Newlin-Walton family memorials in Illinois

 

Faith Works 1-16-21

Faith Works 1-16-21

Jeff Gill

Curates and curators and "cure of souls"
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For parish clergy, "curate" is a term you don't hear all that often anymore, though it used to be common.

It's roughly analagous to associate pastor in today's world, but it wasn't quite that in England of former days or even in much of North America a century ago. In many occasions, the rector or what we might call "senior pastor" often didn't show up more than once a year or even less (long story), and the person who served in their place, vicariously if you will, was the vicar, or often the curate. So the title is somewhat junior but the reality was often the one pastor many people ever knew.

And in large churches, the rector or canon in charge had a vast array of civil and practical responsibilities, so the ministerial work really was done by curates there, too. It makes sense when you look at the Latin roots of title, from "cura" or "care": the curate saw to the "cure of souls," or "the care of" them. The curate is the one who cares, directly and personally, for the well-being of those in the community.

And you can likely hear the echo of the origin of the term "curator" which we associate today with museums and institutions of preservation and learning. One of my best friends is a curator of archaeology for the state; his work is to care for the materials in the archives and collections and museum displays, to care for the sites and museums themselves, and to care for the state of our knowledge and understanding of the subject matter that's his responsibility, of the prehistoric & early historic past of Ohio. A curator cares, in this case for a great many things, but primary they care for the state of our dialogue with the past into the present. They curate materials but more importantly a conversation that's ongoing.

This all may seem a long way from the immediate concerns of the past few weeks, and our current situation as a national community, but it's one part of where I see us and am thinking as we look for our paths forward. Because one thing curators and curates alike think about are "where are we, and how did we get here?" My wife's professional background, and some work we've gotten to do on and off over the last thirty years, has to do with the evaluation and layout of things like museums and visitor centers, and we've actually helped design and revamp such facilities in this state and surrounding ones. One of the very hardest lessons we've learned and tried to teach is that it is in fact true that "less is more." A museum display that's jammed full of everything is a terrible teaching tool: a few items, well labeled and presented, are going to communicate the best, and the more you pile up, the faster people tend to just glance and walk on by.

So for a curator, you have perhaps vast collections and a sincere desire to put it all on display if you could, but in your "care of communication" and to cure the lack of knowledge, your responsibility is to select the right items at the right time, and share them in the best way. You curate in preservation what's in the back room, and you curate in presentation what's on public view, because what you really curate is the dialogue between past and present.

A curate, and any minister responsible for the "cure of souls," has many things weighing on them as they pray for their parish, and then they rise to look at the hours in a day. Each of us in ministry wants to do more than we can, and has to make choices. Like a museum curator, there are those who know our storerooms and collections of concerns who would make different choices than we do, and there's always someone to say "it ALL should be out there" but we know that's not an effective path. Curates, like curators, have to make choices, selections, decision.

Where I'm going with this, in part, is that social media has short circuited much curatorial work. Everything is available to everyone. Does that help dialogue and understanding? You tell me. I plan to stick with this subject a few weeks, but the fact of the matter is that we need curators and curates and choices more than ever. Blessings with you through the week ahead, and I'll have more to say.

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's done a fair amount of curatorial work in his time on both sides of this discussion. Tell him how you make choices about what to see, share, and understand at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

updated opening 1-9-21 b

[This just clips off the opening few paras and offers up a new lead . . . making the whole just a touch shorter.]

Faith Works 1-9-21 second draft

Jeff Gill

Lord, grant us peace

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While journalism is the "first draft of history," which probably makes column writing the "scribbled notes of the compromised second draft," there's such a thing as too soon. Too soon for my temper, too soon from my pastoral reflexes, too soon to work into specific preaching responses out of the general story as we have it so far.

What I find fascinating is how, as I turn to the New Testament writings that are my primary guide for "how should we then live," I note that Jesus takes relatively little note of the political leaders of his day. We all know "Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and unto God the things that are God's" showing it wasn't that Jesus wasn't aware of Julius or Augustus, carved on the coinage as they were. Herod, the Greater and his son Herod Antipas each have a role to play in the Gospel story.

But Jesus doesn't spend much or really any time preaching against them and their policies. He does address the abuses in and stemming from the Temple authorities, including making reference to the tax collectors, all of whom were seen as enemy collaborators, if you will. Jewish tools in the hands of the Romans, or those who used Roman power for their own ends as we see in the events of Passion week with the death of Jesus.

Still, there's a political context of a very particular sort inherent in the whole arc of the Gospels. But it's not politics as we tend to frame them. Where we see the world of faith in resistance to the world of power and privilege is most clear when the latter attempts to make claims over and above those of the eternal and everlasting.

An example at the outset: everyone would have known in Jesus's day about how Herod the Great, in his desperation to keep and control absolute power in Judea, killed not one but three of his sons. Augustus Caesar himself, the emperor who kept Herod on his throne as a distant subjected ruler, is said to have observed it was better to be Herod's pig than his son. (The quip is even more ironic in Greek, actually, with the words for pig and son sounding similar.)

So while Herod killed his sons to keep power for himself in Jerusalem, God sends a Son to offer the power of grace and love to work in the world. That would have been a parallel easily heard in that world whether you spoke Greek, Hebrew, or some barbaric outland tongue. A different approach to power.

Then there's the Prince of Peace. Of course, I'm talking about Augustus Caesar. Wait, you didn't think of him first? That's a part of what the victory of Christmas is all about: that we remember Jesus, not Caesar as "Prince of Peace."

Because for a ruler of Rome, that was a goal and aspiration: to be known as the source and vessel of the Pax Romana, along with the titles that being descended from Julius Caesar already got you, honorifics like "King of Kings," "Savior of the World," and yes, "Son of God." The Divine Julius was hailed after his 44 BC death in the Roman Senate at the hands of his peers, when a comet crossed the sky and his adopted son Octavian, soon to be renamed Augustus, declared that his father had been assumed into the heavens just as he had been adopted into the Caesar family. And if your father is divine, then it only stands to reason that you can be called "Son of God."

But what Augustus really craved was the acclamation of a now cowed Senate as "Prince of Peace." While some provincial inscriptions called him that, it's not clear the Roman Senate ever did.

We do, though. Well, not him. But we have just finished a season of adjusting our political and civic and cosmic understandings about whom God has sent, and for what reason. And many of us are still singing about a Prince of Peace who is not in any earthly palace, or buried in any royal tomb.

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's still in Christmas mode. Tell him about your Christmastide thoughts at knapsack77@gmail.com or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.