to embrace the tenants of Just War Doctrine, most Protestant Churches have some variation on the above, even if most of the old Mainline denominations have become more pacifistic (and like my old Amish neighbors) over the course of the twentieth and into the twenty-first centuries. The interplay between growing American military, political, economic, and cultural influence, and the turn against many American foreign policy pronouncements by the Seven Sisters over the second half of the twentieth and into the twenty-first centuries is something I talk about in The Mainline. For more on the growth of pacifistic thought in America's churches, see these posts (here and here)
All of this theological discussion on the nature of war takes on a new meaning this week. The United States is currently set to debate, at the request of President Obama, a Congressional authorization for the use of military force in Syria (you can read more about it here, here, and here for starters). And if you read these (and other posts) the complexity of that request becomes clear. Democrats who have been anti-war are being asked by an administration of their own party to authorize war (as an aside, let us no longer kid ourselves about such "use of force" requests -- there might be technical differences, but this has simply become the modern "declaration of war" -- and cloaking it in any other language or denying it as such does a disservice to the American armed forces that are asked and tasked with undertaking such operations). Republicans are torn between wanting to protect (historically) bipartisan means by which the nation now fights its wars (some, no doubt, thinking ahead to the next presidential election), while also showcasing mistrust of the Obama Administration's intentions and plans. Some of the public appears to be "war weary," while others argue that this is not "our fight," and others still calling on the U.S. to embrace a non-violent, pacifistic role.
If we were to apply Just War doctrine to the Syrian case (and few supporters or detractors seem to be doing so), I think it would be a hard one to make. One might argue that since earlier this year, when a "red line" was first pronounced about the use of WMDs, that the U.S. government has been thinking about the use of force in "grave terms," so criteria 1 would have been met. Criteria 3 also has likely been met (war as a last resort). Criteria 4 (that of success) is a bit murky, though any air strike would likely be "successful" (the murkiness comes, rather, from how we define total success). Criteria 6 (a governmental decision) obviously is met. And criteria 7 (because of the likely limited nature of U.S. involvement -- Secretary of State Kerry having said that there would be no deployment of U.S. ground forces) might also be considered achieved.
The problem is that for Just War doctrine to be applied in the affirmative ALL the criteria must be met. Criteria 2 (that force be used defensively to halt a great harm) is somewhat problematic. Syria is in the midst of (at best) a civil war. On the one hand is the Assad family dictatorship (which is ruthless, fighting for its survival, and may very well have used WMDs). On the other, is a group of rebels, which includes some moderates, but also some with terrorist links (the latter, it has been alleged, may have used WMDs themselves). Neither side, in other words, is blameless. And while both sides may, on some level, be "bad," neither is actually posing a current, direct threat to the United States either. The argument that might be made is that they could pose such a threat in the future, or that what is happening is genocide that must be stopped, but I've yet to really hear that be articulated. Indeed, what the Obama Administration is proposing is akin to the Bush Doctrine it claimed to have rejected when the president took office in 2009. Likewise, it is not clear that a U.S. strike would meet criteria 5 either (that the use of force would not make the situation worse than it already is). After all, civil wars are, by their very nature, terrible for the nation involved. More bombs are not likely to make it better or more tolerable for either side, nor for those trapped in between them.
In short then, it is hard to see the Syrian case in a Just War doctrine light. Indeed, it seems like any U.S. action would be just war, not Just War, in its implications. Be that as it may, like most things in the real world (one where theory has to be applied, not just debated in the abstract), the present situation is much more complicated than mere words on a page can articulate. Perhaps all that can be done is that people of good will pray for peace, even as war clouds seem to gather yet again. That isn't a pacifistic nor militaristic view, nor is it a Republican or Democrat, or even a Old Mainline or New Mainline point of view. It is simply the right thing to do, no matter the ultimate decision or outcome. "Wars and rumors of wars" (Matthew 24:6) are part of the real world experience for those who are blessed as "peacemakers" (Matthew 5:9) in the Christian tradition.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Evidence
I always tell my classes at the start of the semester how, when I went to off to college, I thought I was going to go to law school and become a lawyer. That didn't happen, for a variety of reasons -- the waning of the influence of "Law and Order" in my life; the realization that I really did love (and wanted to make it my vocation) History; and power of professors in the Indiana University History Department to reshape my thinking. That being said, I did marry into a legal family (my father-in-law and wife are both members of the bar) and my brother also ended up in law school. I've done legal history as well, and so the law is never far from me, nor are its precepts. One of the foundations is the importance of evidence when you make a case, and tonight I came up on further evidence that maybe, just maybe, I was on to something in The Mainline.
Readers will recall that one of the arguments I made in the final chapter was that we needed to think (in order to save the term) of a new make up for the Mainline of the twenty-first century. I included in that list of denominations or groups Pentecostal Christians (most importantly, the Assemblies of God). In a recent article for World Magazine, Thomas Kidd (who was kind enough to provide the blurb for the back of my book, in an effort at full disclosure -- another legal rule) makes the argument that Pentecostals (highlighting the Assemblies) are indeed bucking the trend when it comes to membership growth and are a force to be reckoned with on the religious scene of today. You can read the whole article here.
It isn't, of course, the final verdict in such discussions about the role/importance of denominations in telling American religious history, but it is a pretty good bit of evidence that maybe, just maybe, not every story about denominations has to be about decline.
Readers will recall that one of the arguments I made in the final chapter was that we needed to think (in order to save the term) of a new make up for the Mainline of the twenty-first century. I included in that list of denominations or groups Pentecostal Christians (most importantly, the Assemblies of God). In a recent article for World Magazine, Thomas Kidd (who was kind enough to provide the blurb for the back of my book, in an effort at full disclosure -- another legal rule) makes the argument that Pentecostals (highlighting the Assemblies) are indeed bucking the trend when it comes to membership growth and are a force to be reckoned with on the religious scene of today. You can read the whole article here.
It isn't, of course, the final verdict in such discussions about the role/importance of denominations in telling American religious history, but it is a pretty good bit of evidence that maybe, just maybe, not every story about denominations has to be about decline.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Can We Meet in the Middle?
One of the great things about social media (beyond just keeping up with friends and family) is being able to hear from a variety of voices on topics I find interesting (both professionally and personally). In the past week or so, two such posts have caught my eye and got me thinking a bit about how Americans in the early twenty-first century view religion.
The first came from a Twitter post of an academic who studies politics and economics. Essentially the poster said the following: since there are so many religions, maybe believers should ask themselves if there is any way that theirs can be the only true faith, or if all faiths are just "man-invented." The second was a story (you can read it here) in which it was reported that the former head of the National Council of Churches (Joan Brown Campbell), who said that it was time for American Christians to not be "exclusive" in the faith beliefs -- that is, that there really is no point in trying to win people to Christ.
Here then, are two extremes present in the religious discussion of America today. The first argues that faith is just a creation of man, and perhaps, should have no standing in our decision making process (ie in the world of politics). The second argues that there are no real differences between faiths, and so we should all just get along. While both are very different (one arguing that faith does not matter because it is all just made up, the other saying that faith does matter -- but it doesn't matter what faith you follow because they are all the same), they are also very much the same (well, because, religion is all the same).
I would assert that both positions have very little basis in either world or American History.
The notion that faith is just a man-made invention is an atheistic line of course, with a rationalistic/Enlightenment heritage that truly started to blossom in the late nineteenth century with higher criticism (in the West), the scientific study of religion, and the rise of Marxist thought (amongst other trends). Of course where this line of thought breaks down is the following. Under it, religion isn't "special" in the sense that it tells us something more about our spiritual nature nor offers any sort of divine revelation, and as such, it is merely an ideology (of sorts). But the flip side then comes in, though an ideology, religion isn't supposed to have any sort of pull on policy making. It should be shunted aside (presumably into a "private sphere", where if it has no role to play in the public discourse.
The notion that faith, no matter what creed or doctrine, is essentially all the same, is also more of a recent development. But regardless of when it first appeared, it is not religious toleration (though toleration may be a part of its message and even its appeal to some). This is stating that there is no "one way to Heaven", just multiple paths to the same end(s). In some ways, it is also a very Humanistic statement.
Neither would historically have been found amongst the majority of Americans, however. The first line, that religion is man-made and has no role in the public sphere was hardly what the colonists, Founders, evangelicals of the Second Great Awakening, or the reformers of the Social Gospel period (nor, for that matter of the Moral Majority/Religious Right....and one would assume the Religious Left of today) believed. Likewise, the idea that difference between faiths (or even denominations) don't matter is also suspect historically. Now, the differences between Christian denominations may not matter as much as say the differences between Christianity and Islam, but to dismiss all doctrinal differences as moot is to not take seriously doctrine to begin with. Indeed, I'd assert that many who hold this idea (that all faiths are equal) really know very little about the faiths they claim to be bringing together. While we can surely learn things from people of different backgrounds and faiths, and while faith should not be a reason for, say, violence, we can respectfully disagree about things, while agreeing on other things. We can, in other words, meet somewhere in the middle of these two extreme views.
At least, that's what I'm thinking about on this final Friday of my summer vacation!
The first came from a Twitter post of an academic who studies politics and economics. Essentially the poster said the following: since there are so many religions, maybe believers should ask themselves if there is any way that theirs can be the only true faith, or if all faiths are just "man-invented." The second was a story (you can read it here) in which it was reported that the former head of the National Council of Churches (Joan Brown Campbell), who said that it was time for American Christians to not be "exclusive" in the faith beliefs -- that is, that there really is no point in trying to win people to Christ.
Here then, are two extremes present in the religious discussion of America today. The first argues that faith is just a creation of man, and perhaps, should have no standing in our decision making process (ie in the world of politics). The second argues that there are no real differences between faiths, and so we should all just get along. While both are very different (one arguing that faith does not matter because it is all just made up, the other saying that faith does matter -- but it doesn't matter what faith you follow because they are all the same), they are also very much the same (well, because, religion is all the same).
I would assert that both positions have very little basis in either world or American History.
The notion that faith is just a man-made invention is an atheistic line of course, with a rationalistic/Enlightenment heritage that truly started to blossom in the late nineteenth century with higher criticism (in the West), the scientific study of religion, and the rise of Marxist thought (amongst other trends). Of course where this line of thought breaks down is the following. Under it, religion isn't "special" in the sense that it tells us something more about our spiritual nature nor offers any sort of divine revelation, and as such, it is merely an ideology (of sorts). But the flip side then comes in, though an ideology, religion isn't supposed to have any sort of pull on policy making. It should be shunted aside (presumably into a "private sphere", where if it has no role to play in the public discourse.
The notion that faith, no matter what creed or doctrine, is essentially all the same, is also more of a recent development. But regardless of when it first appeared, it is not religious toleration (though toleration may be a part of its message and even its appeal to some). This is stating that there is no "one way to Heaven", just multiple paths to the same end(s). In some ways, it is also a very Humanistic statement.
Neither would historically have been found amongst the majority of Americans, however. The first line, that religion is man-made and has no role in the public sphere was hardly what the colonists, Founders, evangelicals of the Second Great Awakening, or the reformers of the Social Gospel period (nor, for that matter of the Moral Majority/Religious Right....and one would assume the Religious Left of today) believed. Likewise, the idea that difference between faiths (or even denominations) don't matter is also suspect historically. Now, the differences between Christian denominations may not matter as much as say the differences between Christianity and Islam, but to dismiss all doctrinal differences as moot is to not take seriously doctrine to begin with. Indeed, I'd assert that many who hold this idea (that all faiths are equal) really know very little about the faiths they claim to be bringing together. While we can surely learn things from people of different backgrounds and faiths, and while faith should not be a reason for, say, violence, we can respectfully disagree about things, while agreeing on other things. We can, in other words, meet somewhere in the middle of these two extreme views.
At least, that's what I'm thinking about on this final Friday of my summer vacation!
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Kingdom of God
I have spent much of my professional life grappling with the Progressives. My introduction came while working on my first book, Prohibition is Here to Stay, in which I had to discuss how the Reverend Edward S. Shumaker became Indiana's leading dry. The answer, I found was the intermixing of temperance sentiment within his own Methodist tradition with the emerging Progressive political and Social Gospel theological movements. To me it seemed then, as it still does today, that it was a rather easy leap for him to make from the pulpit to political activist, leading his (largely) evangelical dry crusade, via the Anti-Saloon League (whose slogan was "the Church in action") against the forces of "demon rum."
Of course one of the fun things about studying the Progressives is that scholars (not unlike the Progressives themselves) argue over what is or was a "real" Progressive reform. Our problem is that there was no checklist, no requirements, to being a Progressive. Really (and this no doubt will gall some of my colleagues) the only requirement was that you be a reformer in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century advocating that your reform would make American society better. Hence, reforms ran the gambit from Prohibition, to worker's rights, to child labor laws, to eugenics, to food and drug regulation, to many, many more. You did not need to advocate all of these things to be a Progressive, you did not even need to support all of them. Likewise, you did not have to be politically liberal (really by the standards of the time, and most assuredly by today's definition) to be a reformer either. Such ambiguity can be maddening at times when you are trying to write or teach about the Progressives. It can also make it difficult to define or even defend the term within its modern use versus its historical context (note how many twenty-first century political liberals have attempted to adopt the term "Progressive" for themselves).
But, I have been thinking about the Progressives again because I have been reading posts this week about whether or not Christians can hope (or even should hope) to be able to transform their culture or not. Hence, in the past week there have been calls for Christians to re-engage the fine arts (as a means to transform the culture), rather than seek a political solution (see here), calls to be "realistic" at what Christians can actually hope to accomplish (see here), and doubts that Christians can ever hope to actually transform secular culture at all (see here). Perhaps interestingly, these posts come from what might be called the more conservative theological spectrum, and dovetail nicely with this piece from the Wall Street Journal in which Russell Moore of the Southern Baptist Convention asserts that "the Bible Belt is collapsing." Rather than a "moral majority", Moore says American Christians must now be prepared to be a "prophetic minority."
Such a discussion is healthy to have of course. What is the role of God's people on this earth? Is it to save society? Or merely save souls? Can it do both? Can committed Christians actually live their faith and NOT affect wider society? While some of the discussion above is related to notions of such debates over "two kingdoms theology" (see here) and what that means for Christians and culture, there is also a tinge of dejection -- that despite the best efforts of the Religious Right since the late 1970s, America seems to be only getting more secular, that perhaps they have failed to recapture or transform the culture at all, and that the best that can be hoped for is to hold on to what God has given them individually.
The Progressives grappled with this kind of dejection--of falling short of their goals--as well. For religiously inspired reformers, what they were striving for was to establish God's kingdom on this earth. Some believed that by perfecting American society (not unlike their parents or grandparents during the Second Great Awakening) they would literally be preparing the world for Christ's Second Coming. Hence to them, reform work was both their Christian duty to their fellow man and a divine mandate. That their reforms sometimes worked, sometimes failed, and sometimes never got very far was, eventually, a source of confusion and disappointment (coupled with the theological controversies of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries) that caused many denominations to pull back from the wider world and from each other by the time of the Great Depression.
The pull back by some and the coasting of others led to a lack of cultural engagement and involvement unprecedented in American History. As I argue in The Mainline this contributed to the decline of the Seven Sisters and the rise of what has been called the Religious Right (and to a lesser extent, the Religious Left perhaps). Disengagement from the culture might feel nice in the short term, but holds the potential to do far greater damage to both the Church and the wider culture than staying engaged does. And to hear one of the leaders of the Southern Baptist Convention talk about being a "prophetic minority" is to remind me of some within the Episcopal Church (including some affiliated with retired Bishop John Shelby Spong) who, in the late 1990s claimed that they were a "righteous remnant" in the face of dwindling membership within the denomination and attacks on liberal theology. Considering that I placed the Southern Baptists within the new Mainline, it causes one to wonder if they will not lead, who will? And if Christians will not engage the culture, who will?
Of course one of the fun things about studying the Progressives is that scholars (not unlike the Progressives themselves) argue over what is or was a "real" Progressive reform. Our problem is that there was no checklist, no requirements, to being a Progressive. Really (and this no doubt will gall some of my colleagues) the only requirement was that you be a reformer in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century advocating that your reform would make American society better. Hence, reforms ran the gambit from Prohibition, to worker's rights, to child labor laws, to eugenics, to food and drug regulation, to many, many more. You did not need to advocate all of these things to be a Progressive, you did not even need to support all of them. Likewise, you did not have to be politically liberal (really by the standards of the time, and most assuredly by today's definition) to be a reformer either. Such ambiguity can be maddening at times when you are trying to write or teach about the Progressives. It can also make it difficult to define or even defend the term within its modern use versus its historical context (note how many twenty-first century political liberals have attempted to adopt the term "Progressive" for themselves).
But, I have been thinking about the Progressives again because I have been reading posts this week about whether or not Christians can hope (or even should hope) to be able to transform their culture or not. Hence, in the past week there have been calls for Christians to re-engage the fine arts (as a means to transform the culture), rather than seek a political solution (see here), calls to be "realistic" at what Christians can actually hope to accomplish (see here), and doubts that Christians can ever hope to actually transform secular culture at all (see here). Perhaps interestingly, these posts come from what might be called the more conservative theological spectrum, and dovetail nicely with this piece from the Wall Street Journal in which Russell Moore of the Southern Baptist Convention asserts that "the Bible Belt is collapsing." Rather than a "moral majority", Moore says American Christians must now be prepared to be a "prophetic minority."
Such a discussion is healthy to have of course. What is the role of God's people on this earth? Is it to save society? Or merely save souls? Can it do both? Can committed Christians actually live their faith and NOT affect wider society? While some of the discussion above is related to notions of such debates over "two kingdoms theology" (see here) and what that means for Christians and culture, there is also a tinge of dejection -- that despite the best efforts of the Religious Right since the late 1970s, America seems to be only getting more secular, that perhaps they have failed to recapture or transform the culture at all, and that the best that can be hoped for is to hold on to what God has given them individually.
The Progressives grappled with this kind of dejection--of falling short of their goals--as well. For religiously inspired reformers, what they were striving for was to establish God's kingdom on this earth. Some believed that by perfecting American society (not unlike their parents or grandparents during the Second Great Awakening) they would literally be preparing the world for Christ's Second Coming. Hence to them, reform work was both their Christian duty to their fellow man and a divine mandate. That their reforms sometimes worked, sometimes failed, and sometimes never got very far was, eventually, a source of confusion and disappointment (coupled with the theological controversies of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries) that caused many denominations to pull back from the wider world and from each other by the time of the Great Depression.
The pull back by some and the coasting of others led to a lack of cultural engagement and involvement unprecedented in American History. As I argue in The Mainline this contributed to the decline of the Seven Sisters and the rise of what has been called the Religious Right (and to a lesser extent, the Religious Left perhaps). Disengagement from the culture might feel nice in the short term, but holds the potential to do far greater damage to both the Church and the wider culture than staying engaged does. And to hear one of the leaders of the Southern Baptist Convention talk about being a "prophetic minority" is to remind me of some within the Episcopal Church (including some affiliated with retired Bishop John Shelby Spong) who, in the late 1990s claimed that they were a "righteous remnant" in the face of dwindling membership within the denomination and attacks on liberal theology. Considering that I placed the Southern Baptists within the new Mainline, it causes one to wonder if they will not lead, who will? And if Christians will not engage the culture, who will?
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