Omniscient God, why the natural disasters?

Jim Bratt is away today. We thank Angie Mabry-Nauta for blogging today.

“Dear God?” nine-year-old Sophia petitioned. Her voice was more purposeful last night than it usually is when she says her bedtime prayers.

“Please help the people in Oklahoma,” she continued. “I know that there are seven mothers who are very sad because they lost their children in the tornado. There are also many other mothers who are rejoicing because their children were found alive. Whether the mothers are sad or happy, please be with everyone in [Moore] because everything that they have was destroyed by that huge twister. Please, God. Please be with the people of Oklahoma. Amen.”

She gets to ask one question after we have prayed. Anything she is curious about is fair game. I waited with baited breath.

The theodicy question is coming, I thought. She will ask why God let the tornado come and hurt so many people.

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Searching for a faithful response to disaster

From Theresa Latini

Recently I was introduced to the Institute for Congregational Trauma and Growth, an organization that provides resources, networking, and education for communities of faith that are seeking to respond to large-scale tragedy, disaster, and trauma. Founded by one of my colleagues from seminary, ICTG is beyond busy these days with this week’s tornado and devastation in Oklahoma as the latest in a string of national disasters. As I’ve perused and contributed to ICTG’s growing body of church resources and as I’ve simply watched the news over the past six months, I’ve been struck by this simple fact: large-scale disaster thrusts congregations into action, whether they are ready or not.

For this reason (and many others), the ongoing pastoral theological formation of Christians matters a great deal. A signification part of this formation entails the capacity to respond to some of the most primal existential and theological questions: “Where is God? How could God have allowed this to happen? Does God care about me, about my children, about my loved ones? Is there any safety in the world?” Perhaps paradoxically, the best response, as Jennifer Holberg alluded to yesterday, is silence—not the kind of silence synonymous with avoidance but the kind that respects the profundity of the questions themselves. 

Put another way, I think it’s critical for us to tolerate these questions without rushing to answer them—for, at one level, they are not answerable.

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Three Things to Share

From Jennifer L. Holberg

I knew I was definitely going to write about Oklahoma today. If there is one place that I think of when I think "childhood," it is Lawton/Ft. Sill, OK, where I attended 4th through half of 8th grade (when we moved to Japan). Not only do I still proudly say "y'all," many of my most significant memories from school and church have their roots in the dusty soil of the Sooner State. Indeed, one of my "perfect days" came in 5th grade when my best friend, JoLynn Carter, and I spent the afternoon walking far out onto the glorious prairie that stretched behind my house (we walked so far it also scared our mothers silly, but their annoyance/frantic scolding--whatever--on our return didn't really faze me and perhaps we'll ignore it here too!).  

Of course, tornado drills were a frequent part of school.  And I remember a fair number of tornados too, including the "Terrible Tuesday" tornado that struck Lawton (and Wichita Falls, TX) in 1979.  It is an understatement to say that the devastation was incredible--I can still picture, for example, the huge metal signs at one of the car dealerships bent over to the ground and business completely gone.  

Thus, my heart goes out to the folks in Oklahoma.  But I don't have anything beyond that to say, really.  Partly, because I think we "over-talk" tragedies.  Sometimes there's nothing much to be said.

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Waltzing with the Trinity

From Steve Mathonnet-VanderWell

The Sunday after Pentecost, this coming Sunday, is known as Trinity Sunday. I used to make fun of Trinity Sunday. Exactly what event are we celebrating? “Oh yes, that's the day we read our favorite Trinity story!” We all know that on Pentecost, you read Acts 2. On Christmas, Luke 2. For Trinity Sunday, what? The three mysterious visitors to Abraham and Sarah at the oaks of Mamre, (Genesis 18), perhaps?

Back then I viewed the Trinity more as divine minutiae, an arcane embarrassment, the byproduct of underworked and overly-imaginative theologians, a topic one could not discuss for more than thirty seconds without falling into some heresy. If I slip into heresy here, please let me know. 

Now, the Trinity has become for me a mystery to be celebrated, a delightful eccentricity that refuses to be digested by our schemas. Trinity is the very heart of God, and in turn, informs us greatly about what it is to be human.

As my appreciation for the Trinity has increased, I’ve also come to welcome Trinity Sunday. In fact, the trio of Ascension, Pentecost, and Trinity Sunday has become a fun, faint echo of Easter and the Holy Week events. Of course, this relishing of the Trinity is not some solo journey, my great personal revelation. Trinity has been a hot topic in theology for a couple of decades, richly mined by all sorts of good folk.

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The Spirit of Possibility

From Jessica Bratt

Graphic by Timothy Aivazian (http://timothyaivazian.com)Happy Pentecost Monday, friends. As I was reflecting on the layers of meaning that Pentecost carries, I found my way back to a quote I'd copied down years ago from one of German theologian Jurgen Moltmann's books, The Spirit of Life: A Universal Affirmation. It resonated deeply with me right now and I wanted to share it.

I hope and pray today that the Spirit who animates and transforms our lives may keep us utterly aflame (and highly contagious!) with possibility, with love, and with trust. 

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