(This is the first in a series “7 Dates and Why They Matter for Anglican Faith”)

By Derek Olsen

From our current perspective, the politics and history of the Ancient Near East 2500 years ago look like successions of waves on a beach as empires ebb and flow on the world stage. Foreign names and foreign places: The defeat of Sinsharishkun and the fall of Nineveh; containment of the Egyptians at Carcemesh; the fading of the Hittites and the rise of the Neo-Babylonians. And yet, one relatively minor episode in the succession of names and places dotting ancient history had a revolutionary impact on how we think about God and what we believe as Christians.

From what we can tell from primary documents—clay tablets, stone stele, temple carvings, ancient hymns and the like—many of the peoples of the Ancient Near East held a philosophy of religion called henotheism. That is, they had their gods but recognized that other peoples had other gods as well. Gods tended to be thought of in regional terms. To put a finer point on it, clans and tribes told stories about their gods that were intimately tied to their lives and to their geographies. A god wasn’t “just” a god, rather it was god X who made himself known to ancestor X at place Y in such-and-such a way. When cultures clashed the wars were not just occurring on the physical realm, the gods of the peoples were pitting their strength against one another. And the events of which we speak begin with just such a war…

In the waning years of the 7th century BC and the opening years of the 6th, Judah and its capital Jerusalem were still under the reign of kings from the line of David. For a brief time under King Josiah it enjoyed a period of relative independence from the whims of the empires around it. Josiah’s death in battle against Egyptian forces was the beginning of the end, though. The Neo-Babylonian Empire was on the rise with Nebuchadnezzar at its helm. Under threat of invasion, Judah began paying a heavy tribute to Babylon. Chaffing under this burden, King Jehoakim thought the moment opportune to rebel, counting on the Babylonians being distracted by troubles on the other side of the empire. In the year 601 King Jehoakim gambled but it was his son, the new King Jehoachin who had to face the music. In 597, a large Babylonian army surrounded the city which quickly surrendered in the face of the superior force. The Babylonians were lenient; rather than sacking the city, they took the city’s elite—the king and his household, the government, many of the priests (including the priestly prophet Ezekiel)—into exile in Babylon. The king’s uncle Zedekiah was put in charge of what was left.

Ultimately, Zedekiah proved no wiser than his brother Jehoakim; he too revolted against the Babylonians in 589. This time the Babylonian response was not only swift but ruthless. After an eighteen month siege, Jerusalem fell and the Babylonian army descended upon it in fury. The city was pulled to the ground. The Temple built by Solomon was utterly destroyed; the city’s inhabitants killed, sold into slavery, or scattered across the land. Babylonian client states—Edom in particular—savaged anything that was left.

Now—this story in and of itself is not unique. It has played out in hundreds of times and places; only the names change. What makes this case different is not the record of the events themselves. Rather, what is remarkable is the response to it. Ironically—but perhaps not surprisingly—the place where we turn now is the community of exiles in Babylon. With the destruction of their homeland they could have given up. They could have assimilated into the people around them. Instead it prompted them to write, record, and consider who they were. Cut off from the land of their ancestors and the geography of their god, they could easily have turned to the worship of the new gods of their new place. But what happened instead was a revolution.

Although we cannot be certain of times and places, most scholars believe that it was this community displaced in Babylon that was responsible for forming the heart of what we know today as the Old Testament. The great stories of the ancestral patriarchs and matriarchs were collected and woven together. The records of the early years of the kingdom of Israel and its split into Israel and Judah were updated and reworked. The words of the prophets were gathered and formed into stable collections. The songs of the Temple were collected even if there was no place left to sing them. And—we believe—above it and behind it all, the hand of God and the breath of the Spirit were moving, working, and inspiring. What had before been scattered scrolls and remembrances became a coherent collection, a body of writing that recorded the people’s story of themselves and their dealings with their god. And it is one we revere to this day.

Indeed the catastrophe of 587 and the events surrounding it are well represented in our Bibles. The book of Jeremiah records the histories and prophecies of the years before and immediately after the crisis. We have Jeremiah’s own feelings, poetry, and sermons as well as the events that befell him recorded by the hand of his scribe Baruch. Ezekiel balances Jeremiah; while Jeremiah remained in Jerusalem, Ezekiel was taken away in the first group of exiles and proclaimed the Word of God to the exiles in Babylon, and narrated events as the Spirit directed. The book of Lamentations communicates the shock and horror of the sack of Jerusalem. The book of Obadiah too responds not only to the fall of the city but the abominable acts of the Edomites in the tragic aftermath. The two great histories—the political history of 1 Samuel through 2 Kings and the condensed ecclesiastically-focused history of 1 and 2 Chronicles—both tell of the events leading up to the tragedy in their own ways. Psalms 74 and 78 reflect on the destruction of the Temple itself.

Considering the psalms in light of these events, Psalm 137 comes in particular to the fore. Many know this as the beautiful psalm whose end is marred by disagreeable verses unworthy of Scripture. Indeed, our current Daily Office lectionary makes verses 7-9 optional whenever this psalm rolls around. Coming up short at these words is inevitable if our morality is intact. But what these words point to—more basic than morality—is the humanity of those who wrote them. Read Lamentations. Read Obadiah. Then read Psalm 137. These are not simply words of cruelty but of pain, of despair, of wrath coming from the darkest places of human experience. Happy are we who do not understand them—having not seen the bodies of our children in the ruins of our homes. These words put us in touch not with the anonymous ebb and flow of historical tides but of the real people crying to the skies thousands of years ago—the same skies we turn to in pain as well.

Before turning aside from this psalm, however, Psalm 137 gives one more clue to understanding the revolution of 587 BC. In verse four the psalmist plaintively asks one of the key theological questions of the day: “How shall we sing the LORD’s song upon an alien soil?” Remember, in the henotheistic thought of the day, they were no longer in the territory of their god. They were no longer in the lands where the god of their ancestors walked but in the fields of Enlil and Marduk. How could they sing the songs of YHWH into the ears of foreign gods? Ezekiel answers at the very head of his prophecies. The vision he receives by the banks of the Chebar is not just a vision of a god in glory, but of a god on the move. The angelic chariot, the mobile throne, is one of the key features of the vision—and for a reason. Casting aside notions of territories and places, Ezekiel sees a god not contained by space and time but free to dwell in the midst of the people whom he had chosen.

At some point in this process, in the reading, the reworking, the meditating, and the writing the people taken out of Jerusalem came to a profound realization. Their god was not “a” god, one among many. Rather, this being who had become personally entwined in their lives and stories was none other than “the” God—not just the god of a region, of a bounded place, of a strip of land along the coast of Palestine, but the very Creator of heaven and earth. Henotheism gave way to monotheism. And the rest—as they say—is history.

The wheel of fortune turned and the Persians overcame the Neo-Babylonians. The Persian Cyrus allowed the exiles to return home, to rebuild their city and its temple. Some of the exiles stayed, but—taking with them the collections of books that told the history of their relationship with God—more left. Ezra and Nehemiah tell their stories. But the events of 587 were forever marked in the Scriptures that they passed down and that, in turn, we have received. As a result of this tragedy, the people of Israel clarified their history and self-identity in a narrative about their on-going covenant relationship with the being who they—and we—believe is none other than the One God, the Creator of heaven and earth.

Derek Olsen is in the final stretch of completing a Ph.D. in New Testament (with a healthy side of Homiletics) at Emory University. He is a database programmer and an adjunct professor at Emory’s Candler School of Theology where he teaches in homiletics, liturgics, and New Testament. His reflections on life, liturgical spirituality, and being a Gen-X dad appear at Haligweorc.

By Kathleen Henderson Staudt

I have been trying to create ways to talk about vocation WITHOUT moving immediately to questions about “how am I supposed to make my living,” and especially without moving immediately to the question: “Is God calling me to the ordained ministry?”

It is almost impossible to disentangle these questions these days in our culture, where identity and worth are so tied to our role in the consumer economy, let alone in the Church, where vocation and discernment so strongly tied in people’s minds to questions about ordained ministry. But I insist on disentangling them. I believe it is essential for us as a church to be focusing, not so much on roles and résumés as on the original call of each of us to “follow” Jesus , to practice ever more faithful and intentional discipleship. I’ll probably return to this theme in future posts. For now, here are some Eastertide musings on discipleship and how we experience the call of Jesus.

The gospel appointed for Friday in Easter week tells the wonderful story of the risen Jesus calling the disciples away from their fishing to come and have breakfast with him, on the beach by the sea of Tiberias. (John 21:1-11). Immediately after breakfast, as we know, he repeatedly asks Peter “Do you love me,” and offers him a new, pastoral ministry: “feed my lambs.” One of the things that has always struck me about the story is that Peter and his friends, doubtless disoriented in the aftermath of the Passion and reports of the Resurrection, return to the work that they know, the work that has identified them and sustained them economically, the work they were doing when they first met Jesus. And here as in the Lucan version of the story (Luke 5:1-12), Peter and the beloved disciple recognize the urgency of Jesus’ call by the way the fishermen’s work is transformed in His presence. They have been coming up empty. The stranger on the beach tells them to cast their nets on the right side of the boat, and suddenly there is abundance, and they recognize him – “It is the Lord”, and head for the beach to be with him.

If we attend closely to the language, the story of the calling of the fishermen in Mark and Matthew can also be read as a story about the call to discipleship as transformation. Jesus finds the disciples fishing by the side of the sea, and the narrative tells us “for they were fishermen.” He calls them and, in the New Revised Standard Version, says “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.” (Matthew 4:19; Mark 1:17). What is lost is the phrase I grew up with, in my Presbyterian Sunday school where we used the Revised Standard Version: “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” It isn’t all that clear what that means, “fishers of men,” and it doesn’t seem to be their reason for following him: there’s no new job description here. But Jesus is promising some kind of change that begins where they are. That’s the literal meaning of the Greek, I’m told: Follow me: and I will make you to become fishermen-of-people. They will be transformed into some new version of what they already are.

Dwelling a bit with these stories, in meditation, and especially with the post-Resurrection version of this call story in John, I think we can gain insight from remembering how the call of Jesus tends to come to us where we are. (“wherever we may be,” as the catechism says of the ministry of the laity (BCP 855)) When I talk about vocation with laity - people whose primary work is in the world rather than in the church as institution, I find they tend to think of vocation as being about something that’s coming in the future, or something that will require a radical shift from all that they know and are. But in fact, I have observed that most people experience the call to discipleship beginning where they are, and the transformation comes in stages, beginning with that desire simply to follow Jesus, for reasons we often can’t explain to ourselves. For many people, though we do find ourselves making changes in our lives, the call to discipleship emerges gradually, as we grow into what it means to be followers of Jesus.

This is something we emphasize in our language at worship, but most of us need to spend more time reflecting on what it means. I have been a scholar, a lover of literature, a teacher; I am a wife and a parent. Gradually, as I’ve grown in faith and deepened my spiritual practice, I’ve learned that all of this is “for Christ,” even though the content of what I teach and write, and the focus of my relationships, is not always explicitly religious. But the call of Christ has gradually changed me, has “made me to become” someone new, and it changes the way that I view the work I’ve been given in my profession and in my relationships. It seems that the transformation in me does touch the lives of others, often in ways I do not see.

So when I speak with people – especially laity – about call and discipleship, I invite them to look at where they are in life right now, not what they wish they were doing or think they “should” be doing. Vocation is not about lines on a résumé. Nor is it about office in the church. It is about identity, community, and spiritual practice. What is it, we ask, in your work, your gifts and abilities and yearnings right now, that makes you feel fully alive? Where is the abundance? Or where could the abundance be? That’s probably the part of you that is hearing Jesus’ call to discipleship, to being “made to become” a part of the new thing that God is doing.

It is true that sometimes people are in a place where they need to “leave their nets” immediately, and “do” something totally different. But usually, vocation is about an ongoing process of transformation, through the practices of discipleship that are summarized in Jesus’ command to follow him. I find this expressed most simply and poignantly in the Easter version of this call story, where the renewed call to “follow me” is preceded by a much more homely invitation: “come and have breakfast.” (John 21:12)

Dr. Kathleen Henderson Staudt (Kathy) keeps the blog poetproph, works as a teacher, poet, spiritual director and retreat leader in the Washington DC area, and teaches courses in literature, theology and writing at Virginia Theological Seminary and the University of Maryland, College Park. She is the author of two books: At the Turn of a Civilisation: David Jones and Modern Poetics and Annunciations: Poems out of Scripture.

This is the fourth in a series of articles on non-canonical writings. Previous installments can be found here.

By Deirdre Good

The 5th Century BCE playwright Euripides explains the connection between women and prophecy through one of his female characters:

"And in matters concerning the gods, for I consider these matters to be the most important, we women have the greatest share. For in the temple of Phoebus (Apollo) women prophesy the thoughts of Loxias (Apollo) and around Dodona's holy foundations by the sacred oak, it is the female sex which conveys the thoughts of Zeus to any Greek who seeks them. Also, as to those rituals which are performed for the Fates (Moirai) and the nameless Goddesses (Eumenides), it is not holy for men to participate in them: all of them flourish in the hands of women. This is how the case for women stands in their dealings with the gods. "

Menelippe, the speaker, is defending herself against detractors by pointing out the role of women as prophetic priests and oracle for the gods at Delphi and Dodona.

In post-exilic Israel, there were also women prophets. Judith is a prophet to whom knowledge is divinely imparted after her prayer (11:17-18). Job's daughters are praised for their ecstatic hymnody in the 1st C BCE Testament of Job and their oracles are recorded. Female prophets at Corinth, in Egypt, and in Asia Minor mentioned in the New Testament, and after, inherit these prophetic mantles.

In a letter to the Corinthians written in mid-first century CE, Paul urges that female prophets at Corinth prophesy in the public assembly with a head covering, "because of the angels." Paul recognizes women's personal and public experience of the spirit, but his concern is that it seem unintelligible to outsiders. We can reconstruct something of their beliefs from Paul's letter. They call themselves "spiritual ones," whose speech to God and each other was in the "tongues of angels." Perhaps their experience was focused on Sophia, Wisdom, whom Paul identifies carefully in the letter as Christ crucified--the object, never the subject of his proclamation. Perhaps they focused on separation from one's spouse in order to practice celibacy as a state of spiritual receptivity.

Scholars have suggested that the Corinthian women experienced something similar to Philo's 1st Century CE description of the community of Therapeutai or Therapeutrides in forming a monastic community near Lake Mariotis outside Alexandria in Egypt. Yearning to have Sophia as their true companion, these men and women renounced their spouses and property to become virgins. Their common worship includes the formation of two choirs, one of the men and one of the women, singing antiphonally. Then, "having drunk the strong wine of God's love, they mix and both together become a single choir set up of old beside the Red Sea in honor of the wonders there wrought," singing hymns of praise and thanksgiving to God their Savior, "the men led by the prophet Moses and the women by the prophetess, Miriam" (Philo, The Contemplative Life 85-7). It is possible that Corinthian women were attracted to ecstatic prophetic experience in a local worshipping community as a protest against the Emperor Augustus' "family values" campaign designed to increase the population of the Roman Empire.

The author of the book of Revelation at the end of the first century CE criticizes a female prophet in the community at Thyatira he names Jezebel. She seems to have believed that eating meat sacrificed to other gods was no problem. Her condemnation by John, the author of Revelation, shows that there were a variety of opinions on the subject; whether her community was impoverished and needed food or whether she thought that idols were of no consequence we cannot say. She clearly had disciples whom John calls "her children" whom he threatens to strike dead. Rather than disagreeing with her attitude to pagan Rome, John makes the attack personal. Calling her Jezebel not only vilifies her and obscures her identity but also legitimates calling down divine vengeance down on her. We cannot gauge the effect of John's words.
Besides the female prophets identified in Thyatira by John the seer of Patmos, we find four prophesying daughters of Philip in Acts 21 who move to Hierapolis in Asia Minor with their father. In the mid-second century, a movement called the New Prophecy or Montanism after its founder Montanus, swept through Asia Minor, North Africa and even to Rome. Oracles of Montanus, Priscilla, Quintilla and Maximilla are preserved in the attacks of their opponents Tertullian and Hippolytus. "Hear not me, hear rather Christ" said Maximilla. Priscilla claims warrant of the Paraclete of John's gospel, "Appearing in the form of a woman, radiantly robed, Christ came to me and implanted Wisdom within me and revealed to me that this place [Pepuza] is holy and that here Jerusalem is to come down from heaven." Scholars surmise that supporters of Montanism might be derived from Johannine communities, particularly women who disagreed with the author of the Fourth Gospel. Epiphanius says, "they acknowledge the sister of Moses as a prophetess as support for their practice of appointing women to the clergy." Like the author of Revelation, the church fathers deployed the rhetorical strategy of attacking the morals of women leaders: Maximilla was not a virgin; followers were accepting money for personal gain.

Female prophets in early Christianity are not all obscure. Luke identifies Mary, the mother of Jesus as a prophet. Her first reaction to the angel's message is to "consider in her mind what sort of greeting this might be." She follows the angel's response with a query: "How will this be since I do not know a man?" Receiving a satisfactory answer, and a confirmation from Elizabeth's pregnancy, she sings a song of praise to God in thanksgiving for the angel's message. We call this song the Magnificat from its opening words, "My soul magnifies the Lord." It has connections to the song of the prophet Miriam in Exodus 15. Mary's prophetic abilities are recognized outside the New Testament in a second century text called the Protevangelion of James. This is her vision:

And so (Joseph) saddled his donkey and had (Mary) get on it. His son led it and Samuel brought up the rear. As they neared the three-mile marker, Joseph turned around and saw that she was sulking. And he said to himself, 'Perhaps the baby she is carrying is causing her discomfort.' Joseph turned around again and saw her laughing and said to her, 'Mariamme, what's going on with you? One minute I see you laughing and the next minute you're sulking.' And she replied, 'Joseph, it's because I imagine two peoples in front of me, one weeping and mourning and the other celebrating and jumping for joy.' (17.5-9)

Maria is Mariamme, a Miriam figure, when she is momentarily identified as a seer. In this scene alone, Mary is portrayed as one visited by a revelation that serves as the counterpart to Simeon's prophecy in Luke 2.34, "a sword will pierce your own soul also." Only here does the Protevangelion of James reassign to a female figure prophetic insight that Luke attributes to a male character.

Female prophets from Greece to Israel, from North Africa to Rome were enthusiastic, creative, spontaneous and spiritually committed, crossing rational and spiritual boundaries in private and public settings. Why has Christian tradition never endorsed women prophets unreservedly? What voices have we lost? When women are positively valued as prophets, as in the case of Mary in Luke, or the four daughters of Phillip in Acts, they are chaste and virginal. When they are criticized, their behavior is described as sexually suspect. According to Luke, once Mary becomes a mother, she ceases to be a prophet. Paul recognizes female prophets at Corinth but is alarmed by them. In Revelation, and the assessments of the New Prophecy by the Church Fathers we see a rhetorical strategy of linking prophecy to sexual behavior. What would it be like if Christian tradition welcomed the voices and actions of women prophets?

Dr. Deirdre Good is professor of New Testament at The General Theological Seminary, specializing in the Synoptic Gospels, Christian Origins, Noncanonical writings and biblical languages. She keeps the blog, On Not Being a Sausage.

This is the second in an occasional series on non-canonical writings. Part one is here.

By Deirdre Good

The Secret Gospel of Mark has elicited fascination and concern ever since it was discovered in 1958 by Morton Smith (once an Episcopal priest) in the library of the Mar Saba monastery south of Jerusalem. In the back of a collection of letters of Ignatius of Antioch, published in 1646, handwritten pages from a letter of Clement of Alexandria (150-215 CE) to Theodore identify three versions of Mark known in antiquity: a gospel written in Rome; an expansion of the gospel written in Alexandria by Mark for those “being perfected in the faith;” a further expansion of Secret Mark by Carpocrates that Clement rejected as false.

In the following citation from Clement’s letter, the first longer quotation of material is inserted between Mark 10:34 and 35, while the second shorter quotation fits after the first part of Mark 10:46, “And they went into Jericho…”

To you, therefore, I shall not hesitate to answer the questions you have asked, refuting the falsifications by the very words of the Gospel. For example, after ,"And they were in the road going up to Jerusalem," and what follows, until "After three days he shall arise," the secret Gospel brings the following material word for word:

"And they come into Bethany. And a certain woman whose brother had died was there. And, coming, she prostrated herself before Jesus and says to him, 'Son of David, have mercy on me.' But the disciples rebuked her. And Jesus, being angered, went off with her into the garden where the tomb was, and straightway a great cry was heard from the tomb. And going near Jesus rolled away the stone from the door of the tomb. And straightway, going in where the youth was, he stretched forth his hand and raised him, seizing his hand. But the youth, looking upon him, loved him and began to beseech him that he might be with him. And going out of the tomb they came into the house of the youth, for he was rich. And after six days Jesus told him what to do and in the evening the youth comes to him, wearing a linen cloth over his naked body. And he remained with him that night, for Jesus taught him the mystery of the kingdom of God. And thence, arising, he returned to the other side of the Jordan."

After these words follows the text, "And James and John come to him," and all that section. But "naked man with naked man," and the other things about which you wrote, are not found.

And after the words, "And he comes into Jericho," the secret Gospel adds only, "And the sister of the youth whom Jesus loved and his mother and Salome were there, and Jesus did not receive them."

But the many other things about which you wrote both seem to be and are falsifications.

Now the true explanation and that which accords with the true philosophy...

[the text breaks off]

What are we to make of this? We can, with scholars who reacted to the initial publication of the text in two books, The Secret Gospel: The Discovery and Interpretation of the Secret Gospel according to Mark, (Harper and Row, 1973); Clement of Alexandria and a Secret Gospel of Mark, (Cambridge University Press, 1973), reject Morton Smith’s interpretation of the texts as a baptism Jesus gave secretly to followers (and, in passing, the suggestion of a physical union between Jesus and the young man). Some scholars to this day suggest that the text is an ancient forgery or even that Morton Smith himself forged eighteenth century handwriting for unknown reasons. Or, we can, with Prof Cyril Richardson, not necessarily follow Morton Smith’s reconstruction of Christian origins, but “face the challenge of explaining the text.” It is unfortunate that the text has disappeared after it was taken from Mar Saba to the library of the Patriarchate in Jerusalem in 1976 but it was then seen by four people two of whom are alive today, Professor Guy G. Stroumsa of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and Archimandrite Meliton.

We already know that the text of Mark’s gospel in antiquity is unstable. For example, several different endings have been added to the oldest ending of the gospel at 16:8 most of which can be seen in the footnotes of modern translations after 16:8 under headings such as “The Longer Ending” and “The Shorter Ending of Mark’s Gospel.” These alternative endings show that Mark was transmitted in antiquity either with or without a resurrection account and if the former, with more or less detail.

Then there’s the question of the stability of the text of Mark 10. The text of Mark 10:46 is odd since in its present form it fails to explain what happened in Jericho: “And they came to Jericho. And as he was leaving Jericho with his disciples and a large crowd, Bartimaeus, son of Timaeus, a blind beggar was sitting by the way.” Secret Mark gives us an explanation of the present enigmatic text of Mark 10:46. Thus, it compels us to ask how old and how well-known our canonical version of Mark is. Perhaps it is a more public, less secret version of Secret Mark. Secret Mark also invites us to reexamine traditions about Jesus’ performing baptisms, as in John 3:22. It encourages us to re examine the relationship between synoptic gospels like Mark and John’s gospel where the account of the raising of Lazarus bears some resemblance to the Secret Mark’s account of a young man’s baptism by Jesus.

Secret Mark reminds us that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophies. We can’t simply destroy texts or vilify scholars with whom we may disagree. Let’s take up the opportunities Secret Mark offers for all our reconstructions of Christian origins.

Dr. Deirdre Good is professor of New Testament at The General Theological Seminary, specializing in the Synoptic Gospels, Christian Origins, Noncanonical writings and biblical languages. While she is an American citizen, she grew up in Kenya and loves marmite which may explain certain features of her blog, On Not Being a Sausage.

By R. William Carroll

Last weekend on our vestry retreat, we did a brief Bible study on Psalm 30. One of the verses we reflected on for some time was verse 6, “Weeping may spend the night, but joy comes in the morning.” Certainly one of the most beautiful verses in the Bible, it anticipates the Paschal mystery, in which we pass over with our Lord Jesus, out of death into life. The whole Psalm exalts God, who has lifted the Psalmist up from deep suffering. He has been brought very low from a place of security and strength, and then, suddenly, God lifts him up again to a place of safety and joy. A truly disturbing thought is found in verse 8: “Then you hid your face, and I was filled with fear.”

What would it mean for God to hide God’s face from us? What a terrifying thought. The vestry and I spoke about the experience of Good Friday, when Jesus is broken on the cross, and God’s heart skips a beat as he lies dead in the tomb. On Good Friday, everything falls to pieces, and not even God can pick them up again until Easter.

The hiding of God’s face is a popular theme in monastic literature. The source of this is the story where God tells Moses that he cannot look on God’s face. So Moses hides himself in the rock, and looks at God’s backside as God passes by. Luther takes up this tradition as he discusses the distinction between Law and Gospel. His whole quest, to find a gracious God, could be described as a search for God’s face. Other writers use the theme to describe the experience of God’s absence at the heart of many a spiritual journey, an experience often labeled the “dark night of the soul,” a phrase used by the great Carmelite, John of the Cross.

At times, God seems to be silent and withdrawn. Whatever intimacy and friendship with God we have known disappears, and there is only a void. It is a time when we may face severe temptation, when we may have to cling to God in faith and love, even when there seems to be no sound basis for either. How long, O Lord, another Psalm asks, will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? The Psalms are not filled with false piety but with a genuine struggle for faith.

Writers about the Christian spiritual journey often hearken back to what is called the desert experience. The early mothers and fathers would journey into the desert to face their demons and find God. We often think that the life of prayer should be a source of comfort and joy, but it is also a risky venture. True prayer causes us to let go of our certainties, our desires, and our will, seeking nothing but God. This is especially important in an age that sees “spirituality” as just one more commodity to be purchased, or a source of religious “highs.”

Thomas Merton, no stranger to the desert experience, once wrote:

“The true contemplative is not one who prepares his mind for a particular message that he wants or expects to hear, but is one who remains empty because he knows that he can never expect to anticipate the words that will transform his darkness into light. He does not even anticipate a special kind of transformation. He does not demand light instead of darkness. He waits on the Word of God in silence, and when he is ‘answered,’ it is not so much by a word that bursts into his silence. It is by his silence itself, suddenly, inexplicably revealing itself to him as a word of great power, full of the voice of God.”

I think that all of us can experience this interior desert. We don’t have to travel far away either. We can encounter the desert in our day to day lives. And I think this fact points us, we who don’t necessarily believe in a devil and certainly not one with a pointy tail, to what is really going on in the threefold temptation of Christ. Here we see the very Word of God confronted with God’s silence. Jesus will face this silence again in Gethsemane and on the Cross. In the Gospels, we see Jesus wrestling with his vocation when God’s face is hidden, yet embracing it with love.

Today, in the desert, Jesus defines himself through responsible choices. Throughout his ministry, he says “yes” to some things and “no” to others. Satan knows how to make a good offer, some of the things he would give Jesus are quite attractive and seductive—food when he is starving, in one case, and all the kingdoms of this world (they are apparently Satan’s to give), in another. The devil even cites Scripture in support. Nevertheless, three times, Jesus says “no,” remaining steadfast and faithful in the midst of real temptation. So the devil leaves him, and the angels wait upon him.

Lent is a time of intentionally clearing space for God. We shouldn’t be surprised if we encounter a great and awful silence, when we do so. Fasting and self-denial are meant to leave us without the props we use to fill in the spaces that are meant for God alone. Silence and solitude open us up to thoughts and feelings we ordinarily drown out with the noise and busy-ness of our lives. The Scriptures point us to God’s promises and steadfast love—to the powerful Word that lies hidden in God’s silence.

This is how it goes when we walk in God’s presence for any length of time. The Israelites too, when they left Egypt, wandered forty years in the desert before they entered the Promised Land. They doubted God’s good intentions and complained that Moses had led them out to kill them. It took faith to keep putting one foot in front of the other until they reached the Promised Land.

The Good News is: we have a God who is able to journey with us as we really are. And to lead us, kicking and screaming if necessary, into freedom. I’d like to close with another text from Merton, a famous and beloved prayer. I was discussing it with a parishioner the other day, and it reminded me of the sermon I preached in front of my parish’s search committee. It was about a friend of mine who died too young. This prayer was one of his favorites, and he took great comfort in it, in the last days of his life. It makes for a wholesome meditation in this desert season, or whenever God’s face seems hidden from us.

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following Your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please You does in fact please You. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that, if I do this, You will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust You always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for You are ever with me, and You will never leave me to face my perils alone.

The Rev. R. William Carroll serves as rector of the Episcopal Church of the Good Shepherd in Athens, Ohio (Diocese of Southern Ohio). He received his Ph.D. in Christian theology from the University of Chicago Divinity School. He co-edits The Covenant Journal with Lane Denson and blogs at Anglican Resistance. He is a novice in the Third Order of the Society of Saint Francis.

By Greg Jones

John the Baptist was real. He was a historical figure – not a literary invention, not a mythical fantasy. He had a life of his own, with parents, family, a name, a neighborhood, a nation. He was a real person, no less than you and I.

He is spoken of in books – not only in the Gospels but also in the books of Josephus. John was charismatic enough to draw thousands of disciples to himself and lead them to change their lives dramatically.

The Baptist was full-on real, and widely known in his own day. The evidence suggests he had a very large following of many thousands – attracting not only the poor and the restless – but also the rich and the comfortable. His own king took interest in him, and then, fearing his power, had the Baptist killed.

John the Baptist was MAJOR – and yet, we really don't know most of the details of his life – because he gave it away to point to Jesus. John was big, but he made himself small, as he pointed toward Christ and showed that disciples of God must live lives of giving it all away.
It's the central paradox of the Gospel – to live, we must die.

John got that message first.

Of course, I'm not talking about the past really. I'm talking about us too. For we are tomorrow's past – at best to be forgotten by this world and remembered in the next – at worst, to be remembered in this world but not in the next.

If John the Baptist has anything to say at all to us it is this: "Jesus is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, Go to Him, See Him, and Stay there, forever."

In the Gospel of John, after the Baptist identifies Jesus, two of his own followers leave him, Andrew and Simon Peter, and go after Jesus. They go to see where Jesus stays – or abides -- in late afternoon on the Sabbath eve - and then stay for the entire Sabbath -- a 24 hour period.
The Gospel of John is suggesting that this is what true discipleship looks like: Leaving your old master, and abiding with the Lord for 24 hours a day.

Are we doing that? Or are we popping in on the Lord for an hour a week and returning to our all-day masters the rest of the time?

Friends – God's grace is free – but discipleship does have a cost. And the cost is the giving up of our old masters – our all-day masters – whatever those are – to abide with Christ all the time.
Who is your master -- this hour? And the next?

The Rev. Samuel Gregory Jones ("Greg") became a member of Christ's Body at St. Columba's in Washington, D.C., and he was educated at the University of North Carolina and the General Theological Seminary, where he is on the Board. Greg is husband of Melanie, father of Coco & Anna, rector of St. Michael's Raleigh, and author of Beyond Da Vinci (Seabury Books, 2004). He blogs at fatherjones.com.

By Greg Jones

Only two of the four gospels talk about the events surrounding the birth of Jesus – Matthew and Luke. Luke talks about angels and shepherds and all of what happened regarding an inn and a manger, etc. Matthew skips all of that – and talks about the arrival of some Magi from the east – following a star – and bearing gifts.

Contrary to legend, we don't know where the Magi came from, what their names were, or how many of them there were. Only tradition tells us these things. And tradition varies. In the West, their names are Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar. In the Ethiopian Church they call them Hor, Karsudan, and Basanater.

In Armenia, its Kagbha, Badadakharida and Badadilma. Syrian Christians call them Larvandad, Gushnasaph, and Hormisdas.

Chinese Christians believe that one of the wise ones was from China – perhaps his name was Liu Shang, chief astrologer in the Han dynasty, from the time Jesus was born. Liu Shang discovered a new star the Chinese call the "King Star." Notably, Liu Shang disappered from the emperor's court for two years after he discovered the King Star. Chinese Christians argue that he took the Silk Road west to Bethlehem. Marco Polo claims to have seen the tomb of the magi in the Persian city of Saba in 1270.

Who knows. But, the Gospel story we read on the feast of the Epiphany is not so much about the Magi as it is about all seekers after God from everywhere on Earth.

We don't know who the magi really were, but we know who they represent: you and me. We are seekers after God too – right? And I believe that like them, you and I have been made to know by Grace where the King of Love is – and he's in our midst. Christ is born by all who bear him – and Christ is within us as we are within him.

Which is why once we've been led to Christ, we just can't go back to the same old ways. We just can't go back to Herod.

Just as Herod represents the vile, the corrupt and the captive to sin and its power – let us not go back to him once we've had a glimpse of Jesus. Let's not say our prayers, worship, receive communion, enjoy Christian fellowship – all means of Grace – all ways to connect with the eternal plan of God – and then, go back to Herod.

In the earliest days of the Church, there was a common way of teaching seekers about holiness. They used an approach called 'the Two Ways.' One was the Way of Light. The other -- the Way of Darkness.

And I believe we do have to choose as best we can between those ways in this life. For I believe with the wise ones who first saw Christ that in this World there is an eternal plan – and that God is working toward the healing and unity of all in Christ. I believe this is the free, gracious and expansive plan of God, which seeks to include all people in the Kindgom.

I believe with the wise ones who first saw Christ that in this world there is another plan too. That plan is about conquest, ownership, worldy power – and finally – the annihilation of creation by the One who loves it NOT.

The powers and principalities of this world – according to Paul – don't love God or His Creation and they seek to ruin it. And friends that is what Herod represents. And that Herod – that power and principality – is not just a long ago character out of the bible. That Herod is a part of our lives even now.

For the light has come into the darkness – and in Him God was pleased to dwell. If you call Jesus Lord – then the Grace of God is also in your life – even now. If Jesus is in your life – even now – then don't go back to Herod.

This year, I invite you to examine in what ways you are 'going back to Herod' on a seven day a week, real life in the world kind of way – and how you can find a new road home – to the kingdom.

The Rev. Samuel Gregory Jones ("Greg") became a member of Christ's Body at St. Columba's in Washington, D.C., and he was educated at the University of North Carolina and the General Theological Seminary, where he is on the Board. He is the author of Beyond Da Vinci (Seabury Books, 2004). He blogs at fatherjones.com.

By Derek Olsen

The secular New Year has come and gone—and that means it’s time for resolutions for the year that will be 2008. Like many Americans, I’m making a resolution to do something about my physical health. Now, I could just resolve to “be healthy” but something that vague and general will never translate into actions, something that vague and general will never be formed into habits. And that’s what we’re really talking about, right?—habits, dedicated ways of being.

I’m not just resolving to “be healthy”, I’m resolving some specific things: to buy organic food whenever possible, to buy local food whenever possible, to eat my five servings of fruits and veggies daily, and to exercise at least three times a week.

So far so good, but now—what about my spiritual health? Doesn’t it require just as much nurture as my physical health? And again, what sort of resolution should I make? Let me give you a hint: if “be healthy” didn’t cut it, neither will “be holy”… Just like the physical goals, we need something that we can be accountable for. As a Scripture scholar, I’m always partial to the goal “read more Scripture” but even that’s too vague and general to form a habit.

One option is to select a plan that reads through the whole Bible in a year. Some folks may be wary of such a thing…as if it weren’t properly Anglican or something...but let me assure you, nothing could be farther from the truth! As it turns out, the earliest one-year Bible reading plan that I know is thoroughly catholic. It’s a set of instructions from the 8th century that lays out the cycle of readings for the monastic Night Office. Biblical books were read straight-through in patterns that coincided with the liturgical seasons: for instance Exodus was read in Lent, Isaiah in Advent, Acts and Revelation in Easter, etc. It was a plan with staying power, too—I’ve seen versions with minor edits and tweaks from the 11th century and we can even find references to it in the very first Book of Common Prayer.

In the preface to the 1549 BCP, Archbishop Cranmer (following the work of the Spanish liturgist Cardinal Quiñonez) laments the loss of this yearly reading system and goes on to present a new version of it in the body of the prayer book. No longer restricted to the Night Office for monastics and clergy alone, Cranmer incorporated it into reworking of the monastic liturgies that we know today as the Daily Office—Morning and Evening Prayer. This revised system offered two readings per service for a total of four daily that read sequentially through the Old Testament (except for some bits of Leviticus, Chronicles, and Ezekiel) once every year—and through the New Testament (except for Revelation) three times every year. This system remained in place until sometime after the authorization of the 1662 prayer book. In short, a one-year Bible reading plan is about as Anglican as you can get!

If a one-year plan sounds like a little much, another terrific option to work on your spiritual health is to move to the modern two-year plan. Cranmer’s one-year system eventually gave way to longer versions with shorter readings. The Daily Office lectionary in the back of our current prayer book stands in direct continuity with these. It reads through most of Scripture with three readings a day stretched over two years. Perhaps taking up the discipline of the Daily Office and utilizing this Scripture reading plan might be a good option for you.

While either of these plans appears daunting at first glance, remember that we’re talking about habits here, not one-time—or even one-year—events. If you want to start reading through Scripture or praying the Daily Office, approach it with the same strategies as you would a physical exercise plan. Find some buddies to help out! You don’t have to read or pray together—though it may help—but checking in and being accountable to others is often a great motivator. Also, commit to reading your Bible or doing either Morning or Evening Prayer a certain number of times each week and increase it as you are able. If you pick a sequential plan and you miss a few days or even a week, show yourself a little grace; don’t beat yourself up or even try to make up what you missed—just continue on with your plan. After all, it’s a cycle—you’ll catch it the next time around!

Click here for a copy of Cranmer’s original reading plan and here for online and downloadable resources to help you get started with the Daily Office.

Derek Olsen is in the final stretch of completing a Ph.D. in New Testament (with a healthy side of Homiletics) at Emory University. His reflections on life, liturgical spirituality, and being a Gen-X dad appear at Haligweorc.

By Marshall Scott

So there I was, today, looking in at one of the Episcopal blogs -- one of THOSE blogs. You know the type: issues are raised by blog owners and moderators, who do have a clear position, but who are themselves relatively orderly and polite. Then, extensive comments are posted, most by folks who agree with the owners and moderators; some by folks who agree intemperately; and a few by folks who are, well, virulent. I do visit such sites, of more than one position, and some more than others; but they exist across the spectrum of our current Episcopal and Anglican disagreements.

And for each of those sites there are a few respondents who don’t fit the mold. They may hold the “other” position, or they may simply want to play [angel’s or devil’s] advocate. And among them there are gadflies. Gadflies are usually civil (and uncivil gadflies usually get moderated out), but are always both consistent and persistent. They are convicted of the rightness of their respective causes, principles, and authorities. They assert much more than they reason, however reasonable they perceive themselves to be. They are happy, or at least determined, to stand as Daniel in the lions’ den in order to proclaim their positions. They delight in taking on all comers. They find moral satisfaction in being challenged, and even more in being attacked; for blessed are they indeed if they “suffer for the sake of the Gospel.”

And, predictably enough, it does indeed become a den, although whether of lions, foxes, or adders is not always clear. A gadfly is inevitably successful in generating not simply challenge and discussion, but also an attack. Shortly some few of the regulars on the site fall into intemperate and uncivil posts, largely of thinly veiled (if veiled at all) ad hominem attacks. There are those, of course, who seek to discuss and to argue logically and civilly; but they can be drowned out by the volume if not the number of the more personal, less temperate responses. And those less temperate responses are less likely to be moderated away, because the moderator is so conscious of the suffering that has led the responder to speak truth, however intemperately.

So, there I was today, looking at one of those Episcopal blogs, and I was struck suddenly by my favorite verses from Proverbs:

[4] Answer not a fool according to his folly,
lest you be like him yourself.
[5] Answer a fool according to his folly,
lest he be wise in his own eyes.
(Proverbs 26:4-5, RSV)

I looked at how the discussion had descended into diatribe and distraction, and I suddenly wondered what I was to do. Should I put my two cents in, trying to reason against the assertions of the gadfly? If I did, would I be associating myself with the intemperance of the intemperate responders? Should I refrain, and allow both the assertions of the gadfly and the virulence of the intemperate to stand unchallenged for both had gone beyond reason? What to do?

I spent Saturday of Labor Day Weekend in the midst of a cultural experience. Specifically, I attended my first feis, my first Irish dancing competition. My niece made her first parent-less trip to come and compete. Family members outnumbered dancers in the room, but they faded from view, overwhelmed by the colorful riot of dancing dresses. They showed every color in the crayon box (although there is surprisingly little green and, less surprisingly, even less orange), decorated as they were with shapes and patterns that once showed family and tribe and allegiance.

In a way, the current Episcopal and Anglican discussions have all the ordered chaos of a feis: within the parameters of the larger event there is the dull mutter of the crowded room, the mingling of hundreds of conversations, until someone calls a tune. Then, for a period there is great focused interest, as most in the room watch the competitors doing their very best to outdo one another in optimizing the balance of authentic choreography, competent performance, and that little bit of added presentation that might hold the attention of the judge. After that there is applause for all, or at least for one’s own; and impatient waiting to see who has outdone whom; and a return to the dull mutter. There will, of course, be some ranking at the end, and some competitors will be thrilled and some disappointed, and their respective families with them. But most present simply want to have danced well, and to have heard their efforts appreciated.

In parallel, we who want to take our own places in this discussion, have opportunities in the blogosphere (and elsewhere, certainly) to share our reflections and to see the reflections of others. At our best, we’re also trying to optimize a balance of authenticity, competence, and that little bit of added presentation that we hope will allow us to stand out a bit. Most of the time as a common enterprise I think we manage relatively well; but sometimes it isn’t any prettier for us than for the poor, unprepared dancer. And in all those situations, there are the colors and patterns of opinion that claim family and tribe and allegiance. It is in just those circumstances that we need to think about the passage from Proverbs: whether our participation will challenge foolishness, or simply contribute to it.

It’s September; and there are those who have seen events of this September, and of the Autumn to follow, as critical, literally as moments of crisis. There is much talk of deadlines and decisions, of imposition and resistance, of the standing and falling of many in Zion. Because I continue to think these are struggles for identity (and I do think it’s about identity, with such issues as sexual morality and Biblical authority and historical precedent being discriminators within the identities at issue), they’re all the more liable to be personal, ad hominem responses. I think Episcopal Café is one place that has worked hard to maintain discourse instead of dissonance; and while most of us who write here would be considered “progressive,” we have all sought to offer our best, and to offer the best of the Episcopal Church as we see it.

But out there in the rest of the blogosphere, on our own blogs and in responding to the blogs of others, I think we need to reflect on Proverbs. We believe the voices of the Net are meaningful and in some sense representative in Episcopal and Anglican discussions. We believe them part of the conversation, along with sermons and official statements and press releases. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t be putting our own view out, and we wouldn’t be reading and responding to the voices of others. As we do so, let’s think carefully, and respond appropriately. The lessons from Proverbs should give us all pause; and if they don’t, there is always that other proverb: “Better to be silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt.”

The Rev. Marshall Scott is a chaplain in the Saint Luke’s Health System, a ministry of the Diocese of West Missouri. A past president of the Assembly of Episcopal Healthcare Chaplains, and an associate of the Order of the Holy Cross, he keeps the blog Episcopal Chaplain at the Bedside.

By Derek Olsen

Psalm 119, weighing in at 176 verses, has the virtue of being the longest psalm in the Scriptures. According to Cranmer’s original 30-day plan for reading the psalms, we start 119 on the evening of the 24th and don’t finish it until two days later on the evening of the 26th. The more you look at, the more unusual it becomes. First, you’ll notice that it’s broken up into twenty-two parts, each containing eight verses, and that our prayer book identifies each with an odd word. Take a look at the original Hebrew and you’ll quickly see why—even if you don’t read any Hebrew at all… This psalm is an acrostic, meaning that different lines begin with successive letters of the Hebrew alphabet. There are other acrostics among the psalms but they tend to be 22 verses long: one for each letter of the alphabet. Only Psalm 119 dwells on each letter for eight verses.

Furthermore, this psalm doesn’t “go” anywhere. Some psalms are narratives; they literally take you on a journey whether it’s out of Egypt and into the Promised Land (like Ps 78) or from vignette to vignette (like Ps 109). But Ps 119 isn’t like these; you can read it forward or read it backward—starting with v. 176 and reading back up to v. 1—and it doesn’t change the meaning one bit.

Lastly, the closer you look at each set of eight verses, the more you start seeing certain words. In fact there are a set of synonyms which keep appearing over and over again: “word,” “statutes,” “judgments,” “decrees,” “commandments,” “law”… They appear with such regularity that it becomes clear that there is some highly elaborate pattern at work directing the structure of the psalm: each verse has to begin with the same letter of the alphabet and as many of these synonyms for “law” must be worked in as possible before moving on to the next letter.

For these reasons—especially the last—a whole school of Old Testament scholarship takes Psalm 119 to be people’s exhibit A of everything wrong with the worship of Israel before the time of Jesus. This school, German and beginning in the mid to late 19th century, was heavily influenced by Romanticism and its notions of authenticity, inspiration, and artistic expression. The prophets! they cried, the prophets were the truest and best example of authentic religion in the Old Testament because they present the individual genius (as in Romanticism), directly wrestling with messages from God (not just “texts”), rejecting conventional formulae, and presenting their bold calls to the people who subsequently reject them (a classic Romantic criterion for true authenticity). This psalm (they said) uses a formulaic structure that clearly stifles the creative spirit, points back to a legalistic religious text instead of living personal experience, and is completely and thoroughly anonymous; in no way does it satisfy their religio-aesthetic standards.

I’ve never liked this understanding of Psalm 119. Rather, I see Ps 119 as a word of invitation.

The German school sees this psalm as “artificial”—but, I’d argue—perhaps that is where we find its value. Lately when I read Psalm 119 I’ve been reminded of two things: a poem and a picture. I’d agree that it’s artificial—but then, so is all good poetry. That is, a poet voluntarily embraces restrictions in order to use a form that restricts expression in order to enable meaning. To accept the boundaries of rhythm and meter is to accept a challenge to communicate in a form that itself communicates by its very rules and strictures. Reading Psalm 119, I think of the Pantoum—a stylized form of poem where the first and third lines of each four line stanza become the second and fourth of the next. Because of its shape, the Pantoum lends itself to poems about time or experience because of the constant repetition of elements and the measured progress of meaning. (Here’s a good example.) So what is the function of this psalm’s particular form? Where is it inviting us? What state is it evoking within us?

And that leads me to the picture: a carpet page from the Lindisfarne Gospels. One of the great treasures produced by early medieval English scriptoriums, the pages that set each gospel off from one another are a dizzy and dazzling nest of knots and curls and circles one within another. They, no less than the psalm, are artificial as well—but does this detract from or create the beauty they embody? And indeed it is the very curling and looping that leads me from this artistry back to the psalm. The curls do not lead us anywhere except back from whence we came. They invite us not to linear progress from one side to another but rather to the places and spaces within and among themselves. Just as the picture invites reflection and study and contemplation, so too the psalm invites us to rest, to wait, to ponder.

The form of the psalm—especially if you’re already familiar with the acrostic form and if you’re expecting the psalm to head directly to the next letter—holds you back. It contradicts the expectation of informed readers, deliberately slowing their pace through the poem. The use of synonyms further invites careful reading. They ask that attention to be paid to shades of meaning. Is there a reason why “decrees” appears in one place rather than another? What's the nuance of “word”? Only close and careful attention to the text and its turns, a measured turning over of the verses and repeated readings will yield results.

As the form communicates, compelling a closer reading, to content surges ahead to reveal a why and wherefore. The world that the psalmist evokes is not a safe place. It's a place filled with dangers and powerful enemies. This isn't a psalm about contemplation that takes place away from the world. Rather, the sense the psalmist draws forth is that contemplation of God's commandments and then translating that contemplation into righteous action is a means of survival! But it's more than that too—moving through survival, faithful obedience becomes a source of joy. The word “delight” in regard to the Law appears no less than ten times.

Contemplation blossoming into righteous action proceeding into a disposition of holy joy leading once again into contemplation. At points, the Church has seen this psalm as a paradigm of how daily life ought to be understood. One classical scheme of arranging the psalms for the Daily Office—including the Tridentine Breviary of Pope Pius V—assigned the entirety of Psalm 119 to be read throughout the Little Hours that punctuated the day. Thus it would be begun shortly after the sun's rise, then would be recalled three more times until the late afternoon and the sun's wane, each and every day. Reminding and reforming those who prayed that their daily labor ought to be intertwined and entangled with the contemplation and incarnation of God's Law and Word. A vestige of this theology remains in the first psalm selection of our current Noonday Prayer.

Psalm 119 is long. It is repetitious. But these are the qualities that invite us into a spirit of contemplation. It issues an invitation to dive into the Word and—yes—into the Law, to roll ourselves in it, to lose and loose ourselves within its depth and breadth and height and width. To find hope. To find delight. To learn to say with the psalmist, echoing the spirit of the true Psalmist, the great paradox of Law and Gospel: “I will run the way of your commandments, for you have set my heart at liberty.”

Derek Olsen is in the final stretch of completing a Ph.D. in New Testament (with a healthy side of Homiletics) at Emory University. His full-time calling of keeping up with two adorable preschool girls and his wife, a priest in the Diocese of Atlanta, is complicated by his day-jobs as a database programmer and an adjunct professor at Emory’s Candler School of Theology where he teaches in homiletics, liturgics, and New Testament. His blog is Haligweorc.

By Greg Jones

Many of us know that story time is essential with children. I love the time I spend reading and inventing stories with my daughters. I cherish it. But as the brightest minds have begun to ‘rediscover’ – stories are not just for kids anymore. Studies show in fact that story-telling is the most effective way of communicating a complex of ideas – about truth, about culture, about expectation, about social norms, about values – to any person or group of people. Scholar Harold Cole explains that story telling is defined as transferring a picture in the mind of one person to the minds of others through the full-bodied experience that embraces the mind, the imagination, the emotions and the human will. Anybody who has heard a good sermon, seen a good play, or heard a great ballad understands this.

And, because it is so effective – being indeed the fullest communication a human is capable of perhaps – it works in all environments and settings. When I was a missionary in Honduras, I wasn’t particularly effective at explaining the systematic theology I had read with my illiterate parishioners. Notably, I am still not particularly effective at explaining it with my college-educated North American parishioners. But in both contexts, when I simply told my story and how it was a part of God’s story – in the local language – everybody connected.
It’s that simple – and that brilliant.

And this is why the Bible is filled with stories – shaped and influenced by the inspired telling of thousands of faithful human beings across centuries, nations and languages. Amazingly, they all seem to speak of the same things: the loving God who made us, redeemed us, and sustains us – if only we abide with Him.

The live telling of sacred stories forms the oldest foundation of the biblical tradition. The utterance of the Word was first and foremost an oral communication, only to be written down and put into a finalized form at long last. As such, the heart of the bible is story – story upon story upon story. All of which fit together into a master story, an overarching narrative which encompasses the whole bible.

Thus, part of the magic and mystery of the Bible is that it is telling a universal and eternal story – through many small stories – and we may find ourselves within that story of God and Creation which is the Bible.

It is quite clear that human beings, and Christians especially, are ‘story-formed people.’ The importance of stories and storytelling cannot be underestimated, and in non-literate cultures oral story telling is a highly developed art form. Even for most of the history of the Hebrew Bible, for centuries after it was finally fixed in written form, the vowels were intentionally left out. The bible was not intended to be read silently by literates, but vocalized and intoned and read aloud in a community setting – wherever two or three or more were gathered.

The Rev. Samuel Gregory Jones ("Greg") is husband of Melanie, father of Coco & Anna, rector of St. Michael's Raleigh, and author of Beyond Da Vinci (Seabury Books, 2004). He blogs at fatherjones.com.

by Ann Fontaine

Is there life after death and if so what will it be? In a Woody Allen movie, a man (played by Allen) converts to Christianity. His mother screams and goes to her room. The father asks why he would want to do that. Allen’s character replies by asking his father, “Aren’t you worried about you know, ... after?" The father says, "No, I don’t worry, I will be dead!"

Philosophers and religions discuss death and afterlife extensively. Some religions do not profess any concept of life after death; others such as Christianity have extensive belief systems and writings on subject. I tend to agree with the father in the movie – “I will be dead.” All I can really do anything about is here and now.

Currently I am intrigued by the concept put forth in the trilogy His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman. Note: The daemons in his trilogy are an externalized part of the human's spirit embodied in an animal form. A daemon is capable of shifting species to reflect the emotional state of their human companion until puberty when the daemon's identity become fixed.

Lyra, the heroine of the trilogy says, "When you go out of here, all the particles that make you up will loosen and float apart, just like your daemons did. If you've seen people dying, you know what that looks like. But your daemons aren't just nothing now; they're part of everything. All the atoms that were them, they've gone into the air and the wind and the trees and the earth and all the living things. They'll never vanish. They're just part of everything. And that's exactly what'll happen to you, I swear to you, I promise on my honor. You'll drift apart, it's true, but you'll be out in the open, part of everything alive again." (The Amber Spyglass, page 335)

"Even if it means oblivion... I'll welcome it, because it won't be nothing, we'll be alive again in a thousand blades of grass and a million leaves, we'll be falling in the raindrops and blowing in the fresh breeze, we'll be glittering in the dew under the stars and the moon out there in the physical world which is our true home and always was." (The Amber Spyglass, page 336)

"To know that after a spell in the dark we'll come out again to a sweet land like this, to be free of the sky like the birds, well, that's the greatest promise anyone could wish for." (The Amber Spyglass, page 532) 


Many funeral sermons talk of reunion with loved ones or life continuing in some improved version of what we know now. The Scriptures give a mixed message. The letters of Paul give some suggestions. Much of our imagery comes from Revelation with its metaphors of streets of gold and lakes of fire describing what awaits us. Some Christian denominations have a highly developed idea of afterlife and others leave it to the category of mystery. Some branches of Islam tell of living in gardens of pleasure. Most of Judaism does not have an afterlife theology. The most one can read in The Bible is that there will be some sort of ongoing life in God but even that is unclear. As I age and more and more friends die, it is comforting to imagine that I will be in an improved known life but I wonder. I think it more likely to be nothing like anything I know but I trust that it will be in the hands of God if it is anything at all.

What I do care about is life now, making the kingdom of God present in the world. As it says in the Lord’s Prayer, I pray “thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as in heaven.” I care about leaving the world having contributed to making it a better place for all people. I hope that our children and grandchildren and their children will have a place to live on earth, that they will find meaningful lives, and contribute in their time.

Mary Oliver wrote in “When Death Comes” 


…When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

The people I look to are those who have not just visited with their time here on earth. They have delighted in their time here and brought joy as a primary gift to those around them. They have spent their days making space for others.

In the end I hope that death will be as Pullman describes it, "The first ghost to leave the world of the dead was Roger. He took a step forward, and turned to look back at Lyra, and laughed in surprise as he found himself turning into the night, the starlight, the air... and then he was gone, leaving behind such a vivid little burst of happiness that Will was reminded of the bubbles in a glass of champagne." (The Amber Spyglass, page 382)

Philip Pullman web site -- http://www.randomhouse.com/features/pullman/
Movie website -- http://www.goldencompassmovie.com/ Fall 2007

The Rev. Ann Fontaine, Diocese of Wyoming, keeps the blogs Green Lent and what the tide brings in. She is the author of Streams of Mercy: a meditative commentary on the Bible.

The Rev. Ann Fontaine, Diocese of Wyoming, keeps the blogs Green Lent and what the tide brings in. She is the author of Streams of Mercy: a meditative commentary on the Bible.

By Greg Jones

Just a century ago, in all of Africa, there were merely ten million Christians, and most lived in three countries: Egypt & Ethiopia with their Christian communities dating from antiquity, and South Africa, with its large European population. Today, there are roughly four-hundred million Christians in Africa. Christian growth in Africa has occurred in a context of horrific death, disease, war and oppression. In contrast, since the last major Western wars and economic depressions ended a half-century ago, Christianity in Europe and North America is fighting major decline.

But, lest we assume the Bible is a novelty in Africa, we must remember that Africans have been reading the Bible for a long time! Indeed, Africans have been engaging the Word of God in the Bible for millennia.

Africa is not only mentioned in the Bible, it has long been a place where biblical interpretation has flourished. Indeed, many of the Church’s fathers were Africans in the first four centuries of Christianity. Clement of Alexandria, Tertullian of Carthage, Origen of Alexandria, and Augustine of Hippo – were all Africans.

It is easy for us today to forget that just over thirteen centuries ago, Christianity was the dominant religion among civilized folks in Northern Africa and into the Horn. But, with the conquest of those lands by Muslim Arabs in the seventh century, all that changed nearly overnight. Most Christian Africans converted to the new religion, and only a handful of Christians survived to modern times. Apart from pockets in Egypt and Ethiopia, Christianity did not thrive in Africa between the Arab conquest and the early modern period.

When Europeans began to colonize sub-Saharan Africa in earnest, in the 19th century, they brought missionaries with them, to help with the project. As such, the incoming missionaries brought not only the Bible to sub-Saharan Africa, they brought also their modern Western worldview – a worldview more like Thomas Jefferson than Origen of Alexandria.

Most modern Africans have mixed thoughts about the way they received the Bible from the West. On the one hand, it is clear they appreciate having been given the Word of God in the Bible. On the other hand, they remember and resent the patronizing modern Western mindset which came along with it. On the one hand, they admire the way so many Western missionaries ended up living, suffering and dying in Africa for the sake of spreading God’s Word. On the other hand, they remember the way in which those same missionaries disparaged and condemned the African’s culture and traditions. On the one hand, they are aware that Africa figures in the Bible itself, and on the other they know it was only recently that most Africans have received it.

Desmond Tutu describes the mixed feelings with this parable:

When the white man arrived we had the land and they had the Bible. They said, ‘Let us pray.’ When we opened our eyes, they had the land and we had the Bible. And we got the better of the deal.

Tutu makes a poignant and multi-layered observation here. On one level, the parable tells the painful story of African exploitation and domination by Westerners. The plain meaning is, “We were duped by men carrying bibles.” The second meaning, which goes deeper, is the pride modern African Christians take in their grasp of the truth of the Word of God in the Bible, despite the duplicitous way in which it was first given to them.

Ironically, when the missionaries finally made good translations of the Bible into African languages, the Bible and its message could be heard on its own terms, apart from the dominant modernism of Western missionaries. The fruit of this engagement with the Word of God in the Bible by Africans on their own terms, has been the explosive growth of African-founded churches, institutions and organizations which have merged African culture and tradition with their own readings of the biblical story. Rejecting the West’s demonization of African culture, the newly liberated African Christians followed the biblical principle of upholding all that is beautiful in a culture, and doing away only with those cultural traits which plainly distort the Gospel. The inculturation of the Bible into a truly African context was the thing that needed to happen – just as it had happened in Europe many centuries ago.

As a result of this inculturation of the Word of God, in fairly recent times, denominational differences in Africa don’t mean much. Importantly, outside of South Africa perhaps, there is not a distinctively Anglican approach to the Bible in Africa. African specialist and Episcopal priest the Rev. Dr. Grant Le Marquand tells me that “Western denominationalism doesn’t make a lot of sense in Africa. In East Africa, for example, all the various churches pretty much look the same – if you had a blindfold on you might not tell the difference.” But, he says there are some distinctives in African biblical engagement, in general.

First of all, Africans are generally critical of modern Western approaches to the Bible, including those of the 19th century evangelists who brought them the Bible. Africans identify very much with the worldview of the Bible – finding it reminiscent of their own traditional African worldviews. They believe the modern Western worldview, bereft of mystery, spirits and supernaturalism, doesn’t truly resonate with the biblical worldview. The typical African sees a universe steeped in mystery – a cosmic landscape dotted with spirits, sorcery, animal sacrifice, ancestor worship, and so on – much like the one they find described in Scripture. When Africans were freed from Western interpretations of the text, and Western disparagement of African culture, they could read the Bible themselves. And, importantly, the world Africans encountered in Scripture was closer to their own world than the world of the missionaries. “When they would encounter passages about sacrifice, tyranny, blood, suffering, spirit, healing, etc. – they could deeply grasp it as of their own worldview," Le Marquand writes. "The African noted how closely connected that their world and the biblical world are.”

In addition to identifying more closely with the Bible’s own supernaturalist worldview, Africans also identify with the Bible’s communal vision of humanity. Africans are surprised by Western individualistic approaches to the Bible. They do not believe individuals are equal to the task of biblical interpretation. Ubuntu is the African notion that a person’s identity depends upon her relationships. Whereas the modern Western mindset seems to be, “I think therefore I am,” the ubuntu mindset is, “I am because we are.”

Finally, in addition to a worldview steeped in mystery, and a communal understanding of human identity, Africans engage with the Word of God in the Bible from within their context of suffering and pain.

With few exceptions, modern Africa is a study in pain, death, disease, war and oppression. Independence from colonial rule did not bring ‘the true law of liberty’ to Africa. As such, all African Christians read the Bible in light of brutal circumstances. It is perhaps this last distinctive which draws them so deeply into the biblical story – which is about suffering and deliverance, oppression and liberation, bondage and redemption.

The Rev. Samuel Gregory Jones ("Greg"), rector of St. Michael's Church, Raliegh, N. C., is on the board of his alma mater, the General Theological Seminary. He blogs at fatherjones.com.

By Greg Jones

The desire to engage with Scripture as a means of communicating with God has been a part of the Anglican tradition since Christianity came to the British isles in apostolic times. Even after the modern period began, with all its concern for historicity, objectivity and science, leading Anglicans like Samuel Taylor Coleridge proposed a 'third-way' of engaging the Bible for modern people, who are simultaneously open to the mystery and power of the Word of God in the Bible. Though Coleridge is primarily remembered today for his poetry, in his own time he was a leading Christian thinker and influential layperson. He was avowedly modern in his willingness to explore new ideas, but he also argued against the materialistic and rationalistic trends of his time.

In the late 1790's, Coleridge read some of the latest critical studies of the Bible coming out of Germany. Coleridge shared the historical understanding that the Bible was not dictated letter-by-letter by God himself. He knew the Bible was a collection of writings originally composed as all books are – by human beings. But as practicing Christian, Coleridge also experienced and believed that the Bible is not like all other books.

He argued that modern people should read the Bible with modern eyes – of course. He said, "to be rightly appreciated the Bible must be read like any other book." But, he said, "the reader with his mind thus open will soon come to realize that in reality it is not like any other book, since more fully than any other does it meet the needs of man's spiritual being."

Coleridge argued that the transformational power of the Word of God in the Bible is lively and active and will offer to open minded readers an experience of engaging with God in real life. In other words, for Coleridge the final evidence of the Bible's spiritual power to transform lives in a unique way is given experientially. He says, "I have perused the books of the Old and New Testaments, -- each book as a whole, and also as an integral part. And need I say that I have met everywhere more or less copious sources of truth, and power, and purifying impulses; -- that I have found words for my inmost thoughts, songs for my joy, utterances for my hidden griefs, and pleadings for my shame and feebleness."

It has been seen as prophetic that Coleridge was already calling for the Church to look beyond modernism's attitudes and approaches toward the Bible. Given that he was among the first of his generation to become acquainted with the critical methods which would prevail for the next two centuries, it is astounding that he was able to identify the shortcomings of the modernist approach so early.

Nearly two centuries later, in 1974, a Bible scholar in the United States named Walter Wink wrote a small book called The Bible in Human Transformation, arguing much the same way. The then shocking first sentence was, "historical biblical criticism is bankrupt." Wink argued that the prevailing method of engaging the Bible – across the protestant mainline at least – was "a form of scholarship gone to seed but which by sheer abundance of seeds, flourishes everywhere." Wink saw his critique of the modernist vision of the Bible as belonging to "a chorus of voices raised in the name of God and humanity."

To be clear, Wink acknowledged there was much of value to be taken from historical criticism of the Bible. But Wink's essential point was that the method itself was not particularly valuable for the primarily spiritual practice of communicating with the Word of God in the Bible. And it is this primary work of transforming human beings and the world in relationship with the living Christ that is the first business of the church.

Just as Coleridge decried the materialism and rationalism of his day, many Christians in recent generations have decried the imperialism – intellectual and physical – of Western Civilization in general. In the late 20th century a host of non-Western and feminist approaches have challenged the old certainties of Western modernism. Christians and newly empowered women around the world have begun to read the Scriptures through their own experiences of Christ in community, and they have offered a new vision and approach to the Bible that goes beyond rationalism. Certainly, William Stringfellow as a gay man in the 1950's and 1960's, who dedicated his work for the marginalized, and Verna Dozier an African-American woman, offered important perspectives on the Bible as they engaged it in faith. All of these prophetic voices – from Coleridge to Dozier -- pointed out deficiencies of the prevailing norms of Bible study in our church.

Well aware of these deficiencies, many believers in recent decades have sought to fill in the gaps left by the unliving and inactive vision of the Bible put forth by the guild of rationalist Bible scholars and clergy in the 18th, 19th and 20th centuries. Many of us have looked to non-Western Christian practices to fill in the gaps, and some have looked to pre-Modern and even pre-Christian practices – in an effort to form a new-old synthesis. This explains why so many Episcopalians who are intentional in their practice of the Christian faith are drawing upon Celtic Christianity, the monastics, the early church, Judaism, African Christianity, and other far-ranging resources.

Some call this contemporary fascination with things both ancient and modern "postmodern" or "postcritical." I tend to see it as simply the natural variety of a Body of Christ which I believe is one, holy, catholic and apostolic. I believe the contemporary Episcopalian is called to draw upon all the resources of our ancient, global, multicultural and inclusive faith tradition – and that to do so will likely enrich our spiritual engagement with the Word of God in the Bible so long starved by the too dry attitudes of Western rationalism and modernity.

The Rev. Samuel Gregory Jones ("Greg") became a member of Christ's Body at St. Columba's in Washington, D.C., and he was educated at the University of North Carolina and the General Theological Seminary, where he is on the Board. He is the author of Beyond Da Vinci (Seabury Books, 2004). He blogs at fatherjones.com.