Theology Thursday #4: Every Moment

My Aunt found this picture of my Grandfather, Donald Peabody Abbott this past summer. I scanned it in my computer because I liked it so much. It's a classic St. Paul scene: the back alley in spring in the Midway neighborhood of St. Paul. Judging from the car in the back, it was probably taken in the mid- to late seventies.

He's gone now. Has been for over 20 years. All our family has today - I all have - are stories and photos and memories, too. Moments 

Our lives are so temporal, so fleeting. A phrase I often used when I was an ELCA pastor was one that was given to me from my Grandmother - every moment's a gift. Some days that gift doesn't feel very much like a gift, though.

I think what it most unique about following Jesus of Nazareth is that the story invites you to understand that God chooses to be in all moments, all places. In this way, all things are filled up in him. I actually have a tattoo of this on my arm, to remind me that every moment is a blessing from the Creator himself. Every picture snapped is only a chemical reaction on paper capturing the light in that time (or, today, more likely digital pixels on magnetic media). The cross, I feel, isn't so much about sacrifice or atonement in the sense of blood sacrifice. It's more that God injects God's self into every moment, even the bad ones, so that all things are filled up in God, the Infinite One.

In light of my previous posting, it might be strange to read this, because of how agnostic a tone it took. What I believe is the story has power - that power is its ability to break into your life and make all things new, if only through hope.

By the way, this-filling-up-of-all-things is in the Bible. It's from Ephesians 1:10 and Paul uses a great word. Anakephalaiosasthai is the Greek transliteration. It comes from Greek mathematics as being the sum of all things. Christ, he then goes on to describe, is that sum of all things.

All things are filled up. All things are made new. Every moment's a gift.

Flash Fiction Friday #3: Little Crocus

And now, for something completely different...

I restarted this blog to improve my writing and to share with others. No doubt some of the posts I will look back and roll my eyes, knowing full well the junk on the page should have been deleted long ago. But that's okay. If there's anything I've learned at the Loft Master Class, it is that writing is a craft, one that is honed and practiced. "Art," as Picasso said, "is much more destruction than construction."

This piece for Flash Fiction Friday is more poetry than fiction. My writing partner, Vanessa, told me that she wrote a  poem for me for our final presentation. I felt the need to reciprocate. Here's what I came up with:

I saw a crocus on the prairie, just the other day.

Lovely, fragile, she stood weakly in May.

How did she know that it was time to bloom?

That, given a chance, she’d leave her tomb?

Hidden deeply, fairies and dryads whispered, enticed.

And her soft petals wove gently, through snow and ice.

Not fragrant or showy, but beautiful, despite.

She opened her arms, light purple and slight.

Little crocus alone, your time here is brief.

Surely you know this, there’s brown on your leaf.

Summer’s heat is nigh; the snow melts away.

Grass will stand high, it will be a new day.

Will we remember rebirth, the spring and the sun?

Or will we forget, little crocus, the gift we have won?

The grass, how it withers and flowers they fade.

But the gift of spring blossoms, my how they save.

Theology Thursday #3: Made Up

Then Peter began to speak to them: “I truly understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears him and does what is right is acceptable to him.  -  Acts 10: 34,35 NRSV

If blasphemous statements easily offend some of you, you might want to skip this week’s column.

If you like to push yourself theologically, then read further, and consider the possibility that truth is often stirred up on the fringes, well beyond the well-paved roads of conventional dogma.

First, understand that I am a Lutheran Christian; this is my brand and it probably will be for a while. I seek to follow Jesus of Nazareth explicitly through this lens of understanding.

Now, the tough stuff…I’m going to make this as uncomplicated as possible (deep breath):

God doesn’t care if you are gay or straight, republican or democrat, socialist or Ayn Rand. God isn’t concerned about our silly little tribes, our flags, or our favorite sport’s team.

God certainly doesn’t care about religion or holy books or the rules we like to think are God’s.

You know what else?

God doesn’t give a rip if you are Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Mormon, Atheist, Agnostic, Bahai, or Wiccan.

There is no doubt this religious symbol was made up.

After all, they are all made up.

Yes, you read that correctly. They are made up.

Religion (or lack thereof) is a finite, human construct manufactured to comprehend the infinite.

This applies to Christianity, too, and whatever flavor you choose within that brand (denominations).

Think that it doesn’t apply to your brand? Your flavor? Do you fear that if your brand or flavor is “made up” that it might not be “real”? Are you so convinced that it takes “an act of faith” to really believe in ridiculous, supernatural miracles to somehow prove that there might be a power greater than ourselves?

Think again.

Baptism of Cornelius  Wacky Clothing

Take this week’s epistle reading from Acts. Peter is talking to several people. Who are they? They are a Roman centurion named Cornelius who is “God fearing” and several other Gentiles. Peter begins by telling them the story of Jesus. They believe. Everyone is baptized and people are amazed.

Why did they want to follow Jesus? For Cornelius, he said he had a vision of Jesus. For Peter, he recounts Jesus’ teachings, death, and resurrection. Then here’s the kicker: he says, “God allowed [Jesus] to appear, not to all people, but to us who were chosen.”

Really? I mean, really?

You expect us to believe that?

Evidently, Cornelius and company did. Why did they believe? I think they believed because they needed to believe. Life, in all its struggles and meaninglessness creates a void to which the human psyche needs to fill with something. Then, just as now, people filled it with something: be it the cult of Mithras or Athena, secular humanism (this flavor isn’t new, marginal believers existed then, too), even outright atheism (the Epicureans were the hipster, angry, “rational” god haters, par excellance).

Whether or not Jesus “really” physically rose from the dead isn’t the point. The point is that something (faith, hope, community) came out of nothing (the void, silence, the terror of the abyss of nonexistence).

The story created it. The creation was real. Isn’t that enough? Why do we need certainty? Why are we compelled to prove, to know “for sure?”

And why Christianity? Why did so many choose this brand? I believe because they cared for each other in ways different than what they saw around them. Humans are constantly revising and struggling to give purpose, meaning, and value where none is found. Jesus of Nazareth was different, very different. And they wanted that. They must have gotten it, because it caught on.

Scholars only have a fuzzy picture of primitive Christianity. Even the source materials themselves (the gospels and epistles) were generations removed from the apostolic church. We do know that the message appealed to slaves and rich citizens alike. We also know that it caught like wildfire and the more the state sought to extinguish said fire, the hotter it burned.

As the years passed, Christianity, too, became a religion. It warped and morphed into a multiplicity of forms and expressions, always seeking to give hope and truth, but frequently not succeeding. Often the church of one flavor would seek to oppress other flavors, convinced their way was correct.

From the perspective of other religions (or lack thereof) each feels that it is right and correct. Come on, folks! Can’t we see a pattern here?

That’s why I say that all religions and philosophies are made up. I’m not denying that Jesus or Gautama or Mohammed existed historically. I’m saying that all the supernatural crap, as well as the built up rules and constructs we add to it, are simply window dressing to get more people to come into our ice cream shop to buy our flavor. It’s the story that matters. And different stories have meaning for different people.

Are all stories right, all religions equal paths to salvation? I don’t know. Really, I don’t. But I choose to believe that my story—the core message of Jesus—is that God (if there is one) probably doesn’t make as big of fuss over things compared to the way we do. This is pretty obvious when you look at the way we so easily kill each other. And that, I believe, God DOES care about. Causing suffering is anathema to being truly human. I think we all can agree that killing people = God not cool with that.

“I truly understand that God shows no partiality.” Peter got it right. We’re all flailing about, trying to figure out the un-figure-out-able. If there is a God, then the story that touches us, and the people we care about, mean something.

Partiality comes pretty easily to us.

To me, the resurrection is real because Jesus’ love lives on. The story could be completely made up (and it probably is) and I “believe” it because the reality of Jesus can be found in glimpses here and there. It gives me meaning and value and purpose. More importantly, I can give this same love of Christ away (I’m not talking about proselytizing, I’m saying that we can feed people, clothe them, and care about them). This benefits others – without any thought of return or response from them. Remember, God shows no partiality. We’re all in the same boat. We might as well sing some sailing songs while the storm rages. I think this is what it means to be human.

It's ironic, isn't it? The place where we hear the story is the church, the bastion of the Christian religion. And the story of Jesus is against that very human construct! If there is a God, she certainly has a sense of humor.

I, for one, will hear the story this Sunday. I’ll “believe” it. And I will say it. Yeah, I’ll say it loud.

“Jesus is risen. He is risen indeed.”

Flash Fiction Friday #2: "My Janice"

My Janice

by D.D. Maurer


Maybe I should be more thankful.

After all, she’s still alive. Sort of.

That’s what I tell my sister-in-law, Gina. But all she does is complain about the smell. Gina also complains about how her sister has changed. And how she moans. And how I continue to keep her — my wife, Janice — locked in the basement.

I’m trying to be rational, a good husband. How can I divorce her? I can’t leave her. I made a promise. It was ‘til death do us part. Janice isn’t dead.

When I try to defend my actions, Gina has progressed to screaming out her answer, which is always the same:  "She’s a freakin’ Zombie!"

My wife is a zombie.

It’s hard to believe. I mean, it’s Janice downstairs in the basement, but, not really. Especially when I see the rotting flesh peeling from her cheeks like the rind of an overripe muskmelon. But, then, I look at her wedding ring. It was the ring I put on her finger on our wedding day. A finger now that zombie Janice has ripped off and thrown in the corner.

At least I know where the ring is.

I told Janice that the homeless guy we saw on our trip to New Orleans didn’t look normal. She told me pshaw and insisted that she give him a few bucks. She gave him five dollars. He gave her a three-inch bite wound on her shoulder.

She slathered antibiotic cream on it and we came back home to Toledo. Then she got the fever. I told her that she should go to the doctor. She made an appointment, but couldn’t get in until Thursday. By late Wednesday morning she was a zombie. I guess I’d say she went from Janice, the loving wife and mother of two, to zombie Janice, the putrefying, cataract-ridden, flesh-eating, soulless corpse, over a period of about an hour. Maybe it’s when all she could say was "Brains! Brains!"  I thought she just had a stuffy nose and was only saying my name, which is Brian. Boy, was I wrong.

Zombie Janice

The kids are scared of their mother. They agree with their Aunt Gina and think that I should quietly dispose of her. Or call the police. Or get a priest. But they don’t understand. A man has to make an effort to make a marriage work, even when the wife no longer nibbles playfully on her husband's ear, but instead tries to chomp off the nearest free appendage.

Maybe I should listen to my kids. After all, Janice has become dangerous. Last night she ate our cat. She didn’t eat the tail, though. Maybe tails are too tough to eat, even for a zombie.

I don’t know; is it murder to dispose of the undead? They’re not dead yet, but they’re not alive, either. I’ll have to ask my priest to see what he thinks. But I’ll have to ask him  the right way (so he won’t think this is what happened to us). Maybe I’ll tell him it’s a piece of fiction I’m writing for a contest and I’m doing research. Yeah, that’d work.

Well, I better go. Here come the kids with the squirrel. I had them trap it in the backyard for Janice. It’s funny in a way: she never used to like to eat game. She complained about the taste. She had to turn into a zombie to learn to appreciate the rich flavor of the bounty from the woods. Except for the tails. She spits those out.

-END-

Copyright March 2012 Synecdoche, LLC

Theology Thursday #2 - Transmogrification (what a beautiful word)

What is it like to be ordained, a leader in the church, and then become a layperson?

Exhilarating!

A person might think after what I had been through in my “downgrade”, that a person would only feel shame or remorse in “losing the stole.” But, no, quite the opposite has been the case.

No joke, I find the novelty in participating in a church as a layperson after having been a pastor is pretty fun. I’m even the chair of our Stewardship committee and I look forward to going to meetings! I don’t think the sole reason for this joy is its newness; I believe the source of the joy has to do with two things: 1) the church we attend, St. Paul Reformation, is an extraordinary, very intentional faith community that has me really excited about claiming my baptism; 2) when I was a pastor, my faith was assumed to be a “given”, and I, by extension, believed that somehow I had “earned” it and I was “done."  God has transmogrified this assumption. Like a sweet chunk of salt-water taffy, my former assumptions about identity and faith have been twisted into something new and wonderful.

I’ve gone through a radical transformation in the past year. I’ve come to a new realization: it seems that faith is not some-thing at all. What I mean is that faith is not a noun, but a continual verb. The growth is ongoing. It is never an achievement or something to be attained—hanging that certificate or diploma or confirmation of ordination doesn’t make faith “done.” Spirituality doesn’t work that way. How does it work? The spiritual life (faith) is a cyclic, daily reincarnation of trust.

What has surprised me about my journey is that I assumed that going to seminary, getting a degree, being ordained, serving a church, and being a pastor would give me spirituality. Far from it. What gave me the gift of seeing was falling down hard and rising to new life as one who “is less” to become more. Every day is a gift and spiritual growth is eternal. Those who seek to gain life will lose it. Those who lose life will gain it. It is the Infinite One's way of twisting things around. Transmogrification.

What does my experience mean for those who continue to be ordained leaders and who have always been lay people? I guess it means that the human constructs which we build up--like castles in the sand--are weak, temporary classifications. In the whole scheme of things (and that’s all there is, folks, the-whole-scheme-of-things) it doesn’t amount to anything.

Some might see my transformation as a loss. I prefer to see it as gaining something that really matters—eternal trust in a power greater than myself. It's the gift we all have in front of our noses. All it takes is a new impulse, a change in the way we see things. Who knows, maybe this column will stimulate your own transmogrification of faith.

Flash Fiction Friday: The IRS Letter

Theology Thursday #1: 103 to 93

Theology Thursday – March 21, 2012

I moved from the wide-open prairie of western North Dakota (Longitude 103) to the gentle slopes of the Mississippi River in urban St. Paul, Minnesota (Longitude 93). I never thought I would live in Minnesota again, much less in a big city. Nevertheless, here I am.

It got me to ask: does place affect the theology of communities?

When I was a pastor living in North Dakota, one of the things I found was the never-ending capacity for people who attend church to care deeply for each other. In a place where a finger wave above a steering wheel is a common sight on a prairie road and local news spreads just as quickly as a grass fire, people in the open country and little towns genuinely care for each other.

Negatively speaking, hyper-conservatism and homogeneity are cherished on the plains, to the detriment of a broader understanding of the world. North Dakota can be quite provincial. Hard work and an ethic of steadfastness are endemic, which is both refreshing and guilt inducing (especially if you like your lazy time). The sky is big and beautiful and the wind can be vicious.

St. Paul, Minnesota, in contrast, is progressive, diverse, and cosmopolitan. Every fifth person I meet in St. Paul is either an artist or a writer or has aspirations to be one. It’s surprisingly friendly here—we know all our neighbors by name—but it isn’t infrequent where I get flipped off on the interstate between St. Paul and Minneapolis. That’s okay though, because, chances are, you’ll never see that jerk again.

The wind doesn’t blow less here; trees just make it less noticeable. It’s still about as cold in the winter (save this past winter); but the humidity in the summer is sticky at best and sauna-like at its worst. There are many more ethnicities; it’s a more colorful mosaic.

North Dakota has mixed-grass prairies. Minnesota has oak savannas. North Dakota is almost in Montana. Minnesota is almost to Chicago. The Twin Cities is a virtual cornucopia of exotic dining establishments. Williston has Applebee’s. The Dakotas have great hunting. Minnesota’s fishing would make the even the disciples on the Sea of Galilee jealous. North Dakota, Republican. Minnesota, DFL.

It’s easy to see differences. It’s the similarities that interest me.

At our church we recently joined, the people are intentional about their faith and they care for each other. Many of them drive to get to church, as many parishioners drove to church in North Dakota. The scenery is just different.

At the church our family belongs to now, people care about God’s activity in the world for justice and peace. They want to know Jesus. If someone is sick, they care and pray for them. They sometimes get ticked off at their pastor’s sermon and they complain about the church budget. That’s pretty much what God’s people were about at the churches I served when I was ordained. It may come out in different ways, but people are just people.

So the conclusion I’ve come to is that place may not affect the deeper yearnings of human nature. Sure, liturgy is different. So are politics. But folks are folks and will be the beautiful, compassionate, frustratingly obstinate, neurotic people of God wherever you go.

On a personal note, I’m glad I’m in St. Paul. It fits me better.

But my time on the prairie will never rub off. The Big-Wide-Open sort of does that to you: it reminds you how small you really are.

Hope I never forget it.

Back in Black

Well, after being defunct for several years, I decided to fire this blog back up. It will have a different focus, of course. This focus will be writing. Specifically, I will be using this blog to publish online original works and to promote my two longer works.

On Thursdays I'll be posting an article about theology. This will be called Theology Thursdays.

On Fridays I'll be posting flash fiction. Peculiar, experimental, short stories falling from Dan's brain will be at your disposal to rant about or quietly ignore, according to your preference. Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday.

Updates and promotionals about my two longer pieces I'm working on I'll post from time to time. These are:

Needle & Thread, a cross-genre novel which was selected by the Loft Literary Center Master Class: The Novel. This work will be available sometime in early 2013.

Sobriety: A Graphic Novel a project I am collaborating on with Spencer Amundson, my fine graphic artist. This hopefully will be published in early 2014.

Thanks again to anyone in the ether who's been reading or following this blog. I hope to have more material very soon.

D.D. Maurer, President and Founder Synecdoche, LLC