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March 28th, 2011

It’s time to begin thinking in new ways about church.

Clergy often focus on the numbers and problems: the size of the budget, the number of people who pledge, average Sunday attendance, and a long list of other numbers.  Beyond that, all too often the conversation among clergy turns to questions about the problems to be solved and the hurdles to be cleared.

Lay people, on the other hand, often focus on the question, “What does this church have to offer?”  “How is the preaching, the music, and the youth program?”  “What is the potential for friendships?”  “Can I connect with the clergy?”

Both perspectives are understandable — and, on one level, they are unavoidable perhaps.

But it’s time to change the way that we think about church.

The game-changer for me has been reading the Book of Revelation.  The seven letters to the seven churches are actually prophetic announcements, citing the strengths and weaknesses of seven churches that dominated Asia Minor near the end of the first century.  They are also a call to faithfulness in a complex world where each church struggled with the realities of life in the Roman Empire and the tensions posed by the struggle to distinguish been reasonable accommodations to the nature of life and the betrayal of their faith.

Each church is represented by an angel and seated in the heavenly counsel where the resurrected and glorified Christ sits on the throne, they (along with the churches they represent hear the words of praise or judgment pronounced on the way in which they live.

Our churches each have an angel — a spirit — an inner character — just as surely as do individuals.  The task of the spiritual life is to open that spirit to the work of God — growing in intimacy and identification with God.

Getting lost in numbers, programs and problems distracts us from that task.

It’s time to look at church differently.

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March 24th, 2011

http://momilies.wordpress.com/2011/03/24/cheetos/

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March 22nd, 2011

New column at:

http://www.patheos.com/Resources/Additional-Resources/Is-It-Time-to-Write-the-Eulogy-Frederick-Schmidt-03-21-2011.html#disqus_thread

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March 17th, 2011

One of the fastest moving stories in the news and, in some ways, the story that has overshadowed the suffering in Japan is the news about its damaged reactors.  This, in spite of the fact that only one person has died (in a non-nuclear) and several others made ill, whereas by comparison the earthquake and tsunami have claimed thousands of lives and wiped away whole communities.  While it is unclear how the situation will finally be resolved, the measured, sane, scientific voices have pointed out that even the catastrophic failure of the reactor at Chernobyl claimed not many more than 59 lives and most of those were firefighters and others who courageously brought the plant under control.

Setting aside the question of energy resources for the moment, it is worth asking, why we are so absorbed with this one dimension of the story to the near exclusion of sustained attention to the larger tragedy?

There are a number of reasons — all four with spiritual dimensions.

One reason, of course, is simply the sensationalistic nature of the story. It will take years for Japan to rebuild and the effort will require sustained, long term attention.  Some of the losses — particularly in human lives — cannot be addressed or fathomed at all.  By contrast, the problem with the reactors is just the kind of news story that stirs passions and draws an audience.

The second spiritual problem is, sadly, that the reactor story is the sort of story that hooks those who do not live in Japan — because the prevailing winds might bring radiation our way, because there are nuclear power plants in our own countries.  The news outlets know what we will not admit — that our sense of commitment to the well-being of others is so fragile that a story that impinges on us is intrinsically more interesting than a story that affects the lives of others.

The third reason for this story’s riveting nature is our desire for guaranteed safety.  The outcry for eliminating nuclear power plants is, in part, a scientific, technical, and social issue which we can all debate and for which there are arguments to be made, pro and con.  But beneath it all I can hear in what some have said the notion that if we eliminate nuclear power plants, we will have eliminated a serious threat to life and limb.  Perhaps, but as the tragedy itself indicates, it would not eliminate all the threats.  No one is discussing the elimination of all but concrete bunkers in our cities; the elimination of beach side cities and towns; the banning of all ocean-going vessels; and the evacuation of all fault lines.

The fourth reason is this: The fascination with the crisis arises out of a desire to define the end of life. Even a nihilistic or apocalyptic ending arises out of an all but instinctive need to name and visualize that end.  A larger human need to define where we are going and where we will end as a species is evident in countless secular apocalyptic scenarios, including global warming and nuclear holocaust.  Life is shaped by stories and no element of those stories informs the rest like the fate of the human race.  The story of nukes in Japan has fed that need.  Even non-Christian secularists are forever reading the present against a loose collection of apocalyptic scenarios all their own.

How does the Christian faith speak to the four impulses described above?

One, needs worthy of our attention transcend the momentary interest born of controversy and novelty.  We are obligated to care, because those in need are our neighbors.

Two, we are obliged to care for others whether their needs impinge on our well being or not.

Three, Christians know that there is nothing certain about life.  Our confidence lies in God and sustains us.

Four, Christians are deeply engaged in the whole of life because in it is played out the shaping of our souls and beyond it lies a new heaven and a new earth. Neither religious, nor secular apocalypse should deter us from courageous living.

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March 11th, 2011

There are a number of things that I believe about catastrophes of the kind that struck Japan yesterday:

  • God does not cause disasters.
  • God does not use them to punish people.
  • God does not use them to teach us lessons.
  • Disasters like this are not a blessing in disguise.
  • They are not sent or allowed by God as a test of our faith.
  • There is, in fact, no lesson to be learned from the tragedy itself because it is without content.
  • But I do believe that we can learn in the midst of a tragedy like this and we can be changed by it.
  • Not because God uses an experience like this as some kind of sadistic teacher.
  • But because suffering of the kind we have seen today should radicalize our understanding of life.

So what are some of the spiritual lessons to be learned from making ourselves vulnerable to the suffering of others at a time like this (knowing that practically speaking our ability to lend first hand aid and comfort may be severely limited or, at best, indirect — through the aid that our nation offers another or the work of recovery that many agencies might offer in the months and years ahead)?

First, we can allow an event like this to challenge and change the way in which we order our priorities.   We can stop majoring on the minor and minoring on the major.  This morning as I drove to the airport I tuned into NPR and its continued coverage of NPR.  The incongruity of it was jarring.  Yes, I understand that there was other news; life goes on; and we can’t endlessly live in crisis-mode — but this morning of all mornings was the time to focus our attention on the needs of another nation tragically struck by disaster.  If this had been an earthquake off the coast of Washington, Oregon, or California there would have been little bandwidth for anything else.  There were issues of greater moment this morning.

Second: We can allow an event like this to reorder our relationships with others — honoring the claims that our common humanity makes upon us all.  Our differences in culture, history, language, politics, religion, language — the human condition itself — will always draw us into debates and conflict.  But an event of this kind should lead us to affirm our underlying responsibility to care for one another.

Third: If we are willing, we can allow a tragedy of this kind to nurture deeper humility in each one of us.  Reminders of our mortality are never welcome and part of the reason that we cover the suffering of others with quick, cursory attention has nothing to do with brain chemistry.  It has to do with our refusal to own our own mortality reflected back to us in the suffering of others.  We can run from that realization or we can allow it to teach us a new way of living in the world — one marked by compassion, tenderness, attentive care, and vulnerability.

“Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep.  Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for your love’s sake.  Amen.”

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March 5th, 2011

In looking back over more than thirty years of conversations about the Eucharist most of what my colleagues and I have discussed has revolved around three things: the relationship between the church’s practice and Judaism; the question of what happens to the bread and wine, if and when a priest blesses them; and the practice of the ritual itself.  All three are important.  But in retrospect, none of the three topics touches on the deeper assumptions behind the Eucharist.  Like the rituals in Jerusalem’s ancient Temple, the celebration of Eucharist is based on the conviction that God has a will for the shape of life in this world — what the Old Testament describes as “the righteousness of God.”  Ancient Hebrews assumed that God’s order prevailed in heaven, but that it was only partially and imperfectly realized on earth.  Everything has a place and everything ought to be in its place, but often it isn’t.  The Temple sheltered the altar between heaven and earth where the things that were out of place were put back where they belonged — souls and bodies were cleansed, sins forgiven, and relationships with God and humankind were restored.  The Temple and its rituals weren’t about earning God’s grace or assigning blame.  They were about making it possible for God to give the children of Israel the gifts he longed to give them.  The Eucharist has its own particular language for that, of course, but it is inspired and shaped by the same deep convictions about what God wants for us.  I never receive it or administer it without being moved by the gracious act of restoration that is the ritual we call Eucharist.

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March 1st, 2011

What most of us want is a God who will solve our problems. It is no surprise that petitions and intercessions top the prayer charts in most American churches.  Invite people to spend some time in silence opening themselves up to the will of God and folks will fidget.  Give them a chance to role out their list and there’s no stopping them.

The same problem-solving God shapes the way in which most of us read the Bible.  There is a reason that the Gideons have long offered a Bible with a problem-solving list of passages at the back of the book.  If in trouble, read this…if depressed, read that…

But does assaulting heaven with a laundry list of needs constitute “holy imagination?”

No.  No matter how big the needs are, no matter how long the list might be, no matter how confidant you are that God will fill the requisition list — none of that constitutes holy imagination.

Don’t misunderstand.  There is nothing wrong with talking to God about our problems.  But a non-stop conversation with God about our needs is not the same thing as a spiritual life and imagining a bigger, longer list of stuff for God to do does not constitute a holy imagination.

A holy imagination is a life that is open, immediate, and raw — receptive and ready to respond to God on God’s terms.  An imagination open to what God wants to do — an imagination that isn’t tied to me and mine, or here and now.

That’s why when the prophet Joel anticipated a new future for humankind he didn’t indulge the specifics of competing needs and well-defined futures.  And he didn’t imagine a future that embraced just his own nation, or the movers-and-shakers. Instead he described a generation of people immediately and vulnerably in touch with the will of God and filled with fresh imaginings:

“I will pour out my Spirit on all people.  Your sons and daughters will prophesy,
your old men will dream dreams, your young men will see visions. Even on my servants, both men and women, I will pour out my Spirit in those days.”  (NIV, Joel 2:28)

By all means, talk to God about your needs.  But save space when you pray or read Scripture for more than that.  Save space to dream with God.

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February 27th, 2011

As Oscar night approaches one of the questions that has kept coming back to me is this: “Is a social network a spiritual network?”

The answer is not a simple one and perhaps it isn’t a question that has an answer that will work for all time.  Like so many other generational changes and shifts in technology it could be argued that we will only understand the implications of social networks over time.  Already, for example, we have seen the implications of the technology for political interaction.  Who would have thought that a system invented on a university campus that traded in BFFs and reported to a small circle of friends that “Suzie just arrived at the coffee shop” could morph into something that overturned governments?

But, I think, for the moment, the answer is yes — and no.

Yes, social networks can function as spiritual networks and they can do so in surprising ways:

They facilitate conversation over time.  A conversation can linger longer than face to face encounters.  They can allow time to process a thought.  And for that reason a social network can produce a deeper conversation.  (I am talking here about one on one encounters, as opposed to more public posts, which are more problematic in that way.)

They can bring people together at a distance.  The thing that always made for spiritual communities, but was also their intrinsic limitation on their formation has been geography.  There may still be real numerical limits to how many spiritual friendships you can form — in fact, I’m convinced that there are real limits — but social networking eliminates the absolute limits imposed by geography and brings people together — potentially around the world.  One of the real delights of networking of this kind is the way in which it restores friendships and fosters spiritual conversations with friends we no longer live close too.  I correspond regularly, for example, with an old friend who lives in Tokyo, has had a home in Hong Kong, and can just as predictably reach me from an airport in Canada.

When you think about social networks in this way they can be described as a powerful tool for building robust spiritual communities and conversations that no previous generation of human beings could dream of crafting.

There are potential limitations as well, however.  Here are the ones that occur to me:

Social networks have a character limit —- on line communication tends to be clipped and abbreviated.  That can limit what we learn about what another and our communication can be superficial, rather than deeply meaningful.

“Friending” can be a filter we use to run from spiritual networks.   Most conversations about the body of Christ rightly include the diverse, God-given nature of spiritual communities.  The fact that I can friend you or unfriend you runs the risk that I will craft a community of my own making that leaves me unchallenged — and “un-enriched” — by a community of God’s making.

Facebook doesn’t need faces.  What social networks lack right now is the reality that is a face to face encounter with others.  Spiritual networks can’t do without them.  The power of the Gospel is the power of the incarnation and I am not convinced that ultimately the technology we have developed can satisfy that need.  In that regard, social networks may prove to be a powerful tool for enhancing spiritual networks, but they will probably never replace them.

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February 21st, 2011

Some thoughts on Hollywood’s white bread religion:

http://www.patheos.com/Resources/Additional-Resources/Hollywoods-Digitally-Enhanced-Religion-Frederick-Schmidt-02-21-2011.html

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February 18th, 2011

One of the prevailing problems for all of us spiritually is that our experiences define and delimit our understanding of the spiritual life.  We close ourselves off to the language and experiences of the journey based on a single experience — be it positive or negative — and that becomes the once-now-and-forever way in which we see some dimension of the journey.

  • A supportive church defines the place of Christian community
  • An experience of the church as harsh and judging yields a very different impression
  • Sermons that open up the Bible in a lively and life-giving fashion make reading the Bible an attractive prospect
  • Sermons that use Scripture in an abusive or wooden fashion can close us off to the possibilities that lie in reading the Bible
  • The examples are endless: experiences of prayer, confession, silence, retreats — the list is endless

Ironically, positive experiences can be just as limiting as negative ones.  Negative experiences of a given chapter in the spiritual life can close us off completely.  Positive experiences can give us a single point of contact beyond which we never grow.

What is a bit alarming is to realize how early in life we embrace those once-now-and-forever ways of looking at things.  As I have worked through my own impressions and as I have talked with others about theirs, I’ve been surprised to learn how early those impressions can take shape — many of them before we exit our adolescence.

That’s understandable.  Those are volatile, impressionable years during which we embrace strong opinions about the world around us.  Those opinions help us to test our impressions and differentiate ourselves from the world around us.  As important as that process is, however, it is not clear that every opinion we embrace by age 18 is necessarily worth taking with us the rest of the way through life.

Spiritual maturity is about forming impressions, making commitments, and holding on to both with gentle humility and a willingness to admit that there might be more.  Any journey into God is, by definition, provisional and growing.

Take time to do an inventory of your deepest convictions about and impressions of the spiritual life.  Which ones (positive and negative) are defining?  Which ones have narrowed your journey and hardened into once-now-and-forever thinking?

Then ask yourself — do you trust God enough to move beyond those moments?