Faith Works 3-14-15

Faith Works 3-14-15

Jeff Gill

 

Why a Bible?

___

 

If you're reading this whether in print or online this Saturday, Happy Pi Day! If you're reading this at 9:26:53 a.m., well, that's very cool if you're into math and geometry.

 

In I Kings 7:23, echoed in the parallel account of II Chronicles 4:2, there's a detailed description of the "brazen sea," a giant cast metal basin for ritual washing just outside of the doors of the Jerusalem Temple.

 

Both tellings inform the reader that the vessel is thirty cubits in circumference, and ten cubits in diameter. Some of us would say that's close enough for narrative work, but those who find the place and meaning of the Bible in the modern world to be an antiquated intrusion like to point out that either the measurements, or the reporting, must be incorrect, because "pi" is not 3, but 3.141592653 (etc.). So, that line of logic goes, the Bible is not without error.

 

And I sigh wearily as I hear from some intent on protecting the good name and stature of the Bible by coming up with elaborate explanations for how the description implies a curved lip and that the reported circumference is not quite in correspondence with the diameter, so nyah nyah it is so a perfect record.

 

Peace be upon them all.

 

In this Lenten series on "why's" of Christian faith and practice, I've come to what is always contentious ground. The skeptic's question is "Why do any people in 2015 still look for guidance and grounding to a series of ancient texts, from at least three different languages and much of it filtered through a fourth to get to our English, complicated by an assortment of translations, all of which come from across a couple thousand years of writings, the most recent of which is nearly two thousand years old?"

 

Did I get that right, skeptics? Truly, I want to be fair.

 

It can get more complicated than that long question. Non-believers and the unchurched ask why we faithful choose certain passages for verbatim guidance, but give ourselves a pass for others, or how the whole is to be considered anything other than a collection of fragments, the unity imposed by power and authority from without.

 

It's a conversation I've had more than a few times.

 

And some people of faith put so much of it in the Holy Scriptures, King James' translation of 1611 or others, that they would insist on the stand-alone truth of any individual statement in all the 66 books of the standard canon (necessary note: the canon, or list of scriptural books, is slightly different in some communions, including books called the "Apocrypha" and some other materials like extra chapters or psalms).

 

I've been approached by people telling me they suspect I'm not a literalist, or an "inerrantist" on my reading of the Bible. That would be correct. I believe I hold a very high view of the significance of the Bible, and how it interacts with God's plan and purposes into our lives today, but you'll usually hear me saying "scripture and tradition" in church when I talk about how we interpret and apply the Bible, because they are two sides of a priceless coin. We carry assumptions and history of interpretation to the words and stories, and to be mindful of them is to let the larger story, the whole story I believe the Bible in sum does, in fact, tell – that awareness of the context gives the Bible more authority, not less. You the reader of this column can find Christians who would lean away from that position in any number of directions.

 

What I can tell you about the Bible, and what it means to me, takes the form of a story, a currency the Bible deals in richly. When my son and I and our crew were hiking in the mountains of Philmont two summers back, there was a mountain named Baldy that stood out on the landscape, higher than any other point in the surrounding terrain.

 

We might be near it or far, we climbed atop it, and we journeyed away from Baldy, but wherever we were, it was what you turned to look at to know where you were. You weren't always on the slopes of Baldy itself, but when you looked to where it was, it told us where we stood. The map read more clearly when we knew Baldy's location on our horizon, along with the compass bearing we sought.

 

The Bible, to me, is my everyday Baldy Mountain. It grounds me, and tells me where I am, and where I'm going.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him your horizon marker at knapsack77@gmail.com or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

Faith Works 3-7-15

Faith Works 3-7-15

Jeff Gill

 

Why does the peace need to be passed?

___

 

My, my, my.

 

Y'all have some strong feelings about last week's column.

 

One thing I learned: people love to talk about Disney restaurants. I mean, seriously.

 

That's because my hook for the discussion last time about "the passing of the peace" was a two sided coaster at a particular theme restaurant in Disney World, where you can be part of the action, or flip it and signal that you'd rather just watch.

 

Quite a few of you had been to that place, and most of you really, really liked it. So there's that.

 

As for the ancient ritual of pausing in a Sunday worship service to turn to your neighbors and say "peace be with you" and hear "and also with you," there's a skew in my e-mail.

 

Granted, those with strong feelings are more likely to take the time to send an e-mail or Facebook message. I'm guessing many of you like the "passing of the peace" somewhat, but pretty much no one loves it so much to take the time to contact me and say "That time is the highlight of my week!"

 

What I heard some very impassioned, deeply heartfelt messages about was just how difficult that time in church can be. For some.

 

If you have any form or level of social anxiety disorder, if you struggle with depression or simply are an introvert, the passing of the peace is not a joy. If upper respiratory illness make you nervous and you're surrounded by coughing parishoners, the passing of the peace is a gauntlet of hugs.

 

For many of you, there's a real cost-benefit equation that needs calculation about the practice of passing the peace. I hear you, and there's a message we all, especially we "churched" people, need to hear.

 

Because in some ways the most painful feedback I heard last week was from those of you who have been to church, and saw the lovely personal interactions from a distance, hugs and friendly words and "peace be with you," but felt like they were left with a distant "hey there" from almost all.

 

Yes, I can hear my well-churched friends say, "but those folks who come late and leave early, who hang back from the passing of the peace yet complain to the pastor that they aren't being made welcome by the members…"

 

Here's the thing: I heard no one ask that the passing of the peace be removed from worship. And in some churches, it's called a fellowship moment, or a transition time when the band shifts and the congregation gets up, the children leave the auditorium, and everyone greets one another… no one said "stop doing that!"

 

What I've heard from dozens of you is a sincere plea. Those of us who are extroverted and delighted to hug and back slap and greet boisterously need to amp it down a bit; and as we work around the people near us, just take into consideration the signals people are giving off. If someone is taking a very close interest in their bulletin or their Bible during this time, it's a hint. Take it!

 

But at the same time, if we're just greeting warmly those we know, and mostly turning our backs on strangers, well, the Big Guy had something to say about that: "If you love only those who love you, what reward is there for that? Even corrupt tax collectors do that much." (Matthew 5:46)

 

So it's a both/and question. Go easy when you're not sure how people welcome direct interaction, but be inclusive where you can, with everyone you should. Or as the Boss also says, "Love one another." And love doesn't mean hugging someone who's wincing!

 

One commenter said to me "Your column seems to focus on helping us church people see how what we do looks to people who aren't as into the whole church thing." Guilty as charged, sir. That, and educating us all in the whats and whys and who or Who of church life, which I love, but which can be challenging for those thinking about entering into it. The passing of the peace should be a wide door of entry into community and communion with Jesus, not a barrier that comes down to exclude.

 

And first and foremost, we should remember, in words or approaches, that the point is sharing the peace of Christ as a part of worship!

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him what you'd like to know "why" about in worship & church life at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter. 

Notes From My Knapsack 3-5-15

Notes From My Knapsack 3-5-15

Jeff Gill

 

A Body in the Well (pt. 3)

___

 

 

Hezekiah Mirk looked down into the stone-lined shaft. The rising sun was nowhere high enough to angle much light down into the depths, but there was enough illumination to reveal two boot soles facing up towards the ring of faces around the well edge.

 

"It's a kindness that you'd come out here, Mister Mirk" said a particularly worried looking man in a military style cloak, much stained around the hem.

 

"Benjamin Avery, if you think me a source of wisdom about men in wells, you would be mistaken."

 

Avery coughed and smiled crookedly. "Well, now, not so much the man being in a well as being, as it seems…"

 

"You hope for my knowledge of death and dead men, do you?"

 

"Ah, to the point as always, Mister Mirk," said Job Case in a heavy coat over two waistcoats, oddly contrasting where their cut did not overlap. He was not what one would call a frivolous man, but the tan and dark red corners peeking out under a grey blanket over his blue tailed coat gave him a variegated look contrasting with the somber colors of the other half-dozen men facing one another.

 

"You were a surgeon's mate at Lundy's Lane last summer," Case went on, "and your knowledge of the evil that men do is greater than our own."

 

Left unsaid was the general discomfort the men of Granville still felt over their misadventures under General Hull, his unexpected and unaccountable surrender to the British before Detroit, and the humiliating parole most of them experienced in exchange and return back home, having seen no battle at all, unless you counted Col. Cass' attack on a fence post with his sword, in a fury over Hull's capitulation.

 

Mirk himself was uncomfortable at their regard, and was perhaps a bit short in his response. "Evil is a subject we all know more about than any of us care to admit. So who is this poor unfortunate man?"

 

He sized up their baffled looks at each other as both their ignorance, and their hopes that he would help provide what they lacked, at least in part. "Has anyone gone down there to try and budge him?"

 

The silence and careful consideration of one another's toes gave him as clear an answer as was needed. Without another word, he reached down to the well's rope, gave it a tug to see how firmly it was tied to the nearby wrought iron ring in the capstone.

 

"Can we be of any…" started Case, and Avery jumped forward hesitantly as Mirk took two steps backwards with his gloved hands on the rope, and began to walk down the inner wall of the well.

 

After a pause, the five men standing nearby began to step cautiously to the curb of the well, and gingerly leaned over almost in an unwilling unison. The scuffed boot soles were no longer visible, blocked by the downturned head of Hezekiah Mirk and his broad shoulders, almost the width of the shaft, descending into dimmer and dimmer shadows some sixty feet within the earth.

 

"Hello, what is this?" echoed Mirk's voice back up the well. The men looked at each other, unsure how that comment was addressed, but his next statement was clearly to them all.

 

"Someone find and tie off a second rope, and drop it down to me. We'll have him out as soon as you can. No less dead than he is right now, though."

 

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him what you'd like to learn about Granville history at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

Faith Works 2-18-15

Faith Works 2-28-15

Jeff Gill

 

Why the passing of the peace?

___

 

First, a Happy St. David's Day tomorrow for all my Welsh readers, in the hills and out of them. Cymru forever! (That's March 1 for the rest of you.)

 

So, if that opening didn't confuse you, let me take you even further down the rabbit hole. I'm typing here looking at a coaster from Disney World's Wilderness Lodge, and the restaurant off the vast lobby.

 

It's a two sided coaster, and both sides say across the top "Whispering Canyon Cafe" but one face is a green ring around an image of a bucking bronco, and the other is red around a silhouette of a row of cowpokes sitting on a rail fence.

 

If you have this "coaster" turned red ring up, it says around the bottom edge "Watch from the fence!" Flip it to the green side, and it says "Jump in and play."

 

The purpose of these coasters is to signal the waiters. The "Disney experience" at the Whispering Canyon Cafe during the breakfast hours is one of a sassy staff, whose attitude is part of the show . . . let's just say you ask for ketchup on your hash browns at your (relative) peril.

 

Your waitress may organize your children into a dining room rodeo, and the waiter may ask you what horse you rode in on, with comments to adjoining tables if your answer doesn't suit him (and it usually doesn't).

 

UNLESS: you flip the coaster to "Watch from the fence." Which is fine! You get good service, or so it appeared to us, if you choose that option; we've eaten there twice, as much for the "show" as for the food, and interacted with emphasis and enjoyment. The point is: you don't have to, and they give you a way to let the staff know.

 

The point of this extended aside has to do with a very common moment in Christian worship services, something called "the passing of the peace" that has ancient roots and some modern problems.

 

It's an opportunity to turn to those sitting near you and reach out a hand and say "peace be with you" or say in response "and also with you" and can be a way to seal the fellowship of the gathered worship community before the primary experience of communion, the sharing of the body and blood and Jesus Christ in loaf and cup.

 

As to who can receive communion, one of the only clear exceptions in scripture is if you're ticked off at your neighbor. If you have a grievance that burdens your heart about someone else, you're called on by the Apostle Paul to resolve it first. (I think it's more about priorities than restrictions, but it's pretty clear that forgiveness is important to rightly receive communion in the proper spirit.)

 

So there's a functional side to the "passing of the peace." As you make eye contact, extend greetings, shake hands or even hug and kiss, you are clearly casting aside any obstacles between you and your neighbors before coming to the table of the Lord's Supper.

 

The problem is that in modern American Christianity, it becomes the fellowship moment. And that's NOT, I'd also note, all bad. In an internet age, that moment of physical encounter and personal recognition can be crucial. But for introverts, for those wanting a more private experience of worship, if you are wrestling with some issues that have brought you to church but don't bring you to want to hug strangers, the passing of the peace can be excruciating.

 

Yes, extrovert Christian friends, I said excruciating. That's exactly the word I've had people use to me about their experience of the passing of the peace. It's too much, they'd like to simply greet a few nearby with a quiet handshake and simple words of peace, and sit back down to focus on God. I heard from people who have changed congregations because of the passing of the peace.

 

I don't think stopping doing it is right, or is necessary. But I look at my Disney World coaster, and wonder "how could we do this in church?" And the answer is probably just to remind the more exuberant among us: watch for the cues. Let people off easy if they lean back. You don't have to mug, I mean hug, everyone. Some folks would rather "Watch from the fence."

 

Who knows? Later one, they may want to "Jump in and play!"

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County. Tell him your favorite passing of the peace story at knapsack77@gmail.com or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.