The Christian Identity

When I was writing my thesis for my undergraduate degree, I wrote and read a lot about LGBT identities. How would Christ, in becoming human, take on his identities? He was a Jewish male living in an occupied country and was not of the political, economic or religious elites. For some feminist writers, a male Christ is a fundamental roadblock to relationships because he was, well, male. As a male, he enjoyed male privilege, so how could he truly understand the problems facing women? It's a topic that feminist theologians have been working with, and faithful women will probably be working with the problem for a long time.

Since the gospels don't present us with a straight Jesus (I'm fairly certain the Spirit had something to do with that), gay theologians can play around with Jesus' sexuality and overcome those roadblocks. It was fun and fascinating to read of how theologians would wrestle with Jesus' sexuality, but I really think that work can be missing the point.

Instead of looking to Christ's identity to see our own reflected, why are we not as quick to see Christ's identity reflected in our own?

As God Incarnate, Christ had to straddle the divine and human, somehow united both in his person. How do we do that? How do we reflect his human identity? In baptism when we are united with him, how do we reflect his divinity?

A sermon by Br. Mark Brown, SSJE tackled Christian identity:

Personal identity can often seem in flux, and yet as Christians we have a place to come back to. We’re called back to a sense of being grounded in Christ’s own being. How we understand, how we appropriate our personal identity in Christ is a highly individual thing. We may grow in this understanding over time, in incremental ways. It may come to us as an occasional insight in moments of spiritual clarity. We may experience considerable confusion as we navigate between our various identities. And yet the center is Christ himself.

Now there’s nothing wrong with any of our particular identities, whether they be national or professional or relational or whatever. They are perfectly natural. The problem with these identities is 1) they are unstable and 2) they are too small. Even national identities are unstable and change over time. What it means to be American today is not what it meant fifty years ago (tell that to the Tea Party). What it means to be English is not what it meant fifty years ago, let alone what it may have meant to St. Bede. Professional and relational identities are notoriously unstable, they are shifting sands.

It is only Christ himself who can give us an identity large enough. Only Christ can bestow upon us an identity expansive enough for the fullness of our humanity. And so he calls us to something new, something large. Something new and always renewing; something large and always expanding. Only that which is newest and most expansive is good enough for the Kingdom. And so, what he calls us to is his own being, his own essence. Into his marvelous light, his own self. (Link to full sermon)

I encourage you to read the sermon. It's good, and it's right on. All of our identities are unstable (which was a huge part of my undergraduate thesis), so all the human identities that Christ took on are also unstable too. The only identity that really matters and the only identity that is unchangeable is the one given in baptism. We are one in Christ Jesus, and all the rest, at the end, don't really matter.

If we cling too tightly to our identities, demanding that they be part of the 'diversity' of God, then we are in danger of idolatry. It is very easy to demand that God be in our own image. That said, we are all called to use our whole selves, including these identities, for the service and glory of God.

For the Lutherans

The local ELCA Lutheran congregation voted on Sunday to leave the national church over the social statement adopted last summer.

One of my best friends and her family have been members of this congregation for over twenty years. As good country folk, the church was their social community and home away from home; relationships formed in church were very important to them, and the Lutheran spirituality permeated their lives.

This Sunday, though, things changed. It has been brewing for a long time; the pastor had made it very clear in the pulpit that he wanted to take the congregation out of the ELCA. The congregation has been breaking into two groups, and there was little Christian charity from one side toward the other. No room for disagreeing on 'the gay issue.' No room for sharing at Christ's table for those who, in good faith and conscience, held to a position that others disagreed with. One side just couldn't have that. There is no compromising the 'purity' of the faith.

There were some underhanded political moves as well. Human beings are political beings.

The pain I saw in their faces hurt me deeply. The actions on Sunday were divorce and death at the same time. I know that they'll persevere. They're not giving up, as the vote won't be final until ninety days from now. They'll keep trying to heal wounds and exorcise demons that work so hard to fracture and destroy the Body of Christ (Yes, I say exorcise; when hate, pride, and schism abound, I say something dark is at work). Will it work? I have no clue. But I know them, and I know the depth of their faith. That doesn't erase the pain, though.

Sin-icism

Cynicism.

The cornerstone of the stereotype of Europeans. The hallmark of disillusioned college students.

I've noticed it a lot more in myself lately. I don't know if it's just the continued rancor in the national discourse. I don't know if it's just a dissatisfaction with my life as it is. I don't know if it's just a feeling of aimlessness since I'm a lot less sure about my life than I was just a year ago. I don't know if it's just loneliness and a fear that I won't find a romantic partner.

Safest bet is that all of those are working together to breed cynicism in me.

Cynicism is so incredibly destructive. Not only does it destroy hope, but it also actively attacks anything positive. It refuses to believe that anything can change for the better. Considering that hope is a fundamental Christian value, it's easy to see why cynicism is a sin.

I wonder how many people in this country would see cynicism as sinful. I know it's taken time for me to see the effects of it in my life. My commentary during the morning news used to be insightful; now it's just spiteful. The great progress on positive self-image I've made in the last few years takes hits as my cynicism turns inward.

What's the remedy for such a brutal sin which tries to eradicate any hope?

For me, I'm not sure. Now that I see it, I can be aware of its harmful effects. Finding the cure will be more difficult. I will, with God's help, try to loosen the hold that cynicism has on me. It'll be highly appropriate, since a good friend of mine and her children will be baptized on Pentecost! What better time to break the hold of something destructive?

The Christian Flower

I nominate the pansy to be the emblematic flower of Christianity. It comes in all sorts of colors and varieties, representing the diversity of the Christian family.

It's not an expensive flower, representing the free gift of grace.

The word 'pansy' is frequently used as a derogatory term much like "Christian" was (and sometimes is even now).

But honestly and truly, the reason it should represent Christianity is that it does not give up. My family has not planted pansies for years yet we find them hiding throughout the flowerbeds and yard. Yes, a single pansy is easy enough to pull up and dispose of, much like the individual Christian martyr is; but, as a whole, the Christian faith and the Church will live on through oppression, violence and slander just like the pansies continue to pop up where they can find the sunlight and the nourishment . And when Christianity is at its best, it will endure all sorts of things without resorting to violence to "protect" itself, its honor, its Scripture, or its leaders.

God help us if the pansies fight back.

Too late for confession

Last night at the Good Friday liturgy I noticed something odd: no confession.

On a day that is one of only two major fast days in the Church's calendar, it is entirely counterintuitive. On this day, surely, we should be confessing our sins, acknowledging how our sinfulness led Christ to the cross and how our sin works to destroy us.

Nope. No confession unless you are receiving communion from the reserved sacrament of Maundy Thursday. No communion, no confession, and that was how it was last night.

Good Friday is too late to be sorrowful for sin and is far too late for confession. The wheels had been set in motion; the crucifixion was inevitable once the table for the Last Supper was set. Wheels slowly, slowly turning during the meal, moving hesitantly throughout the night as Christ prayed for the disciples he was soon going to be leaving behind.

In the hour of crisis, confession is too late. There is little to be done to set things right; films make it seem to us like it's never too late because something can always be done. Sometimes our sins will be too much for us to make amends.

I'm sure the disciples wanted to confess their wrongdoings as Jesus was led to the cross and executed. "Lord, forgive me, just let Jesus go!" their lips might have mumbled as they tried to bargain with the God who seemed so hidden at the moment.

Too late for confession. Nothing to be done. The wheels of sin and death are in motion, crushing the innocent and guilty.

But Christ set in motion something else. Something that would break the wheels of sin and death.

Confession might come too late, but salvation still stands firmly before us, even before the brink.

Fear of What Didn't Happen

Last night we avoided a serious catastrophe.

Story starts yesterday afternoon. A car crash down the road leaves the power out all afternoon. I'm at work, so all I get is a call from my mom about the lack of electricity. No problem- I plan on stopping by the store to pick up bottled water just in case the power is out for a long time.

I pick up the goods and head to play practice at church. We're using bits of Jesus Christ Superstar for Palm Sunday, and it was the full musical rehearsal. Afterward I debate about going to gay coffee night. I was an hour late for it, and I decide to just head home as the sky's looking nasty, and I felt like relaxing after work. I sing out to a mixed CD (delightfully titled "Incredibly Gay, Volume 1") all the way home.

I arrive home to a dark house. The power's still out. Ten minutes after I get home, though, the power clicks back on. I help my mom reset the clocks in the house when we hear strange noises from the utility room.

I'd never heard those noises before. They sounded almost like gurgling. Shortly thereafter we both smell smoke. We go into the utility room nearby and cough as smoke starts to fill the room. We look around trying to find the source, then I open the back door to clear out some smoke so we can find the source (yes, I know that could have potentially exacerbated it, but without finding a source we would've been in worse trouble).

When the power had come back on, it surged. Because it was chilly, the furnace clicked on at the exact same time. Guess what caught on fire?

Yep. The wiring in the furnace overloaded and started on fire. We pulled off the cover for the furnace after seeing smoke coming from the vent to reveal a flame. After a split second of hesitation ("say now, that's not supposed to be on fire") my mom grabs the fire extinguisher and puts out the flame and flips off the circuit breaker. We hastily call the fire department to make sure that we're safe for the night.

Everything's fine- we all spent the night incredibly nervous that maybe, just maybe, a fire was smoldering unseen. The smell of burnt plastic would rouse me from sleep just to instill a brief second of fear, forcing me to go and investigate, just in case.

After the fire was out, I realized how good it was that I hadn't gone out after play practice. Had I not been in the vicinity of the utility room, how long might it have been before my mom smelled the smoke? Would it have gotten into the insulation or the wood before she noticed? Would it have ended a lot worse?

Heaven knows. I'm glad it didn't end up worse, but there's that weird fear of what didn't happen.

Normally we always worry about what happened. We wish that we would've done it differently or go back and use the knowledge we have now instead of the limited perspective of the past.

This is different. By chance or providence (I know not which) we caught it before it got out of hand. Given that it probably would've happened regardless, we had the best possible outcome.

Yet there's this odd fear of what didn't happen. It's not like the fear that I had last night of the possibility of a smoldering flame hidden deep in the house's wiring; it's a fear of what bad things could have happened had I acted differently.

Normally in these situations we launch straight into God's providence, God's blessing. I'm grateful, of course. I'm glad that this was the worst that happened last night; still, I have a sense of fear for an outcome that didn't happen.

I'm not how much I can explain it. Perhaps the fear is the flip side to the relief I feel. I know how bad it could have ended last night, so then I feel great relief that it didn't. Without even knowing it, I made a choice that helped prevent a catastrophe.

I have no clue as to how this could relate to the holy and fearful events of Holy Week. Good Friday was definitely the worst that could happen for the disciples; there wasn't a "whew, that was close!" moment. Jesus was really condemned, mocked, and nailed to a cross. He died. The disciples ran off and one even betrayed Jesus. No catastrophe was prevented there. No one really saw the Resurrection coming.

In all those horrible, cruel, evil choices made 2000 years ago by the religious establishment and the political hierarchy, was an even worse outcome for humanity avoided? Did Judas, did Pilate, did Caiaphas really understand the wheels they set in motion? Did they unknowingly make choices that averted an even greater catastrophe?

Not just a catastrophe of political or religious power; I mean a cosmic, universal catastrophe. These men thought that the nation was headed for disaster if this heretic/rebel was allowed to continue; however, what would have happened had Jesus not been condemned and executed?

I don't know.

May this upcoming week so full of pain and suffering strengthen you. May the remembrance of Christ's passion and death and resurrection fill your heart with grace and light and love.

Edible Emotions

This last week was particularly stressful and upsetting. I'm sure my hormones were out of whack, but events in multiple parts of my life made last week an unhappy one.

By Wednesday of last week I broke my Lenten abstinence from chocolate. Those Oreo cookies were calling to me, promising sweet relief from the stress and pain. After devouring them with the angriest face I could muster, I noted that guilt didn't seem to be raising its ugly head. A little shocked, I assumed that eventually I would feel downright horrible for eating chocolate during Lent. I'm not "hardcore" like the Eastern Orthodox who abstain from a lot more during Great Lent; yet I caved in to chocolate.

I had expected at least some kind of inner turmoil from eating the forbidden sweets. Nope. Could it have been anger and stress that granted me an indulgence? Possibly.

The episode certainly led me to realize just how comforting food is. I knew that when I was stressed I would crave certain foods: things fried, things sweet, things full of carbohydrates. After eating them, though, I noticed that I wasn't feeling relief or happiness or sorrowful delight. I just felt angry with a few crumbs of Oreo in my mustache.