As the Deer

The wordiness of religion overwhelms me at times.  The words in sermons, prayers, hymns and scripture multiply and collect in me.  Add in the thicket of conversation in the narthex after worship and my eyes start to swim — my brain becomes like a sponge that cannot absorb any more language.

I felt it on Christmas Eve.  After four worship services, three at my church and one at my wife’s, my mind could not take in another word.  By midnight only the calm melodies of strings and piano offered a refuge.

When my spirit is overfull with language, I reach for religious practices that don’t involve words.  Amos Niven Wilder urged this.

Say not a word, be still, and fear to pray;
Forego not the great prayer of silence; plead
With the great plea of helplessness, and say
No word but vast dependence for thy creed.

I listen for the ’sound of sheer silence’ as Elijah did.  I stare at the way snow lies on tree limbs.  I look at a picture of the face of Christ.  These become non-verbal forms of prayer.  I step away from my Reformed roots for a time and become a Catholic, a Quaker, and a nature mystic.  Eventually the hunger for words returns.

Word weariness can plague Protestants because ours is the most wordy form of Christianity.  The Reformers designed it that way, and we’ve lived with the legacy ever since.  I wish they’d not discarded the other channels of grace so easily.

I love words and writing.  I love scripture and preaching.  Only too much of anything isn’t healthy, even good things.

During my residency as a hospital chaplain, a supervisor infuriated me one day with the comment, “Words get in the way of learning.”  It seemed absurd to use seven words to dismiss the importance of words.  Fifteen years later now, with more insight and charity, I see the comment as an invitation to embrace non-cognitive ways of learning.  Only I wish the supervisor had said, “Words aren’t the only way of learning.”  I agree they aren’t.

But even things we learn apart from language, truths that rise up from life itself, we clothe with words so we may reflect on them and share them with others.  We translate experience into the medium of words.

In the Incarnation, God worked in the opposite way.  God clothed the divine word in the skin of human experience to share life with us.  There are times in that story, though, when even the divine word wearies of human words, stops speaking and falls silent.

Tim Keller, pastor of Redeemer Presbyterian Church in New York City, worries a lack of humility among evangelicals contributes to their negative public image, and he locates the problem in a shriveled understanding of grace.

If people understood the nature of grace — acceptance before God rests on the merits of Christ, not on one’s own achievements — they would focus less on themselves and live more humble lives.

He identifies two worldviews believers in evangelical churches hold.  He calls them ‘narrative identities,’ ways people see themselves and understand their place in the larger story of God’s dealings with the world.

The first is what I will call the moral-performance narrative identity. These are people who in their heart of hearts say, I obey; therefore I am accepted by God. The second is what I will call the grace narrative identity. This basic operating principle is, I am accepted by God through Christ; therefore I obey.

We may not be conscious of these identities buried deep in our psyches, but they influence our attitudes and actions nonetheless.  Keller’s comments highlight an old tension in the Christian religion between moralism and grace.  Moralists define themselves by their actions and puff themselves up in what they do and say.  They look down on those who do not live up to their moral vision.  The graceful, though, have hearts full of the grace of Christ and show humility in their speech and daily living.  Their perception of grace yields the practice of graciousness.

The classic scripture on grace is from Ephesians 2.8-10:

⁸For by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God— ⁹not the result of works, so that no one may boast. ¹⁰For we are what he has made us, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand to be our way of life.

Too many evangelicals, Keller worries, live in verse 10, trying to practice good works, before they have absorbed verses 8 and 9.

The problem of moralism appears in the liberal churches I’ve served too.  It operates in the many who have a nominal faith, whose religion rests on following rules and living an acceptable life.  It lurks in the emphasis on service.  The moral-performance identity can also mark social justice advocates in liberal churches, people consumed with political causes but whose character lacks humility.  Justice can simply be moralism written large.

I don’t separate faith from works as an evangelical like Tim Keller does.  Catholic writers have taught me that cultivating moral virtue is integral to salvation.  But I agree that moralism remains a problem in churches and among religious leaders, and it contributes to a negative public perception of us.  The only antidote is grace.

A few years ago my wife made a Santa suit.  She sewed the trousers, jacket and cap using a red textured fabric and trimmed them with a puffy white fringe.  She bought a wide black belt and a white wig and beard from a  costume shop.  We added a pair of black snow boots bought years ago at K-mart, and the outfit was complete.

Other people borrow the costume on occasion, but she made it largely for me.  She planned for me to walk into rooms full of children and bring them Christmas cheer.  She made a Mrs. Claus outfit too so she could accompany me.

Problem is, I’m a most reluctant Santa.  I feel silly saying, “Ho, Ho, Ho.”  Strands from the beard slip into my mouth and make breathing difficult.  And I’m nervous around children — they sense this because they’re nervous with me too.  All in all, a lot of strikes against a potential Santa.

We know a single mom raising three small children.  Christmas was going to be thin for them, so my wife decided they needed a visit from Santa.  After lunch on Christmas Eve I put on the red uniform, sloshed through the rain and melting snow and showed up on their doorstep with a small frozen turkey and a basket of food.  My wife went along in civilian clothes and took pictures.  (She turned the event into a small scrapbook and gave it to them as a gift.)

The children were excited at first, but when this strange man entered their home, they grew more fearful and shied away.  Only the eldest braved a picture with Santa, a slight smile on her face.  Her blond hair complimented a little red dress with white fringe.  When asked what she wanted for Christmas, she said, “A hamster.”

I gave out candy canes and said Ho-Hos as convincingly as possible.  My wife did most of the talking, though, and I stood by as a silent Santa. She said to me afterward, “There aren’t many children who get a visit from Santa in their home on Christmas Eve.”

When we arrived home our dog Jazz, unhappy with a stranger in her home too, barked at me till the red suit came off.  Then Santa folded back into his old brown suitcase for another year.

Later that evening I shared a pew with the same mom and her three children at a Christmas Eve service.  Two dozen lit candles of many shapes and sizes stood on the altar, their light waiting to join sixty hand candles during Silent Night.  The girl in the red dress sat next to me, but I doubt she suspected anything.  Or at least, she didn’t let on.  Her mom smiled at me and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

Love can call on us to do uncomfortable things.  When an introvert like me puts on a Santa suit, it’s a spiritual exercise in love of neighbor.  Almost in spite of myself, I brought a smile on Christmas Eve to a little girl in a red dress.  I learned there is a place in the world for shy Santas.

I arrived early for lunch with a college student home on Christmas break.  The hostess seated me at a table in the back of the restaurant near the kitchen. 

I sipped a glass of water and watched the servers emerge from the kitchen door, their arms loaded with trays of food.  They walked quickly to the waiting diners at tables nearby.  A sign hung at the top of the door jamb, facing inward toward the kitchen, its black letters visible from the restaurant side. 

It took a few seconds to decipher the reversed letters:  “Are Your Hands Full?”  The sign reminded servers to carry as much as they can to minimize trips.  Empty hands are inefficient. 

I visit the elderly in our congregation and see the problems of aging.  Some have hands full caring for spouses with dementia or congestive heart failure and don’t know a moment’s rest.  Others suffer the opposite dilemma in assisted living facilities:  with no need to cook, clean, repair or perform chores, their hands lie empty and idle in their laps.  They itch for something to do. 

When the prophet Simeon took the Christ child in his arms, his hands were full, and when he said to Mary, “A sword will pierce your own soul too,” her hands were empty.

Last Sunday our Wesley Bell Choir performed at the 9:30 service.  We played “A Christmas Carol Fantasy,” our hands clad in dark brown gloves.  I rang C, D flat, and D in the fourth octave.

We’d lugged our tables, music stands and handbells up to the balcony ahead of time.  On the Sunday before Christmas, many from the congregation join the choir in the chancel to sing the Hallelujah Chorus, leaving no room for bell tables.   Before going into the ministry, I never knew worship and logistics belonged together.

We rehearse on Wednesday nights after the midweek children’s program.  The process of learning new music always amazes me.  The discord when we first play a piece eventually yields to beauty and harmony.  The right hands will find the right bells at the right time.

Theologian Paul Tillich spoke of a new creation seeking to come to birth in all of us.  For five minutes Sunday morning, our bells nudged that reality a little further into being.

The Wesley volume in the Classics of Western Spirituality features writings of John and Charles, founders of the Methodist movement in 18th century England.

John’s prose is dry stuff — not unusual in theology — but Charles’s poetry sparkles with life.  This edition includes 121 hymns.  Reading them, and singing the few I know, has fed my spirit in recent days.  I noted four recurring themes in his hymnody. 

1.  The Evangelical Theme.  The gospel of Christ shines in the hymns.  That ‘Christ died for our sins’ filled Wesley’s imagination with wonder and adoration.

Oh, let me kiss thy bleeding feet,
And bathe and wash them with my tears,
The story of thy love repeat
In every drooping sinner’s ears;
That all may hear the quick’ning sound,
If I, ev’n I, have mercy found. 

The death of God for our sakes astonished Wesley.  He comes back again and again to the theme, with special attention to blood imagery.  The doctrine of the Atonement is at issue here — Christ’s death brings forgiveness of sins to each believer and hope of eternal life.  Wesley’s passion for Christ’s passion fueled the engine of early Methodism. 

2.  The Mystical Theme.  Wesley wanted to experience God’s love in daily life, and his longing for love broke forth in passionate language.

My longing heart is all on fire
To be dissolved in love.

The mystical language gives voice a holy desire to be rejoined to universal love and to have that love fill one’s whole being.

3.  The Sacramental Theme.  Wesley emerged from the womb of the Anglican church, and its sacramental piety remained with him.  A whole section of hymns in my edition treats the Sacrament of Holy Communion.

Come, Holy Ghost, thine influence shed,
And realize the sign;
Thy life infuse into the bread,
Thy power into the wine.

The ’sign’ points to the evangelical theme.  Bread and wine call the believer’s attention to Christ’s sacrifice on the cross, which secures remission of sins and the reality of new life.  The  ‘life’ and ‘power’ in the elements leads back to the mystical theme.  One must feel these things deeply.

4.  The Practical Theme.  The hymns advocate a life of holiness and obedience.

I wait, till he shall touch me clean,
Shall life and power impart;
Gives me the faith that casts out sin,
And purifies the heart. 

The practical outworking of the faith — fruit of the evangelical, mystical and sacramental aspects — issues in personal transformation, purity of heart and a corresponding amendment of one’s conduct. 

Although it seldom appears in the hymns, at least those in my edition, a deep social concern would also fall under this practical theme. 

On mercy’s wings I swiftly fly
The poor and helpless to relieve,
My life, my all for them I give.

This social project marked the early Methodist movement. 

The robust theology in the hymns impressed me, as did the rich language and turns of expression.  Charles Wesley blended passionate belief with a facility for words.  Though not a Methodist myself, I was surprised by how many times his language touched a responsive chord in me. 

It’s possible not to be Methodist but still to be Wesleyan in one’s beliefs.

A winter storm yesterday left eight inches of snow.  Rain falls on the just and the unjust — snow lands indiscriminately as well.  If only we could train snow to accumulate everywhere but roads, driveways and sidewalks. 

An old snowblower, a gift from my father-in-law, sits unused in our garage.  Every year we pledge to have it repaired in the summer, but snow never comes to mind much in July.  So it remains tucked in a corner, leaving only snow shovels for use in December.  Fortunately with a one car garage, our drive is half the usual size. 

Around noon, after the storm subsided, I was shoveling down the drive toward the street.  I worked slowly, mindful of how many men have heart attacks at this task.  But then a couple came over from across the street and began digging out the bottom of my drive where the snow is heaviest.  A few minutes later their sons came out too and finished the job before leaving to help dig out others along our street.  I thanked them and finished our short section of sidewalk, as well as the walkway up to our front door. 

When I went inside and told my wife about these helpers, she said, “We need to give them a plate of fudge for Christmas.”

Luke the Evangelist made the word Samaritan a synonym for a ‘doer of good deeds.’  I was glad for the wandering Samaritans who helped me dig out after the storm.  Receiving the good is different than doing the good, as one side of a math equation differs from the other, but the good is there nonetheless.  The philosopher Simone Weil said that when we help someone in need, our compassion mingles with their gratitude to indicate a place where the hidden God is present. 

I was on the side with gratitude yesterday — grateful for the unbidden helpers who brought their shovels and the presence of God to my driveway.

My wife puts colored beads on a string and makes lovely jewelry for her friends.  I string words together in sentences and paragraphs.  It’s a creative outlet. 

Even the sad posts feel good to write.  Disillusioned Children, for example, may give the impression I walk around in a state of discouragement, but that’s not necessarily true.  My heart is often cheerful.  Only cheerfulness doesn’t prompt me to write as melancholy does, and that comes over me too.

Writing actually disperses the sad thoughts by bringing them to expression.  Words exorcise the demon and help me once again to find the joy in living. 

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, Rejoice.  (Phil 4.4)

Of the eight deadly thoughts in classical spiritual theology, sadness plagues me most.  Writing provides a way to combat it, allowing me to rejoice in God.

The Lincoln Museum in Springfield features a room with newspaper articles and editorials written by his contemporaries.  As visitors read the texts, recorded voices recite portions of them for a multi-sensory experience.  A few are favorable, but most condemn him in harsh terms. 

The room with the voices came to mind this week after the journalist hurled his shoes at President Bush.  More than a few people wanted to throw shoes at President Lincoln too.  Each man made decisions that led to a great loss of life and resources.  History has vindicated Lincoln, but it hasn’t had time yet to render a verdict on Bush.

Actually the verdict that matters will be Christ’s.  To see Christ as the judge of the living and the dead relieves us of the job of being judges ourselves — which is good since our judgment is so fallible.  The judge of all the earth will do what is just.  (Gen. 18.25)

I don’t know who first thought to dress children as shepherds and wise men and have them play the Nativity story.  Charles Shultz took over an established practice for A Charlie Brown Christmas, which was an instant hit.  Many churches follow the custom.

Our children’s Christmas musical, Jesus, Light of the World, took place last Sunday at both morning services.  The program alternated a narration of the Christmas story with solos and several anthems sung by the whole ensemble.  Twenty-eight children took part, some dressed in biblical costumes for their parts, and the rest wearing burgundy T-shirts with the musical’s logo printed on them.  Children played handbells and percussion instruments during two of the numbers. 

The stage featured a free-standing door to the left, the Inn, and the manger in the center.  To the right, the leaders had draped the high pulpit with brown tarps to make a pretend outcropping of rock.  At the appropriate time, an angel rose from behind the rock and addressed two shepherds below with the news of Christ’s birth. 

Attendance was high for both services.  Everyone left the sanctuary with smiles on their faces.  One man turned to me and said, “I wish we could keep this Christmas spirit all year long.”  Maybe for adults, seeing children at play like this awakens something long dormant inside.