Embodying the Prophets

Dr. Walter Brueggemann

Last weekend, I had to opportunity to see Dr. Walter Brueggemann present at The Justice Conference. We read one of his books in my Old Testament Prophets class at Notre Dame, one of his most famous works, The Prophetic Imagination. Hearing him speak brought all the memories and themes of my Prophets class back like a flash flood. I was overwhelmed by how passionate and articulate (not to mention charming and good-natured) he was. He also elegantly connected the message of the Prophets to the message and person of Jesus. Further, he found clear ways to apply that message to our lives, both as a society and as individuals.

For now, I really just want to report on some of the insights he shared with that room of 2000, mostly Evangelical Christian, people.

First, he dove into 5 words in the book of Hosea God uses to describe his love for his people. Steadfast love, righteousness, justice, compassion and self-giving love. These words are all rough synonyms for the kind of fidelity God pleges to Israel, comparing himself to a spouse.

He emphasized that God's love is described as a 'gut-wrenching' kind of love in both Hebrew and Greek. It made me remember that the word for compassion used in the Magnificat in Luke is related to the word for entrails. For God, love is visceral, intense. It requires a response.

His response? Jesus. I was so taken with the way Brueggemann described Jesus as the literal embodiment of God's love and promises made in the prophets. He drove his point home by reminding us of one of John the Baptist's communications with Jesus: "Are you the one who was to come...?" His followers asked Jesus. Brueggemann noted that Jesus, rather than giving a straight answer, he describes what he's seeing: "The blind see, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear... the poor have Good News proclaimed to them."

Brueggemann's idea is that Jesus wasn't just being enigmatic, but that he was saying, "Look, I don't know any better than you, but wherever I go, the stuff the prophets said comes true." Jesus knew that gut-wrenching compassion and he couldn't help but do something about it! He became a radical conduit of love and healing for the world.

The conclusion? We must seek to love in a visceral, gut-wrenching way, like Jesus did by His own nature. Such love will always prompt action, will always lead us to heal and to proclaim good news. It is our response to God's gift of fidelity to us.

Simply Living

So, I'm finally living more simply.

Since I was 20 and spent a summer at a lay Catholic agricultural community I have talked and thought about 'simple living' a lot. Let's define it as this infectious idea that happiness and justice will come when we get rid of all our stuff and focus on God and each other. It's an idea that's truly scriptural. "Foxes have dens and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head." Jesus focused on his disciples and his ministry in such a complete way that he didn't seem to own really anything but the shirt on his back and the sandals on his feet. Many of the Saints after him, from St. Paul to St. Martin Francis of Assisi to Servant of God Dorothy Day, continue this example for us, helping us to see what it might mean in our time and place. They do everything from giving up wages and living on the road to refusing to touch money to opening up a house where nearly everything is owned by everyone who walks in the door.

Now, we could get into questions of extreme simplicity and unhealthy self-deprivation. And, I probably will delve into my interpretation of such scriptural and hagiographal examples at a later time. For now, let's just say that today many of these examples translate into recognizable efforts at intentionally saving money, space and energy. There's a lot of canning and gardening and buying used items. You'll find people who've thrown out their TVs and still use the most basic cell phones on the market. They knit their own socks and blankets and compost whatever they can. They get rid of many of the luxuries we come to expect in favor of doing things themselves, getting closer to the earth and spending more quality time with others and God. For years, I've been totally down with this idea. It seems to me to be good for us as individuals, good for communities and good for the environment.

I never truly made much progress in that arena on my own- I own a car, have some debt, a smartphone, a blu-ray player, tons of kitchen stuff, a spare bedroom, a nice laptop... a lot of things that make my life complicated all the time. However, now that I am married and working only a 12 hours a week, there are many ways in which I'm living more simply than ever. This is not, unfortunately, completely by choice. We simply can't afford to buy all of the distractions in which we might otherwise indulge.

We both love traveling and going out to eat. Since I was probably 18 I'd taken for granted the ability to travel a lot and go out to eat multiple times a week. On a budget like ours, those days are no more! I'm learning all kinds of new recipes, just to ensure that there's plenty of variety at dinner. I'm drinking hardly any beer (and, when I do, it's usually beer I've made). And when we go out, we stick close to home, getting to know all the nooks and crannies of Northwestern Oregon. Soon enough, we'll be composting and gardening to conserve even more money.

When we're not worried about how to pay the bills, it's actually pretty nice. I find I love riding the bus; a trip down Martin Luther King Ave in East Portland is about as much of an education for me as many of my classes at Amherst were. The highlights of my day now include cooking for Angie, curling up beside her on the couch with a book and playing with our two cats. They are, I admit, simple pleasures. But they are things that draw me closer to her and to my surroundings. If I drive myself to work, I'm as likely to arrive there angry and anxious as not. But, I've never gotten road rage on the bus. Much of what remains is mostly distraction- Hulu and Netflix and Amazon Prime, smartphones and iPods. It all makes it easier for me to tune out the problems both within myself and the world around me, numbs the pain a bit. If I'm distracted, I'm also out of touch and useless to myself and to the world around me.

Living simply, even if starts as a necessity, saves us from some unnecessary frustrations and focuses us on the people and things around us, which tend to be the people and things that are most real, that need us the most.

I hope to continue a trend toward living more simply, even in the future when paying the bills is a bit easier (hopefully soon). Let it show me how to be more loving at all times.

Voting Democrat

Now, given the choices in our political process, I nearly always vote for the Democrat. I'm never really 100% sure whether it's the right thing to do.

For some Christians it's cut-and-dry: Does the politician support Abortion rights? If yes, no votes. If no, then it might be okay to vote for her. If only I were able to think this way! My political life would be somewhat easier, at least my choice of candidates would be. I would feel less pain when submitting my ballot.

But, for better or for worse, I vote for the politician whose policies I deem to be more protective of the overall common good and, I'm ashamed to admit, can get a little utilitarian in the process. I had 8 years of a 'pro-life' president through my most politically formative years. Abortion was legal at the beginning of his administration and remained so by the end, though instances of abortion may have dropped in the early 2000s. The Morning After Pill, which seems to be an abortifacient, was introduced and legalized. A culture of war and fear grew. Economic inequality widened. If abortion law wasn't going to effectively change under a Republican president or congress, then why put up with all the other garbage they bring along?

But, sometimes, in the face of millions of unnecessary deaths caused by abortion, these things seem small- too small. Sometimes, I lie awake at night and think of how I'm not using my vote to send a message to the Democratic party. Am I trading support of unions, minimum wage, health care access, international peace and good diplomacy for the lives of the unborn? Would voting republican be more consistent with my conviction that life begins at conception?

A pro-life candidate who considers food stamps and welfare for single mothers to be an enabling handout is not helping the pro-life cause. Someone who truly believes that the Marketplace will somehow magically strengthen the moral and economic power of poor families needs to remember the industrial revolution, child labor, sweat shops and 7-day work weeks. Abortion is, in part, a response to the incredible suffering and hopelessness caused by economic and social injustice. It is also rooted in a sick view of sexuality and human life, one that is not helped by examples of philandering politicians, warmongering, the death penalty or victim-blaming.

In my view, neither party offers a cure for the sickness of abortion. On one hand, I see a party that wishes to prohibit Abortion but deny that families need help from a government. On the other, I see a party that wants to take concrete and direct action to create a more peaceful and just society but leave the definition of life up to  the individual. Do I vote for the hope of systemic change or for the hope of prohibition?

In the end, my answer is to look at the larger picture- single-issue voting just doesn't sit well in my heart, although if I were to vote with the Single Issue in mind, my choice would be simple. Perhaps one day I will.

Guide us, Lord, to an end to legal abortion and raise up more progressives who support its prohibition. Amen.

Today I sat in the Florida sun, in a parishioner's backyard, eating some kind of spicy West African barbecue and corn meal paste, listening to 6 happy Togolese banter loudly in a language I've never even heard, while children did cartwheels in the yard, loud and festive Haitian (?) music playing. It was incredible, one of the best moments of my ministry at St. Jude's. 

The couple who threw the party had their marriage convalidated today so that the woman will be eligible to receive the Sacraments of Initiation at the Easter Vigil. They are two of the loveliest people I've met. Her husband was received into the Church in Togo 15 years ago. She has been attending Mass with him for years now and has finally decided to be baptized. They have a daughter who is four and absolutely adorable. After RCIA class this morning, we had the wedding ceremony and a group of their friends from different parts of Florida were in attendance. They invited me to come for the celebration and, fortunately, I didn't have plans for lunch. 

The warmth of hospitality was almost unreal. I was greeted by both at the door and my cup and plate were kept full as long as I was sitting (despite my protests!). I'm still full.

This surprise of a moment gives me a little hope for our Church. These two are extremely faithful and will without a doubt be active in the parish. He is even talking about the diaconate. If these two can find a place for their hospitality at St. Jude's, then they will be contributing a great deal to the life of the parish. All I can do is my best to extend my hospitality to them now, put them in contact with the right people and pray. If that kind of party- simple and joyful and hospitable- could be present in our churches, then we would be a much happier, healthier worldwide Church.

Celebrating Mass

One of my earliest memories is Mass. I am no older than two. My Grandmother and Aunt and I sit near the back of a long nave, the muted cold grays and whites of the church in San Leandro amplifying the echo of the celebrant's voice. My attention, of course, is not focused on the organist, who begins to lead the congregation in a hymn. Aunt Norma beckons me to quietly sit down. Her pink and frilly dress contrasts sharply next to the dark wood of the pew.

Why should I sit?, I ask myself. I rush to the arm of the pew to get a better glimpse of the action. A guitar takes the place of the organ and a small group of people walk jubilantly down the long and wide center aisle. I am attracted to their bouncy gait, their smiles and, most of all, the baskets of food and drink in their arms. “Look!” I whisper loudly to my Grandmother, pulling her hand so she can see what I see. It is obvious to me what this is- food, music, families, a happy-looking man dressed in fancy clothes; we are at a party. 

“Anthony, you have to sit down and stop talking,” hisses my aunt. My frustration is unutterable at that moment. Not only am I disallowed to join that procession of joyful people and revel in the food they're bringing, but I seem to be the only one who understands what kind of event we're at. I want to dance, to jump and enjoy. Grandma and Aunt Norma could not be more serious, could not be less fun.

This first memory of church didn't seem significant or interesting to me until fairly recently. Now I suspect it is a grace-filled gift that reveals the deepest and strongest portion of myself and, perhaps, of all people. This memory never left me, always coloring my view of church and religion in a specific way: confusing, mysterious, joyful, exciting, festive, frustrating. As a toddler, I was able to react genuinely to the liturgy constructed for me to attend with my family. The movement from speaking to music, from distant preaching to wordless participation, the simple presence of food- these things stoked excitement in me. Almost like an illness, I unconsciously caught  the feeling of the Mass. As a two year-old, I had no concept of appropriate expression. I didn't know that my Aunt's gravity was her way of honoring the holy. All I knew then is that it stifled me and kept me from eating with the rest of the people.

It is obvious to even a two year-old that Mass is a celebration. But, how often do we find a spirit of celebration at our liturgies? In a world of noise, busyness, tasks and pain, silence is a respectful and healing response to the Holy. But it is the response of a wounded people, a people who find a humiliating chasm of sin when they approach God. Today, I find myself more comfortable in the silence of a chapel than in a noisy room. But, the two year-old Anthony wants nothing more than to turn the echoing silence into a feast, to dance and sing and jump and shout about how fun it all is. My experience of Christ, a God who becomes man to cross that chasm of sin, emboldens this desire. This desire is who I am, a creature made to rejoice and praise. It also reveals how much closer to my purpose I was 21 years ago. But, just as this memory never left me, neither has the deep sense of longing, restlessness, frustration, joy. And neither has it left anyone else, not completely.

Seeking Visitation

One of the benefits of my work in parish religious education is hearing scripture repeatedly. Seriously, coordinating the RCIA class has forced me to read and re-read and then read again every Sunday Gospel reading each week. . I read and make copies of the Gospel excerpt on Friday to prepare for class, go to Liturgy of the Word with the Catechumens on Sunday morning, lead them in a close reading of that excerpt for the first half hour of class, then attend Mass for myself later that day. All in all, I can count on four or five different encounters with the same Gospel reading each and every weekend. The wonderful thing about Scripture readings, though, and the Gospels in particular, is that they lend themselves to such repetition. The archaic and often awkward translations, the opaque parables and stories, Christ's dynamic and multi-layered sermons- each reading really requires the kind of attention that I am forced to give for work. That's attention that I definitely wouldn't give otherwise.

The day before I left Florida to visit family in Northern California, the Gospel was Luke's iconic account of the Visitation of Mary to her cousin Elizabeth. The beauty and mystery of this story had struck me many times before. But, it had never felt so personal to me as it did that day, around about the third encounter with the excerpt. For weeks I had been anticipating my first visit home in months, a long trek to celebrate the same birth Luke writes about. Mary and Elizabeth's joyful reunion was the same reunion I would have the very next day, 2008 years later. Certainly, Christ had grown in me since the last time I'd seen the people of my childhood. Certainly, I could try to bring them the great honor of the Incarnation just as Mary did for Elizabeth. I was excited and overjoyed for the affection, care and genuine love experienced in the Visitation. But something felt wrong about identifying so strongly with the Mother of God.

At Mass later that day, I was subject to one of the worst homilies I've ever heard. This gave me the opportunity to further reflect on my own discomfort with the prospect of bearing Christ to my family and friends during my two-week vacation. Was it impious to think of myself so highly? Surely, I am not Mary. I'm not her holy cousin either, faithful enough to bear the fore-runner of Christ in her old age. I am not the conduit of prophetic utterances as meaningful or faithful as the Magnificat. Was I being condescending? Here I am, the Masters in Theology student from Notre Dame come home to teach my family and friends a thing or two about love and Jesus and Christmas.

I am definitely condescending. In a bad way. The meeting of Mary and Elizabeth is the meeting of two equals, two individuals who admire each other and love to spend time in the presence of one another. In fact, if anything, it is the story of a desperate young girl going to her older cousin for help while she sorts out her apparently illegitimate pregnancy. Identifying with Mary is necessary for growth as a disciple, but her amazing virtue and power is reinforced by her frank humility- sometimes she needs help. I, too, weary and angry from a difficult time at work needed help from my friends and family. Sure, I wanted to help them grow in faith and love of Christ, but part of that would involve being honest and open and as weak as I am.

The Visitation is about mutual human love and support, for Mary will certainly be comforting to her older cousin. Reunion is a time to hear about another and to share my story, and I've found that my dearest friends are wildly successful in providing this mutuality. I am impious for hoping to be as virtuous as Mary? No. I'm impious for not challenging myself to be. My close friends, though I don't see most of them very often, make me think and help Christ to grow in me. I, too, bring my experience to them and lovingly help them to find the baptist within. This is not something that comes easily to a grumpy, cerebral and condescending grad student. But living the radical love of the Incarnation means trying to be as good at Mary is to Elizabeth, while being humble enough to ask help of those who are in need too.

Now, I'm getting ready to leave family and friends again. I don't feel like I've brought anything to my family, especially not the incarnational love I'd hoped to be able to. I've been difficult and grumpy at times. I've fallen into bad habits from my teens and flaked out on some visits. I think, though, that my visit and the lack of satisfaction I feel from it gives me a stronger commitment to make each encounter I have a Visitation.

St. Elizabeth, pray for us.

A New Endeavor

Lately, I have had a desire to write again. For years, I was regularly reflecting and writing for others to read, namely professors, sometimes classmates. Today, I'm reflecting plenty but writing little. I think I've grown apart from Livejournal and my college blogging site (which is closed to the public). In order to keep up with practice, I'm creating this space for myself. As I attempt to apply theological thought to the world around me, I hope others will comment with their own reflections and ideas. Or perhaps this will be an echo chamber.

To catch up, please see my last sustained attempt at a blog: dallaspaz.livejournal.com. It's mostly a filtered diary. I hope my posts on this blog will be generally more thoughtful.

Merry Christmas. St. Francis de Sales, patron saint of writers, pray for me.