Christmas Re-membered

Often today, many feel "caught" in an uncomfortable tight space generated by the disparities between traditional religious and modern thought.  For more than 200 years now, "higher" biblical criticism has progressively made untenable many former biblical "sureties."  No figure has suffered more from a historical strip down than has the person of Jesus.  In the search for the historical Jesus, as it has evolved for more than a century now, we have progressively discovered that many "facts" about the life and words of Jesus can no longer be understood to be historically "factual" in the sense that they might have been recordable on a video camera had technology of that sort been available at that time.  This is particularly apparent to us in an historical examination of the birth narratives of the Gospels of Matthew and Luke. Not only do they appear to belong to a relatively late layer of the Jesus gospel tradition, but also the accounts of these writers are profoundly different, not just in small details but in general outline and internal "message." (I invite you to read this year the Matthew and Luke accounts separately, not conflating them together into one unified story as we usually do, but considering each one individually, if you are in doubt about this.) It is plainly the case, even at the simplest level, that if one of these narratives is accepted as the "true" story in a literal sense, then the other must be plainly false, and vice versa.  An insistence then, on an historically factual birth narrative of Jesus, inevitably "lets us down" unless we are particularly fond of paradox.

What then are we to do with these narratives?

In their recent book, The First Christmas, historical Jesus scholars Dominic Crossan and Marcus Borg set aside very quickly any obsessive preoccupation with trying to discover "factual" information in the birth narratives, and quickly pass to questions of "meaning," looking at the stories from the perspective of myth or parables that we understand to be "true" in the same manner that we find "truth" in the many parables spoken in the gospels accounts by the person of Jesus.  Which of us, when considering the parable of the Good Samaritan, for example, would assert that the validity of that particular story depended on a factuality that events "really happened" exactly as described?  We note, on the contrary, that the parable's truth resides at a level that is more than any simple retelling of historical fact, in the message that it conveys in story form. In a similar manner, when we relax our anxieties generated by a futile attempt to view the nativity stories as historical fact, we can open up to the deeper truth of the messages that they contain.

As Episcopalians (along with Lutherans, Roman Catholics, Eastern Orthodox and other Christians retaining strong liturgical traditions) we can enter into a particularly intense experience of these narratives as we participate in the rituals and liturgies of the Advent and Christmas cycle.  Just as with the narratives of Lent and Easter where we ritually walk the "way of the cross," the rites of Advent and Christmas invite us to walk "the road to Bethlehem" and symbolically re-enact  the truths of the nativity stories not as written and received records of a distant past, but as experiences made present to us today.   We can assume, liturgically, mentally and symbolically, the roles of the many characters in these stories– standing in the cold wintery fields with the astonished shepherds, feeling the anguish of Joseph in the presumed infidelity of his engaged spouse and the wonder of a dream that reveals a miraculous and unbelievable alternative, following with the Magi behind the star to Bethlehem, escaping by the warning of a portentous dream the murderous intent of King Herod, and like Mary, pondering the "meaning of these things" "in our hearts.

In the early development of our English Prayerbook tradition, some of those with more Puritan attitudes objected to the inclusion of canticles such as that recorded in today's Gospel reading, which we know as the Magnificat or "Song of Mary," on the grounds that such texts were properly understood as being appropriate only to those historical persons who had "originally" uttered them. Their position was the same as that of many so-called evangelicals and fundamentalists today who insist that the only "true" understanding of these narratives is the literal acceptance of these texts as historical facts and "proofs" that thereby legitimate the proclamation of Jesus as Messiah and Lord.  Fortunately for us, however, traditional practice prevailed, and the texts came down to us not merely in our Bible, but in our Prayerbook rites as well.   When we sing the Magnificat in a ritual setting, we "assume the role" of Mary as she marvels at the "great things" that "the Almighty has done."  We do not sing "Mary's soul proclaimed the greatness of the Lord," but "My soul proclaims (noting the use of the present tense) the greatness of the Lord." Taking on the persona of Mary, we affirm our own hope and trust in the rule of God in which the tyrant is made into a subject and the humble ones exalted to power, the hungry in spirit and flesh are fed and the prideful are brought low. The ritual and liturgical "making present" of the narratives of our faith tradition begins then to reveal levels of deeper understanding and leads us into a more profound form of "belief" ( as trust / confidence / commitment, rather than an intellectual assent to a collection of facts to be affirmed as "true") than any literal reading of these stories as events past could ever accomplish. Our use of these foundational stories and texts in liturgical settings becomes part of the larger "incarnational" character of our religious practice where the narrative is not just stuff from the "elsewhere past" but our narrative in the here and now.  In theological terms, this is akin to the belief that the presence of God in Jesus the Christ is experienced as the presence of God/Christ in us and in the world today. (In the words of the apostle Paul, "It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.") We thus may engage in a special form of symbolical and liturgical "re - membering" in the Advent and Christmas narratives in a way similar to that in which we celebrate the Eucharist, as an "anamnesis" in Greek, or in approximate English equivalent  a "re - presentation" of the narrative as a present and active reality, not just a fond recollection of things past.

This Christmas, once again then, I invite us to become like "little children" and "re-live" the stories of these birth narratives, and in this re-living, find ourselves transformed by the truths and messages that they incarnate in a symbolic and parabolic way.  To close, I invite you particularly to look as you sing them this year for the many present tense and personal references that we find in even our more modern songs of the Christmas season, starting you off with a few examples here (my emphasis added):

"O Holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us we pray.

Cast out our sin, and enter in.

Be born in us today...."

"How far is it to Bethlehem? Not very far.

Shall we find the stable room lit by a star?

Can we see the little child, is he within?

If we lift the wooden latch, may we go in?"

"Yea, Lord, We  greet thee, born this happy morning..."

Yes, Lord, we greet you, born this and every other happy morning into our lives by faith. Help us to get beyond the superficiality of misguided literalism, and lead us to truth that begins and ends only in life lived within and filled by you. Amen.

9This post originally was published in the Integrity @ Trinity weekly newsletter, The Sunday Roundup for 20 December 2009. 

The Odes of Solomon

I had posted this week a couple of comments to Nick Knisely’s blog where he and some others are “struggling” with the doctrines of “the fall” and “the incarnation” as they might apply to the future discovery of non-terrestrial intelligent life.  I have twice advanced the opinion that “the fall” is overemphasized in Western Spirituality thanks to Augustine and Anselm of Canterbury.  I have also suggested that the “incarnation” is a doctrine that is not necessarily tied tightly to “the fall” nor ideas of human “sinfulness.” 

I was re-reading this week from a book by Philip Jenkins entitled The Lost History of Christianity.  This is a commentary-loaded history of the Christian East in the areas of Syria, Iran, Iraq, India, Tibet, China, etc.  These so-called “Nestorian” Christians had a vibrant culture and, in their day, far outnumbered the Christians of Europe and the Mediterranean.  

One text that we owe to the earliest days of Syrian Christianity is the so-called “Odes of Solomon.”  Clearly not Solomonic, but Christian in origin, they should not be confused with the similarly named Psalms of Solomon that are a pharasaic Judaic creation.  The Odes have been criticized by some for “gnostic” content (they mention “knowledge” here and there), but classical elements of developed gnostic thought are plainly missing (e.g. the “evil” nature of the physical world/creation for example).  In the translantion by James Charlesworth, they are incredibly beautiful poems/hymns and demonstrate a theology rather more akin to the Johanine tradition than anything else in our current corpus.   These odes were “discovered” in the late 19th/early 20th century and have since been found in multiple manuscript traditions.  Scholars have dated them to about the 2d century (some minority opinions say late 1st century) of the common era making them about contemporary with the Didache.  Had these texts been widely circulated in the Christian West, I think that they would have stood an excellent chance of inclusion in the New Testament canon of scripture. 

Since our canon is long-since “closed,” that is “water under the bridge,” but they are nevertheless beautiful pieces of Christian poetry.  They reveal a gentle and kindly God who, like a divine mother, offers “his breasts” for milk for his children.  They describe a view of the incarnation that is both ancient and fresh, singularly lacking in the dark colorations given that doctrine by Augustine and Anselm and their adherents in the west.  

There is a free online version of the Charlesworth translation that is available at the link: The Odes of Solomon

I’ll also “paste in” a copy of the segment that I quoted in Dean Knisely’s blog, Entangled States

From Ode 7

"For there is a helper for me, the Lord. He has generously shown himself to me in his simplicity, because his kindness has diminished his dreadfulness.

He became like me, that I might receive Him. In form he was considered like me, that I might put him on.

And I trembled not when I saw him, because he was gracious to me.

Like my nature he became, that I might understand him. And like my form, that I might not turn away from him.

The Father of Knowledge is the Word of knowledge.

He who created wisdom is wiser than his works.

And he who created me when yet I was not knew what I would do when I came into being.

On account of this, he was gracious to me in his abundant grace, and allowed me to ask from him and to benefit from his sacrifice.

For he it is who is incorrupt, the perfection of the worlds and their Father.

He has allowed Him to appear to them that are his own; in order that they may recognize him that made them, and not suppose that they came of themselves.

For towards knowledge he has set his way, he has widened it and lengthened it and brought it to complete perfection.

And has set over it the traces of his light, and it proceeded from the beginning until the end.

For by him, he was served, and he was pleased by the Son.

And because of his salvation, he will possess everything. And the Most High will be known by his holy ones:

To announce the coming of the Lord, that they may go forth to meet him and may sing to him, with joy and with the harp of many tones...

Let the singers sing the grace of the Lord Most High, and let them bring their songs.

And let their heart be like the day, and their gentle voices like the majestic beauty of the Lord.

And let there not be anyone who breathes that is without knowledge or voice.

For he gave a mouth to his creation: to open the voice of the mouth towards him, and to praise him."

I found this, frankly, to be stunningly beautiful.  What's more surprising is that all of the Odes are like this.  How did we "miss" this text in the West, and why are they not more popular? 

The Church as a Sponge

I recently posted a reply to a posting on The Episcopal Cafe's Section, "The Daily Episcopalian," in which Adrian Worsfold wrote an essay entitled Anglican No Longer . He describes complicated reasons as to why he no longer feels comfortable calling himself Anglican or Christian for that matter. I oddly felt that I had "been there done that" and that, as one of the few non-theistic Episcopalians that I know, I needed to post some of my own ideas. I suspect that, as I took several days to put my thoughts together for that post, it will not get much notice. I did, however, want to incorporate it into my own blog, as it contains some ideas about what I have recently been thinking about church and the world. I am attracted, I think, to some of the "emergent" Christianity movement's ideas, but I often get the feeling that the persons writing in that area are coming from an Evangelical background and that their foundational assumptions and language "do not go far enough" to move away from that source. Another voice from both a more "catholic" as well as "pluralist" perspective is needed. As I read it over, I think that I "jump" a bit from the metaphor of the sponge to the metaphor of pilgrimage, and I could probably "clean it up," but I think that I will post it as I originally wrote it for now:

As an a-theistic (non-theistic) Christian/Episcopalian, I somehow feel that I should comment. Ultimately, however, paths like that which Adrian has taken cannot be walked by another, no matter how much sympathy I feel for many of his views. I can only wish him well on his journey, and I hope that his pilgrimage will be one of fulfillment and meaning.
I have thought a great deal recently about "what does it mean" to be Episcopalian/Anglican in this time of re-examination of our foundational "truths" and the inevitable anti-explorational reactions that this invokes. Somehow, I feel that, while I applaud our moves for "fuller inclusion" of LGBT persons and women, we are missing the mark. What Christianity and TEC/Anglicanism does not need so much is "inclusivity" (and certainly not more "exclusivity") but more "porosity." We need for the church to be more "porous" in terms of its experience of/with the world and creation, the "numinous" and the stories and perspectives of other religious traditions and how we understand and allow that to meaningfully interact with our own traditions and history. I was thinking recently that, in spite of our attempts to formulate positions/doctrines, Jesus in the Gospels often seemed to resist firm definitions. "What is the Kingdom of heaven like?" was answered mostly in parable and metaphor, not in creed/covenant/doctrine. "Covenant" Anglicans need to appreciate the irony of what they are trying to accomplish.
How about a new parable? "The Kingdom of Heaven is like a sponge. When it is taken out of water, it dries out, hardens, breaks and disintegrates. But when it is put into water, it takes up the water and grows and absorbs it. And when you take it out again, it drenches everything around it. "
The Church, I think, needs to be more sponge-like. It needs to absorb the concerns and needs of those that it encounters. It needs to avoid having firm boundaries and borders. It needs to be drenched in the experience of the world as it is, not as we wish it to be and also the possibility of the numinous that we may find/encounter in ways unlike any that we have known before. Scripture needs to be a springboard for experience/thought, not a wall around our minds and lives to fence them in. We need to break the canon open, not fence it in. The church needs to be immersed in the water of the numinous and the world, not out of the water and drying out on a storage shelf. It needs to "leak" the numinous and its reflections and experience back into the surrounding water and world.
At this point, I am more "optimistic" than Adrian that the churches, Anglican and Episcopal and others, can still possibly do this. It will not be easy, but what real thing is ever easy? In the year 2000, the liturgy for the opening of the Holy Door at St. Peter's in Rome was accompanied by a prayer containing a line that still resonates with me: "The Church is on a pilgrimage through time to eternity." Each of us is journeying in this Pilgrimage for such an infinitesimal time with no end in sight. We walk, yes, but wither none of us really can say nor can we say that there is some "end" at which we will arrive. I hope, though, that while we live and walk together or apart, we may find meaning in the journey itself.