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Depending on where you are, it is Veterans Day or Remembrance Day on this 11th of November.  It's the 96th anniversary, too, of the end of World War I, "the war to end all wars" except that it turned out to be just the beginning of lots more wars (and now we are told we are in a perpetual state of war against terrorism).     Ten days ago it was also All Saints' Day in the church, though I am part of a church tradition that never did much with that (Deb Rienstra had a nice reflection on this recently here on The Twelve).   I am also from a family that is not rich in having a lot of connection with the military in any of its branches.  So I confess that growing up--and now into my adult years--Veterans Day in the U.S. has often passed without much notice.  I am very sure I have never attended a parade or any ceremony downtown at the local war memorial.

That's probably bad on me, though, because it makes it too easy to forget that we all live off the benefits of enormous sacrifice.  No, not every war in history was fought for the right reasons and some were almost certainly avoidable altogether.  But there have been any number of conflicts that were make-or-break for big chunks of civilization and for the freedom I still enjoy and so it is only fitting that there be goodly measures of due gratitude in our hearts for those who won the victories that kept evil and injustice at bay.

As noted, my family is not a military one and yet ironically one of my earliest memories is military in nature.  Back in the 1960s my Dad's youngest brother was drafted by the Army and sent to Vietnam.   As a young boy, I knew Uncle Harris was in the Army, and often when visiting my grandparents in Zeeland, Michigan, I could tell there was a lot of concern for him.  This was confusing to my 4- or 5-year-old self.  I knew my Dad had been in the Army in the 1950s.  He had spent some months at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri but was never in any danger I was aware of so why would it be any different for Uncle Harris?  Why the careworn worried looks on Grandma's face?   The only time I was concerned about my uncle during that time was one Friday night while visiting my grandparents.  We had a Tornado Warning and so had to take temporary shelter in Grandma and Grandpa's dank and dark Michigan cellar until the weather cleared.   I remember hoping that Harris was safe from the tornado wherever he was, too. 

How little I knew of the real dangers he faced.

He came home safe and sound when I was 5 or so and I can recall clear as day the trip to O'Hare Airport in Chicago to pick him up.   There was a moving sidewalk on which soldiers in their dress green uniforms came into the terminal.  When Uncle Harris came by, my Grandma Hoezee fairly tackled him with a hug that was followed by a good bit of joyful sobbing on her part.   Again, I just couldn't figure out why coming home from Army camp was so dramatic.

I am told I slept the whole ride back to Zeeland.  I am also told that those 3-4 hours were the most extensively Uncle Harris talked about Vietnam.  He has stayed pretty quiet about it in the years since.

Of course, Vietnam is one of the more controversial wars in our history, but I am very proud of my uncle's having done what was asked of him by our country.   I have a few great-uncles, too, who served in Europe during World War II, and probably a lot of people reading this blog can this day name and remember many others who served, some of whom did not come back.

In the Christian tradition remembering those who went before--that great cloud of witnesses of Hebrews 12 fame--is part of what it means to recall that God deals with us collectively as well as individually.  Covenant is about community, about a holy people, about finally a new humanity in a new creation.   There are all kinds of ways--especially in the United States--by which politics/nationalism gets all mixed up with Bible/theology in ways that are typically injurious to the faith.  But on this Veterans/Remembrance Day, it seems to be an eminently Christian thing to do to remember with great gratitude those who sacrificed lives, limbs, nervous systems, and sometimes their own internal sense of peace so that others might one day be able to lead better lives in freedom.

My Grandma's tears of relief and joy that day at O'Hare bore witness to the anguish a war visited on her soul once upon a time.  But those tears, those emotions, that anguish gets multiplied almost beyond the imagining of it across history.

So today we remember.   We remember with gratitude.   And if it's true that we Christians are ultimately pining for that "swords-to-ploughshares" day when war will become a faint echo from the world that was, we can remember those who served in the wars that came as playing (we fervently hope) some small role in the long march to that day when kings and nations will finally make war no more.


Excusing Anger

Serena Williams had a reason, a rationale, an excuse.   She missed a shot in a tennis match last week--a match she went on to win--and promptly threw a hissy fit that resulted in the complete mangling of her tennis racket against the court surface.   When asked about the outburst later, Serena said she was upset because she felt like she was letting down her fans.

Cue eyeroll.

I may or may not be a fan, Serena, but listen: you let people down not when you show you are human by hitting the ball into the net once in a while like everyone else.  No, you let everyone down when you behave like an angry, petulant child.  Anger is not pretty--not ever.  It's scary.  Anger makes people lose control.   Some years ago writing in the New York Times Book Review as part of a series of essays on the Seven Deadly Sins, an author wrote about the time she lost it in front of her children.   She felt like she briefly transformed into some kind of really angry bird.   Her children agreed.  As her 6-year-old later told her, "I was afraid, Mommy, because I didn't know who you were."

We are increasingly a pretty angry society.  Politics makes people angry.  The mere mention of Barack Obama causes some people's blood to boil (and to be fair, similar reactions were known to happen some years ago at the mention of George W. Bush, too).   Post the wrong thing on Facebook and some of your so-called FB "friends" may turn on you with screeds of anger.  And don't even bother to look at the comment chains on CNN or any major newspaper.

Anger is a problem.  It's a deadly sin for a reason.   Yet we excuse it.  A lot.

Take the case of the megachurch pastor Mark Driscoll, who recently resigned from the sprawling Mars Hill Church near Seattle.  Lots of things have been in the wind about Driscoll, including charges of artificially inflating the sales of his books and no small measure of pride and arrogance.   Driscoll was also said to be a frequently hostile and angry person with church staff and was known for behavior that at least some termed as "bullying."   He finally resigned but when he did, the board at Mars Hill Church went out of its way to assure people that Driscoll was not guilty of any "heresy or immorality."

By "immorality" they clearly meant anything sexual.   But the moment I read that, I reflected on the fact that when the Apostle Paul listed things that ought have no place in the Christian community, he mixed in things like anger with lots of other behavior, including sexual stuff. 

"The acts of the sinful nature are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery, idolatry and witchcraft, hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions, and envy" (Galatians 5:19-20). 

It seems likely that if someone like Mark Driscoll had been caught in bed with someone--man, woman, or child--he would have been bounced years ago.  But anger?  Fits of rage?  Bullying and arrogance?   We can let that slide for years--some pastors and other Christian leaders get away with it across the span of their careers.  Like many others no doubt, I have had my own episodes of anger (and could not get away every time by claiming it was righteous anger, either!).   Like the author of the essay referenced above, it is not pleasant to feel like you have lost your very self through an outburst. 

So being one who is NOT without sin, I cast no stones.   But as a society we need to get serious about dealing with anger because it is eroding the last vestiges of public civility and has made more than a few inroads into the church, too, including in how we conduct ourselves at congregational meetings or council/board meetings.  The angry shouting matches on cable news splitscreens and the mean-spirited screeds on Facebook posts and "Reader Comments" on the internet have a way of making us accustomed to something we ought not be accustomed to at all.

I join those who wish Mark Driscoll the best as he deals with besetting issues.   Grace abounds to all us sinners, and new beginnings should be the name of the (resurrection) game in the Christian community.  

But let's not put anger outside of the circle of what counts as "immorality."   Anger is immoral.

It is, in fact, deadly.   To suggest otherwise would probably also count as heresy.



Metaphorically Speaking

This year I was privileged to be invited to join an interdisciplinary group of scholars.  Together we will study the intersections of economics and metaphor and how using certain metaphors may help not only ordinary folks better to understand the function of the economy but might help also economists themselves to frame their work in more accurate ways.  The group has barely gotten off the ground yet, but I can tell already that the discussions will be fascinating. 

One book we are looking at is a kind of mini-classic from just over 30 years ago: the Lakoff-Johnson volume Metaphors We Live By.  Most of the first chapters of this book bombard the reader with a nearly dizzying array of everyday speech that is substantially--and at times completely--structured by metaphors.  These metaphorical ways of describing reality are, in fact, so entrenched in our language that most of the time we are wholly unaware of the fact that we are engaging in metaphorical talk.  True, when we use more obvious metaphorical expressions like, "He's two sheets to the wind" or "She's a tough old bird," we are more conscious of the presence of metaphors.

But what about when we describe a conversation in which we note, "His criticisms were right on target."   As it turns out, for most of us our entire conception of arguments or of argumentative conversations is premised on the meta-metaphor that "Argument is war."   That's why criticisms can be "on target" even as certain other ideas can be "blown out of the sky" or "demolished" or "attacked."  

Or what about the ways in which spatial orientation becomes associated with positive or negative things?   Generally speaking good and positive things are "up" for us: "He's on cloud nine," "Hearing from her always gives me a lift," "He is at the peak of health."  Then again, the negative or less-than-desirable are things that are "down" for us: "He fell into depression," "My heart just sank," "He got laid out with a horrible cold."

Lists of examples like this go on and on: we refer to our minds as sometimes machines ("The wheels are turning in my head now") and sometimes as brittle objects ("His mind just went to pieces").   Time is often a commodity ("Don't waste my time"), love is a physical force ("They gravitated toward each other and there was real electricity between them when they got close").   We personify impersonal facts or feelings ("I could just see the fear in his eyes.") and let the part stand for the whole ("The Tigers need a better glove in center field").

So far the most remarkable thing I have noted in reading all this is the way by which speech that is by definition metaphorically structured morphs into speech we regard as, in fact, literal.   Maybe we are structured in such a way that the metaphorical is what gives us access to literal reality.  

It got me to thinking about the Bible, too, and the parables of Jesus in particular.   Most of Jesus' parables probably count more as simile ("The kingdom of God is like . . .") than metaphor.  But what is curious is how even Jesus' similes--not to mention his parables and statements that were more extended metaphors to begin with--have for Christians now also passed into what we regard as literal ways to expose how life and salvation work.   Jesus may have made a simile of the kingdom of God being like a mustard seed, but now the very mention of "mustard seed" in Christian circles raises up a whole cloud of meaning.  If we refer to some ordinary person in a congregation as being a real "mustard seed person," we all know that something of the kingdom's surprising ways is being seen in the life of one small person through whom God is growing huge kingdom results.  We can note the same phenomenon over and over as the teachings of Jesus now pass into how we talk about the church and discipleship: Good Samaritan, Prodigal Son, Lost Sheep, Talents, Good Shepherd, Bread of Life, Light of the World.

Most of Jesus' parabolic similes (now turned metaphors) and his outright metaphors ("I am the gate") are so common to us we don't even blink at the fact that originally, some of them may have sounded odd.  What would we make of a person today, for instance, who consistently spouted lines like, "I am the antibody that protects my family from the virus of secularism" or "I am the oil in my company's crankcase"?   

Years ago the singer Paul Simon was being interviewed on the TV news show 60 Minutes and he told Mike Wallace of the funny reaction he got from former baseball legend Joe DiMaggio following the now-famous line from the song "Mrs. Robinson" in which Simon & Garfunkel sang, "Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio, a nation turns its lonely eyes to you."   DiMaggio wrote Paul Simon to ask, "What do you mean 'where have you gone'?  I am still here and I am selling Mr. Coffee machines on TV."

"Obviously" Paul Simon then dryly noted, "Mr. DiMaggio is not used to thinking of himself as a metaphor."

We forget, then, how odd some of Jesus' own self-referential metaphors must have sounded the first time people heard them (and long before they got turned into stained glass windows).   But maybe just maybe Jesus knew (and knows) that human thought really is formed and structured by metaphorical speech--non-literal expressions that help us to get a handle on the literal world. 

It would make sense if Jesus knew that.   After all, he was the "Word of God" (metaphor) who was made flesh (literally) and so as he tried to teach us about the profound mysteries of God, salvation, and the kingdom, he knew that we'd understand all that best on a literal level if he helped us to access it through that powerfully mysterious linguistic force that just is metaphor.  If so, it would be yet another reason to fall back in wonder at the majesty and power of Jesus as teacher.

"I am the way, the truth, and the life" Jesus once said.  A triplet of metaphors!    And the truest, most literal thing anybody has ever said, too.



Gracious Residue

This blog post will appear on a Tuesday but I am writing it on a Monday morning and so am in a post-Sunday reflective mood when it comes to preaching.   I heard a good sermon yesterday morning and was even able to detail the sermon's highlights--and several of its specific salient details--to a colleague who popped by my office an hour ago.  I am glad when that happens--glad when I hear a good sermon and glad when I can remember enough of it to talk about it.   But a week from now--or next month--things will have gotten a bit foggier regarding yesterday's sermon.  And there are any number of good sermons I have heard and been blessed by that . . . well, that I could not summon to mind if I tried.

I confess as a preacher who used to preach 2 new sermons just about every Sunday that come Monday or Tuesday--when I had to write down in my sermon log book what I had preached the day or two previous--sometimes it happened I'd find myself with my pen poised over the log book page and . . . nothing came to me.  I could not recall the passage, I could not recall the sermon title.   Sometimes I'd shake my head, let out an exasperated "Oh for Pete's sake," and finally dig out the bulletin to look up the sermon that I MYSELF HAD WORKED ON FOR A WEEK AND HAD PREACHED!!    Now, of course, once I looked it up, it came back to me but the point is: if sometimes we preachers get foggy on what we had just done, we should not fall down in despair in case we find parishioners who forget sermons.

Some years ago at Calvin Church in Grand Rapids I preached a sermon on the sacraments from Genesis 17.  As it happened, I had preached that same sermon in my previous congregation in Fremont some years before and a friend of mine--who belonged to Calvin Church--had been there the Sunday I preached it.  So when, after the Calvin Church service, this friend said that sermon sounded familiar, I assured him it was because he had heard it in Fremont.   "Hmmm," he replied, "seems I heard it even more recently than that."  I assured him he hadn't but then . . . something started to bug me.  I went home.  I took out the sermon log book.    And as it turned out, well, I had indeed preached a version of this Genesis 17 sermon at Calvin Church only 2 years earlier.  I had forgotten.   But so, apparently, had everyone else as only this ONE person said it had rung any bells.

Moreover, this was a sermon people said they liked.   But then, I also had the experience of preaching a mission emphasis sermon at an evening service and it was a sermon that the head of the missions committee liked so much, he insisted that some day I preach it again but at a morning service when more people would be present.   Two or three years later I did this at a morning service and this same man came up to me to compliment the sermon to the skies.   "Well, that's why you asked me to re-preach it, right?" I asked.   "You've never preached that before" said the man (confidently) who had asked for the encore presentation!

Of course, it is also true that now and then I am taken aback by how well a given sermon stuck with someone.  I've had people mention things to me that I cannot ever remember having said.   Mostly, though, I tell my students to get used to the fact that individual sermons--yes, even the ones that go over really well--may not be remembered long.

Should preachers despair over this?  Not at all.   Because as much as anything, it is the overall arc of a given preacher's sermons that over time build up a kind of happy, gracious residue in people's souls.  People learn to think like a Christian, to parse their pains and difficulties in theologically smart and biblically informed ways.  Preachers who take care (as all preachers should) again and again to proclaim grace and hope and joy convey over time that grace and hope and joy are the main items of the faith.   It's not about doom-and-gloom, hellfire-and-brimstone--not firstly and not at the end of the Gospel day.  It's about noticing the marginalized, about forgiving each other again and again, about holding on to hope even when life's dodgiest and toughest questions are staring us right in the face.  It's about resurrection and new beginnings and fresh hope all the time.

Any given sermon might teach some or all of this but it is when over many years of preaching to a congregation that all of these key sensibilities are touched upon that people start to "get it," that the main things of the faith are not so much taught to them but caught by them.

The longest I preached in one place was Calvin Church across 12 years and about 900 sermons.  I suppose I could be pretty disappointed were I to quiz any given parishioner as to the specifics of this or that sermon or sermon series.   But sometimes I meet up with these people and they will say something like, "One thing I remember about your preaching is that you were a 'grace guy.'  You always brought us back to grace and hope.  I liked that."

So do I.   But it's the Holy Spirit who does this, not the preacher.  As William Willimon once noted in a lecture, every Sunday all over the world the Spirit meets the preacher just before he goes into the pulpit, grabs the sermon out of the preacher's hands and says, "Let me see that thing, son.   Well, I'll see what I can do with it."   And every time in every church where that Spirit is blowing, that sermon wings its way into people's hearts in about as many different ways as there are people listening.

It's an amazing thing the Spirit does, building up a gracious residue of faith and knowledge in people one sermon at a time.   The specifics may not linger.  It's the grace that sticks.    Good thing, too, because in the end, it's that grace that saves.





My son started college last week and a couple days prior, he and I were out and about running last-minute errands to get him ready for the move to the dorm.  In between stops, the news on NPR came on the car radio, including a report from that day's funeral for Michael Brown.   An excerpt of Rev. Al Sharpton's message was played and at one point we heard Sharpton say something to the effect that it says something about our society when local police forces can get decked out by the government with military grade equipment even as local public schools cannot get the funds they need to deliver top-flight education to every child.

That comment prompted my otherwise fairly quiet son to say out loud, "Game, set, and match."

Sharpton's comment reminds me of the bumper sticker many of us have seen (but that I first saw on my niece's car years ago): "Won't It Be a Great Day When Schools Have All They Need and the Military Has to Hold Bake Sales to Buy Tanks."  

There are lots of ways--scores of ways for all I know--by which to evaluate any given society's values and priorities but the old adage "follow the money" works as well here as in many other areas of life.  And if we follow the money in America, we know that so much money goes toward building military equipment that the government ends up with too much of the stuff.  And so after 9/11, apparently, it began to offer local police departments tanks and other high tech warfare hardware on the odd chance that Al Qaeda would make an incursion into Nebraska or Missouri that would require the police to fight back with the weapons of war.  Of course, Al Qaeda has not made such incursions anywhere on any level of society that is policed by regular cops.  But you know how it goes when you have all this really cool gear lying around: what's the sense of having it if you never use it?   And so the equipment meant to fight Al Qaeda fights, instead, the very citizens of a place like Ferguson whose lives and wellbeing we supposedly want to protect from the threats of Al Qaeda (or ISIS or whomever).

And meanwhile Sharpton's point remains: the schools of this country still need massive work, require significant infusions of capital, and require long-term commitments from politicians on all levels of government to give all students a sense of meaning and purpose in life even as they receive as top-flight an education as we can give them.

Ultimately this is not an either-or, nor would I want to frame it as such.   In this fallen world--a world whose dangers and treacheries have been on such sickening display in the summer of 2014--a nation like the United States needs its military and though I may lament some of the amounts that get spent or some of the waste inherent in so many military projects, you won't find me to be such a pacifist that I want the Pentagon dismantled and every dollar for military spending re-routed to something else.  But we also need to take care of our children, including the education of them and the nurturing of them at every level of society, and on that score we fail too often as a society.

I am convinced we have the money to do this but do we see this as a value high enough to follow through and channel that money to where it needs to go?   I have not always agreed with Al Sharpton but it is to a large extent indeed "game, set, and match" when the government proves itself capable of going through all the effort and expense needed to arm local police forces with the kind of equipment we saw rolled out in Ferguson but cannot consistently get its act together to reach out to all the children of this nation in building an education system second to none.  Militarily we outstrip most every nation on earth.  Educationally the U.S. loses out to Ireland, Germany, Russia, Finland, Poland, and about ten other countries on rankings of education achievement. 

Or to put it another way: what does it profit a nation if it can blow away the whole world but has forfeited the minds and hearts of its children?