The Mysterious Christian Journey

O Savior, who hast journeyed with Luke and Cleopas to Emmaus, 

journey with thy servants as they now set upon their way, and defend them from all evil. 

–Orthodox prayer, said before beginning a journey

Recently I began reading the book The Orthodox Way by Bishop Kallistos Ware. It is an introduction to the way of life of Orthodox Christians. I’ve only read the first chapter of the book but it has intersected well with thoughts I’ve been thinking about Easter, the resurrection and the involvement of Jesus in our daily lives.

Ware says that “to be a Christian is to be a traveler” and I resonate with that sentiment. We are always on the move, always being moved by God along some new and unknown path. And while the resurrection assures that God is alive and with us, in what sense is that true? How does Jesus help us on the journey? How is he our companion? How does he speak to us and us to Him?

I admit that part of my reason for wanting to write about this topic selfishly involves the opportunity to vent a little bit, particularly regarding the decision making of Christians, especially the college decision making process (is there actually a process?) of 18 year old females who also happen to be great volleyball players. Having observed this population for several years, I feel I am qualified to draw some conclusions from them. And I think what I’ve learned applies to the wider Christian evangelical population as well.

I often joke with my assistant coaches that God hates our volleyball program, because he keeps telling the most talented players not to come to Gordon College. Whenever I hear a recruit say that “God told me to go to fill-in-the-blank Christian University” (sidenote: Wheaton and Grove City seem to be popular with God these days), I cringe inside. Part of the cringing undoubtedly comes from frustration and disappointment at the recruit’s decision, but another part comes from my feeling that they are giving a dishonest account of what has happened.

I think most of us who have been following God for any length of time could count on one hand the number of occasions where we’ve been convinced that God mandated a particular decision to us. Because this seems to happen so infrequently, whenever I hear someone offering that explanation without any more detail, I immediately become skeptical. It seems to me that the answer, “God told me to” is the easiest way to silence opposition (who am I to question God?), take no responsibility for the decision, and shut down all conversation surrounding it. Thus, it is a very attractive option, most notably for college and dating decisions. I am also skeptical because my experience tells me that God is not bound by a human timetable for decisions. And yet, according to the high school seniors that I’ve encountered, it appears that one deadline God adheres to is the May 1^st college deposit cutoff. In fact, I would venture to say that April is God’s most vocal month of the year, in relation to college-bound teenagers. (This concludes the sarcastic portion of our show. Or, as we say in geekspeak, </rant>).

So if God does not adhere to our timetables and constraints for decision making, and He rarely makes his will known in such a way that removes all doubt, then how is He present with us? How does He walk with us? And conversely, how do we walk with Him?

The story of Jesus on the road to Emmaus with Luke and Cleopas illuminates some answers that most closely resemble what I’ve experienced of God. For those who don’t know the story, I’ll summarize it. On the same day that Jesus rose from the dead, two men, Luke and Cleopas, were walking the seven mile road from Jerusalem to Emmaus. Jesus joined them on the journey but they did not recognize Him. He asked them what they were discussing as they walked along and they proceeded to recount the story of Jesus’ life, death, their hopes that He had been the Messiah, and the strange story of His supposed resurrection. Jesus then explained the Scriptures and the words of the prophets to them to show them that He was indeed the Messiah. When they arrived at Emmaus, Jesus was going to go on but the two men asked him to stay the night with them. They sat down to eat and as Jesus broke bread and gave it to the two men, they recognized who he was. Then, Jesus disappeared.

I think this is a beautiful example of an experience of the risen Jesus. I know I can draw several parallels between this story and my own experience.

He is always with me, even when I don’t recognize Him.

The men on the road to Emmaus were deeply saddened and perplexed. They had such high hopes that this man Jesus was indeed the Messiah. But his death had left them disappointed and confused. In addition, they had just heard rumors of his resurrection that very morning but had no proof and were unsure what to believe.

There have been several times in my life where the road I followed didn’t lead to where I thought it would and should go. I have experienced disappointment, confusion, and sadness in those times. And I’ve also had glimmers of hope that I wanted to believe were true…and hesitated to believe them for fear of being disappointed again.

Just like He was with the men on the road to Emmaus, Jesus was with me during those times, even though I didn’t recognize Him.

He wants to hear my thoughts, not just tell me what to think.

Jesus, who knows all thoughts, asked Luke and Cleopas, “What are you discussing together as you walk along?” He invited them into a conversation with Him. Even when the men alluded to the events of the past three days, which had all happened TO Jesus and which everyone in Jerusalem knew about, He asked them, “What events?” He wanted to hear the story from their own mouths and hearts. After listening, he explained the Scriptures to them.

In the same way, I think Jesus wants to have a conversation with me. He wants to ask me questions that dig into the depths of my heart and He wants to hear my answers. He wants to hear my sorrow and my joy, my hopes and my expectations (and black holes and revelations, to quote Muse). Only then can I arrive at a place where He can show me who He truly is.

He is a mystery, showing Himself when He chooses, not when I choose.

The end of this story is the most beautiful part, even if it is the most perplexing and potentially frustrating. I suppose it is the most beautiful to me because it lines up with my experience of the risen Lord. In this story, I recognize the same person that I have a relationship with.

Jesus, having walked the whole seven miles from Emmaus to Jerusalem with these men, agrees to stay with them for the night. He has kept himself hidden from them for the entire journey, even while he was revealing to them that He himself was the Messiah! As Jesus breaks bread for the meal and gives it to them, they suddenly recognize him. Immediately, he disappears.

He is such a mystery, only willing to reveal himself when He chooses. As I said before, there have been stretches of my life where I did not recognize Jesus walking with me. But there have also been flashes where He shows himself. It is sometimes through a book, or through another person, or through a circumstance, but usually it is something very simple and mundane, like the breaking of bread. But all of a sudden, He is clearly recognizable. And then, just as suddenly as He came, He goes again.

Frederick Buechner, one of my favorite authors, describes this phenomenon well. “Religion as a word points essentially, I think, to that area of human experience where in one way or another man happens upon mystery as a summons to pilgrimage, a come-all-ye; where he is led to suspect the reality of splendors that he cannot name; where he senses meanings no less overwhelming because they can only be hinted at in myths and rituals, in foolish, left-handed games and cloudy novels; where in great laughter perhaps and certain silences he glimpses a destination that he can never know fully until he reaches it.”

Similarly, Bishop Ware writes that the pilgrimage which mystery summons us to is not an outward journey, but “a journey through the inward space of the heart.” On this pilgrimage, Jesus is both “the host who welcomes us at the conclusion of the journey, yet He is also the companion who walks by our side every step upon the Way.” Or, in the words of Saint Nicolas Cabasilas, “He is both the inn at which we rest for a night and the final end of our journey.” Often, the nature of our questions to God limits the kind of answers we are willing to receive. If all we are asking is where we should go to college, we may never allow ourselves to hear the answer that Jesus, not Wheaton or Grove City or even Gordon, is the destination.

As some other wise person, whose name I cannot find or remember, once said, “We live life forwards but understand it backwards.” In trying or claiming to understand our life forwards, we miss out on the mystery of Christ that propels us on our pilgrimage. Instead, we should walk humbly along our journey with Him and toward Him, trusting that He is by our side every step of the way, sharing our deepest thoughts, hopes and fears with Him, and keeping a watchful eye for Him to reveal himself to us.

- Ruth

Confessing a Broken Family

I have a confession. I really don't like coloring Easter eggs. There isn't a lot that frustrates me more than this. They are asymmetrical, porous, fragile, and an odd phase between being my breakfast, art, and a bird. I don't know who decided coloring on them would be fun or a good tradition but I am up for suggestions on something new. While egg coloring is not something that really awakens my creative genius, hiding them from 4 year olds does. I'm not sure if that means I will be a father who would rather hide his child's history project than help him with it but it might.

Thankfully there is a lot more to Easter than eggs and deceiving 4 year olds. In our house, there's always great food, lots of music, and usually some pretty good conversation around the kitchen table. This year’s topic: frustrations with Church, namely around issues of legalism, fundamentalism, and whether we should get a sticker for bringing a Bible to Sunday school. I sat and listened to the discussion which involved people with a collective church attendance record of nearly 95% of Sundays since the day they were born. If that stat is exaggerated... it's too low.

Anyways, as I sat listening to this fascinating discussion, I waited for the opportune time to spit out my favorite St.Augustine quote in relation to Church. "The church is a whore but she is also my mother." While I love that quote it really does nothing more than identify our relationship to the Church as "a really tough situation". It doesn't answer any tough questions or even really simple ones like “should I get a sticker when I bring my bible to church?”

As I continued to think about the issues we had raised, my mind traveled to a separate, more disappointing point of my Easter week. You see, Easter for me is always a little bit like Christmas. There is always great anticipation of what it means both in the sense of family and good times but also in a historical context of what Christ's birth, death and resurrection imply for my life. But similar to Christmas, there is a letdown. The Christmas letdown is a recognition of the planned festivities coming to an end, leaving empty pie tins and wrapping paper everywhere. The Easter letdown is a little more sobering. It's a letdown embraced by a personal recognition that I have not shown an accurate response to the news that has been presented to me. From a pulpit (or this year from a brisk mountain top), a man says "Christ has Risen!" and yet I mull over the words like I do when I watch Hoosiers for the 79th time. I know the words mean something deeper but ultimately Easter afternoon it resounds in my head, those words should rock you! In fact, what's worse is that I look for those forcing the words with fake enthusiasm and become annoyed at their phony facades in response to the good news. 

So I spent some time this week thinking about the topics from my holy week. First, our relationship to Church and second, our heart towards the resurrection. About mid-week I glanced over from my desk to the title of the book my wife was reading. "Dependent rational animals" –yes, the book is on humans. The interesting thing was how that D-word "dependent" seemed like a vulgar piece of graffiti scribbled across the beautiful binding. The thought of us as dependent beings irks us to our core. What could be more haunting or more grating on our ego than to be told we can't live without this or that or these or those. But in the case of the Church and the Resurrection, what hope can we have in living without them?

The resurrection is for all but is only recognized as a necessity by the broken. If I have failed to respond in my heart to the message of Easter, then it is because I am not nearly broken enough and have not clearly understood the power behind it. I have fallen back into the ways of my own false independence. The remedy for this involves more than recognizing we're all one phone call from our knees or that we all will need a Savior when we are not strong. Instead, it is to recognize repeatedly that this whole business of life is run on the power of the God of the Resurrection. Whether I'm assuming the uniformity of nature in the laws holding our universe in motion or the self-corrective energy that lives in our bodies or the delicious taste of raspberry pie, if I believe in a power that is not in the least derivative of the God of the Resurrection, I have failed to recognize both the power of God and the devastating emptiness that lies outside his design. Why, isn't all corruption bred from the misuse of something good?

The Church is also for all but is also only honestly valued by the broken. Sure, the Church has been taken advantage of by countless people, political parties, social movements, musical groups, stand-up comedians, motivational speakers, and the list goes on. But the Church has also been the weathered and bruised luggage of this aforementioned Truth of the hope of God and His Son. This is where Augustine's metaphor captures us quite well. We know the Church has had some terrible things done to her and has done some terrible things to others but she has also preserved our Truth, our Life, our Light. She is promiscuous in deed, but still is my mother who has given me life from that dark place.

Similar to our relationship with Christ, this does not mean that we just hope the Church is there when life brings us to our knees. It is a relationship that demands our effort to make sure the Church is there. It is like an infirmary waiting to heal with the richest of truth that was given by God, preserved by the Church, and has healed throughout history. Our duty is to keep the Church on the edge of society, where the dark meets the light, where the broken will fall. This is perhaps the most painful process of it all - to grow with society alongside it, never becoming fully part of it but never deserting it. If anyone thinks this is an easy position for a church, chances are they've either not cared enough about getting their hands dirty in service or they have their hands so far in the mud they are no longer able to do their work.

Augustine had it right; unfortunately, now what we seem to do is hold too tightly to either the "whore" or the "mother". Those that cling too tightly to the Church as a mother are those that over exaggerate the power of the Church and flirt with legalism. Those that cling too tightly to the Church as a whore reject the history of the Church and would like to sever all ties with it and/or point out the shortcomings of typical church. These people abandon church altogether or start "new" and "different" churches that are foolish enough to think they will not run into the same trappings of their adulterous mother. The problem, as I see it, is that we need both of those people in the same church.

You see, I'm not as much concerned with whether or not my niece gets a sticker for bringing her bible to church. The tragedy is when we have lost being intentionally analytical of our preservation of Truth. If we ever lose the tension between Truth and Grace that we stumble over every day, either in our Churches or in our personal faith, we will lose the humility that is required for a relationship with the ONE that is capable of uniting us. For that ONE has called the Church his bride and us his Children. So let us not hide the brokenness within her or us, for He knows her faults and ours. On the wedding day, he will stand and with an unshakable posture and unwavering presence, turn and greet his disheveled bride with an outstretched arm. At that moment, we will NOT be thinking of our mother’s bruises, messy hair, or muted dress. We will look unremittingly into the gracious eyes and loving hands of our Father as He accepts with joy his beloved bride and children. 

-Tim

Thy Will Be Done

Almighty and everlasting God, who of thy tender love towards mankind, has sent thy Son our Savior Jesus Christ, to take upon him our flesh, and to suffer death upon the cross, that all mankind should follow the example of his great humility: Mercifully grant, that we may both follow the example of his patience, and also be made partakers of his resurrection; through the same Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.

-Collect for Palm Sunday

Holy week is a time when I reflect on the significance and meaning of Christ's suffering. Since I've been studying Hebrews recently, I've been paying attention to the way the author of Hebrews talks about the suffering of Christ. One theme that I've noticed is the idea that Christ was made perfect through suffering. It may seem strange to talk about Christ being made perfect, as if he were lacking something, but the perfection that the author of Hebrews is talking about is better thought of as suitedness. The book of Hebrews talks about Jesus being our high priest. The idea is that in order for him to be a high priest well suited to our needs he would have to be able to understand our human condition, to experience life the way we experience it, to undergo the same kind of suffering that we undergo. And this is in fact the case. The suffering Jesus experienced allows him to understand us and that makes him well suited to be our mediator.

The fact that God, through Jesus, understands human suffering first-hand has always seemed to be a very important feature of Christianity to me. In how many other religions can God truly relate to human suffering? I'm not sure there is another one that can compare to Christianity. For some people theodicy is a big issue. They can’t wrap their heads around how God can be good and yet allow so much suffering in the world. I admit, I can’t answer that question satisfactorily myself. What I do know, however, is that I could never look Christ in the face and say, “You don’t know what it’s like down here. You don’t understand what we go through – the suffering and the pain.” When I envision Christ on the cross I have to acknowledge that God understands the worst of human suffering. And when I read “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” I know that Christ understands the deepest emotional pain a human can have.

My response to this acknowledgement is twofold. On the one hand I find it very comforting. When I am suffering, or when I see someone else in suffering, I know that God understands and that God can be present even in the midst of pain. On the other hand, I am afraid. I'm afraid because Jesus' suffering was a direct result of him following God's will. The image of Christ on the cross reminds me that following God’s will is neither safe nor comfortable. If I am a disciple of Christ, I must be willing to follow Christ’s example of obedience even to death. Jesus himself promises pain and hardship for those who follow him. Hebrews chapter 11 is littered with stories of people who suffered terrible things and died horrible deaths because of their faith: “They were stoned ; they were sawed in two; they were put to death by the sword. They went about in sheepskins and goatskins, destitute, persecuted and mistreated” (Hebrews 11:37). That certainly doesn't sound appealing to me. Why would anyone sign up for that?

I struggle with that question personally. If following God means pain and suffering, why should I do it? There are two things that keep me coming back. The first is the nagging belief that Christianity is in fact true and, therefore, requires me to pursue God's will. There are various reasons that I have and experiences that all point me in the direction of Christianity. As best as I can tell from my vantage point, it makes sense for me to believe in Christianity. To back away from the truth on account of possible pain is cowardly, so I press on. The second reason is that I have experienced the power of forgiveness and Christ's ability to change my life. There is real power in confession to Christ and real power to change in asking for Christ’s forgiveness. When I first discovered that, it transformed me and made me want to follow. But there are still times when I am half-hearted in my commitment, when I’m afraid of what might happen to me if I were to fully submit myself to God’s will. Would I end up being scorned, hated, abused, killed? Probably not in America. But would I end up poor, uncool, marginalized? Quite possibly.

In the Garden of Gethsemane Christ was thoroughly distressed. His clothes were soaked in sweat. His muscles were knotted up with stress. His head hurt as he thought about what was about to happen. He begged God to give him a way out, but in the end he prayed “Thy will be done.” My personal suffering has never compared to that, but I still find myself needing to pray and ask God to give me the courage to submit to him. It is hard to pray “Thy will be done” and truly mean it.

-David

Little Women: Thoughts on Marriage, Family and Community

I recently finished reading Louisa May Alcott’s famous novel Little Women. My mom had read it aloud to our family when I was young and I’ve loved the story for years, as retold in the 1994 movie featuring Winona Ryder as Jo, but I had never actually read the book for myself. Now, living less than half an hour from Concord, Ma., where Louise May Alcott grew up, has renewed my interest in her life and works. When I recently found Little Women in a used bookstore, I decided to pick up a copy, despite my husband’s occasional reminders that it was categorized as “juvenile fiction”.

I was pleasantly surprised by the depth of the book and quickly added it to the mental list of books that I hope to read to my children one day – girls in particular, of course. In the Little Women movie, there are plenty of moments with wise thoughts from Marmee, insightful conversations between the sisters, and events and decisions that mold the character of the little women. But what surprised me most about the book was the central role attributed to God in the character formation process.

The framework of the first half of the novel is John Bunyan’s Pilgrims Progress, the story of a young man named Christian who is carrying a burden from the City of Destruction to the Celestial City. The story is an allegory for the Christian life and the little women learn to understand their own lives and struggles through its lens. It was first of all remarkable to me that a book that was widely read at the time of its publishing could have such an overtly Christian theme. And secondly, I found it remarkable that the average person at that time must have had, or been expected to have, some knowledge of Pilgrim’s Progress. Otherwise, Alcott would have known that she was alienating her readers by weaving the allegory throughout the entire book.

As I meandered along the path to the Celestial City with the girls, I marveled at many beautiful passages that were full of wisdom, insight and prudence. None exhibits these characteristics more than Marmee’s account of what she wishes for her daughters’ futures.

“I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good; to be admired, loved, and respected; to have a happy youth, to be well and wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman, and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful experience. It is natural to think of it, Meg, right to hope and wait for it, and wise to prepare for it, so that when the happy time comes, you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy. My dear girls, I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the world – marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid houses, which are not homes because love is wanting. Money is a needful and precious thing – and, when well used, a noble thing – but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for. I’d rather see you poor men’s wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace.”

In the second half of the book, each of the little women (besides weak Beth, who dies young) do come to be “rich in the possession of a good man’s heart,” which Marmee deems “better than a fortune”. Meg, Jo and Amy all begin families of their own, while still maintaining their close relationships with their parents and sisters. As the book nears its end, each of the women has battled her own selfishness, smoothed away her rough edges, and learned to exalt in the joys of life, even while acknowledging the sorrows.

As this was my take on the book, I was sorely disappointed upon turning past the last page of the novel into the afterword written by Nina Auerbach. Many of Auerbach’s observations and implications are illuminating but at several points, an underlying tone of raging anger bursts out onto the page. She asserts that the marriages of the March sisters constitute a “mournful” ending of the tale, particularly Jo’s marriage to Professor Bhaer, which according to Auerbach is “a destiny that has depressed readers from Alcott’s day to our own.” Furthermore, she concludes that “Beth’s lingering death symbolizes the marriage of the remaining sisters… When we mourn for Beth, we mourn for all the girls as they give up their ‘castles in the air’ for worthy but subduing marriages.”

Perhaps the most striking of Auerbach’s ideas is her vision of true community. She says that Alcott did not want to write Good Wives, the second half of Little Women, but instead preferred other stories she wrote called Shawl Straps and Happy Women. In the first, American women travel through Europe with “Spinsterhood forever!” as their mantra. In the second, a spinster community of artists, actresses, authors, physicians and lawyers lives happily together. Auerbach sees this as an account of a place where “energy, ambition, and community are not renounced.”

She implies, of course, that the March girls did give up energy, ambition, and community in order to pursue marriages and families. As I read, I could only help but think that Auerbach has never experienced marriage or family at its best. Some of the environments most characterized by energy, ambition and community that I’ve seen are in the context of families, often large ones.  And my experience and understanding of marriage is that it is a relationship that allows a person to be even more themselves than they could possibly be on their own.

As for marriage symbolizing death, there certainly is an element of dying to self involved. But death brings about new life as well, as is modeled in the resurrection which we are currently preparing to celebrate. The “castles in the air” which the young March girls had built for themselves were later realized for what they in fact were – primarily selfish dreams that were hollow without someone with whom to share them – and their marriages, on the contrary, brought not only new life but plenty of enjoyment of energy, ambition, and community. Marmee would be proud.