Barnaby Riedel

Just before dinner, after she served him his nightly cocktail, the writer Joan Didion’s husband of forty years suffered a massive heart failure and died. Having returned from the hospital just two hours later she penned the lines that would open her memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking:

Life changes fast

Life changes in the instant

You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends

The question of self-pity

Now a play at the Court Theatre, Didion’s book chronicles the difficulties of letting go. And a metaphor that runs through it is that of learning to exit a coastal cave where she and her husband used to swim. The only way out, they found, was to let go of the rock wall and trust the retreating swell to carry them through to the other side, ocean side. Always scared she’d get the timing wrong, her husband would encourage her to feel the swell change. “You have to go with the change,” he would say.

Didion’s book is a memoir of letting go, not so much of her husband, as one might expect, but of what she calls the “magical thinking” – the thinking that acts as if time can be reversed, accidents avoided, pasts revised and made right; the thinking that refused to dispose of her husband’s shoes months later, that raked over the details of his death, looking for a clue that might be out of place, and with it, a chance to bring her husband home alive. Magical thinking did not deny her husband’s death, it denied her own, for with his passing, parts of her also had died, were dying. “I could not count the times during the average day,” she writes, “when something would come up that I needed to tell him. This impulse did not end with his death. What ended was the possibility of response.” Her dying was not, obviously, a physical death, but one far more ambiguous and inconclusive; a spiritual death, or perhaps, a soul death, a dying of those myriad associations and habits that once constituted her life and sense of self.

The worst kind of death is the one we live through; that leaves us with all the attachments of our former life intact but absent the cathected object – a loved one, an imagined future, a picture of ourselves – scholar, boyfriend, wife, athlete, healthy. Life seems to be far more the artist with these forms of death, which can never be reduced to the singularity of bodily arrest – heart failure. Instead, we die such deaths countless times and in ways endlessly diverse in magnitude and form –from the embarrassments of an artless comment, to events that devastate our life-world. Mothers and fathers grow old, fall ill, die. Husbands walk out, wives walk out, divorces happen. Friends fail us when we most need them. We fail them. Accidents and afflictions of spell-bounding variety happen. It is a feature of life that it changes in the instant and magically we don’t expect it. Loved one’s die, love dies, jobs disappear, even God’s die, as our tradition well knows. And parts of our selves die beside them. “It will happen to you,” Didion says. “You too will go through this.”

Life changes fast

Life changes in the instant

You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends

The question of self-pity

On Ash Wednesday we meditate on death and the sins of self-importance that spring from our denial of it. We spread ashes on our faces. We ask for forgiveness. We look forward to Lent and the wisdom of the desert. But make no mistake about it. This ritual takes our physical death not as the only real thing, but also as metaphor and koan of the countless metaphysical deaths, soul deaths, life will (already has) confronted us with. “You too will go through this,” Didion reminds us.

Today we struggle to make real our bodily death, life’s fragile impermanence, symbolized by the ashes, in order to kindle and set aflame those parts of ourselves that need to die – the parts that prevent us from giving ourselves over to God’s wild and uncanny immanence. Today we struggle to let go of the cave and trust the swell. For the swell is God, both as ebb and flow, the growing and the dying. “It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God,” it says in the book of Hebrews – fearful, yes, but transformative and life giving. The swell brings us into the cave, but it can also bring us out, out of the darkness of our Janus-faced satisfaction and self-pity, beyond the magical thinking which says rather self-confidently, “Everything is going to be okay,” as if it were up to us to make it so, as if we had that power. Soul deaths are also the provocations of God, asking that we trust our lives to Him, that we let go, that we go with the change. And the fear that we feel as we fall into His hands is just this – the birth pangs of new life shaping us to be less ourselves and more a part of everything else, ocean-side. Amen.

Evangelism: More Questions than Answers. That’s the Point.

Over the past few months, I’ve been having many conversations about faith and spirituality with a Jewish student.  We have talked at length about prayer and spiritual struggles; he has attended Episcopal services and heard me preach; we have reflected on the challenges of inclusive liturgy and language.  At no point do I imagine that this student will convert and become a Christian, but I’m also convinced that what we are engaging in is evangelism.

Evangelism evokes for many images of shouting street preachers and earnest “friends” with tracts, experiences of being judged and condemned, being told you’re going to hell if you don’t accept Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior (as opposed, of course, to an impersonal Lord and Savior). Some of my students have argued that to try to convince another person to change his or her beliefs is an attempt to impose one’s own worldview on another and is profoundly disrespectful.

On the other hand, in some places the word evangelism has been so watered down that it simply means good parking spots and the newcomers committee at the local parish.  Not something I’d be willing to lay down my life for.

So, the questions seemed unresolved:  what is evangelism and is it appropriate for Christians to evangelize in a pluralistic society?

One of my personal missions is to rescue ill-treated concepts in Christian vocabulary, words like “sin,” “evangelism,” “salvation,” and “east-facing Eucharist” (the last one’s a story for another day).

Evangelism is the sharing of good news.  In Christian parlance, it is the sharing of the good news of Jesus Christ.  What is that good news?  That should be an easy question to pin down.  But it’s not.  There are, at least, two ways of thinking about evangelism:  one based on creed and one based on action.

The credal version, based on the disciples’ and early Church’s experience of Jesus is:  God loves us so much as to become human in Jesus and to be executed as a traitor.   God raised him from death and somehow that life, death, and resurrection redeems us from sin.

The action version is based on the good news that Jesus preached and lived:  offering sight to the blind, liberation for the captives, freedom for the prisoners, dancing for the lame.

Neither of these versions of good news contradicts the other, and people may prefer one to another—and might offer very different visions of what each means in practical terms—but they are both essential pieces of our life and ministry as Christians.

Some understand evangelism as simply inviting people to church, which is limited, but a good starting point.  We invite others to church because it’s where we have found a community where we feel safe and supported and accepted and loved.  Often it’s a place where issues of justice and mercy are actively engaged.  These are the active views of evangelism.  But we need to be able give an account, as Paul says, for the commitments we make and lives we live. There are questions to be asked:  What is to be shared, i.e. who was/is Jesus, who is he for us and why? To what end do we share our faith: conversion, a happier life, a deeper sense of dignity?

In college people are asking deep questions.  They wrestle with the whys and wherefores and why bothers.  The beauty of our time is that people are used to diversity of identity, belief, and practice.  Answers seem less urgent than questions  Christians ought to be able to say why they are Christians, what is it about Jesus that they find compelling, what questions their faith raises and to what needs it responds.  We can talk with clarity and enthusiasm about that which give us life and meaning, why we work for justice, why hospitality is so important.  Sharing humbly and with integrity the good news as we have lived it (including our doubts and struggles) is an invitation to dialogue, a chance to learn from others, and sometimes exactly what an aching heart and weary spirit need to hear.

Note that photos, text and audio of several of these events and activities can be found on the Reflections page of our site.

At Brent House:

• Renewed Mission and Vision statements (near-final drafts, which echo the Diocesan vision, “Form the faithful, grow the church, change the world.”):

Brent House’s Mission is to be a sanctuary for students, a hallowed place for discernment, learning, and spiritual growth, and a facilitator of communities—the academy, the church, and the world.

Brent House’s vision is

• Individuals [who are] mature in their faith
• A richer Academy
• A stronger Church
• A better world

• Two positions were added to the board for members chosen by the students and Brent House residents, providing a direct voice from the students to our governing body.
• The Canterbury Club, our student-led recognized student organization, co-sponsored several of our major and ongoing events.

On Campus:

• The Rev. Dr. John Polkinghorne, physicist and Anglican priest, spoke to an audience of more than 200 people on “The Friendship of Science and Religion,” preceded by a dinner at Brent House.
• Brent House students and the chaplain were involved in the counter-activities in response to the visit of Westboro Baptist (a hate group) to campus in March.
• Brent House and Interfaith Dialogue co-hosted a joyous interfaith Advent/Christmas party, complete with Advent wreath, Christmas pageant (with home-made costumes, of course), a potluck of holiday favorites, tree decorating and caroling!  See pictures here.

With the Diocese and Province:

• Brent House students had leadership roles at both the 2008 and 2009 Diocesan Conventions.
• Two students were confirmed and one received at the Cathedral’s Easter Vigil.  More than 20 people from Hyde Park attended with us.
• Through the energy and leadership of Lee Behnke (member of the board, U of C faculty and St. Chrysostom’s), we knit hats and scarves for refugee families and the homeless.

In the Nation and the World:

• Students from Brent House and Canterbury Northwestern planned and led the provincial student gathering in February.  It was a rousing success, including significant time with Bishop Lee and a jazz mass from the folks at University of Michigan’s Canterbury House.
• Brent House, in cooperation with St. Paul and the Redeemer, was awarded a one-year grant of $12,000 from the Calvin Institute for Christian Worship for a special project of Bible study, reflection and worship that seeks to explore and blur the boundaries between sacred and secular.
• Three Brent House students attended Gather, the bi-annual gathering of college students at Estes Park, Colorado.
• Sarah Staudt, a former peer minister, was chosen to be a member of the Committee for Young Adult Ministry, which provides resources for, advocates on behalf of, and promotes ministry relationships to young adults.
• Laura Eberly, now a fourth-year in the College and first-year at SSA, and a former peer minister, was a member of the Anglican delegation to the United Nations Commission on the Status of Women in March.

And these are only the highlights!

Sermon preached on November 29, 2009, Advent 1 at St. Paul and the Redeemer

That’s great, it starts with an earthquake, birds and snakes, an aeroplane . . .

It’s the end of the world as we know it.

It’s the end of the world as we know it.

It’s the end of the world as we know it,

And I feel fine.

- REM, “The End of the World As We Know It.

This is one of my favorite Advent songs.  Really.  I won’t attempt to read all the lyrics here, but I commend them to you.  They are full of random, scattered apocalyptic images and lines like

save yourself, serve yourself.  World serves its own needs, listen to your heart bleed.  Tell me with the rapture and reverent in the right– right.  You vitriolic, patriotic, slam, flight bright light, feeling pretty psyched.

Sounds a bit to me like what we heard from Jesus this morning:

“There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great glory.”

It’s the end of the world as we know it . . .

What is Jesus trying to tell his followers – both then and now – with these frightening, disturbing words and images?

Speech about the future is a tricky thing.  When I say “there will,” or “you will,” or “they will,” I could simply be describing what is likely to happen in the future based on the present.  I could also, however, be making a threat.  I could tell my children, for example, if you don’t brush your teeth, you will get a cavity and need a filling.  I could also tell them, though, if you don’t clean your room, you may not play video games.  The first simply describes the natural consequences of their inaction.  The second describes the consequences imposed by me in response to their inaction.  Both visions of the future are unpleasant, but their moral weight is very different.

What if Jesus was offering this frightening vision of the future as a simple description, based on natural consequences, rather than a threat and a promise as many people often assume?  What if he is trying to prepare the disciples for the inevitable consequences of a world gone wrong rather than letting them in on God’s secret plan of invasion?

I’ve been intrigued by Rene Girard’s theories about the cycles of sacred violence and Jesus’ response to them.  I’m no expert, but one piece of his theory, as I understand it, says that human communities inevitably develop tensions and conflicts, which, if not released in some way, will cause that community to spin apart in chaotic violence.  So one response, found across human cultures, is the establishing of the sacred (which is closely tied to power and control) and structures within the sacred that function as an escape valve for the inevitable tensions.  The violence is expressed against a designated victim, through a sacrifice, and/or via a scapegoat. One Girardian preacher writes this:

Sacrificial violence is a sacred, sanctioned violence that comes into place in order to keep in check the fearsome profane, random violence. A sacrificial crisis, in the Girardian parley, occurs when the effectiveness of the sacrificial institutions is waning such that the sacrificial violence loses its effectiveness in containing profane violence. If a new sacrificial solution does not come into play, then the profane violence grows into apocalyptic violence. Throughout human history we see cycles of being on the verge of such violence and then new sacrificial solutions come into play to again bring relative peace. (Neuchterlein, http://girardianlectionary.net/year_b/proper28b.htm)

According to Girard and his followers, Jesus, in his life, ministry, death and resurrection, faced down this cycle of sacred and subverted it, offering an alternative which did not require victims and their sacrifice.

Through this lens, Jesus’ words take on a very different meaning.  The destruction of the temple and the razing of Jerusalem, which he predicts a few verses previously, is not, then, God’s punishment on the Jews for not accepting Jesus as the Messiah, but rather the inevitable result of these human dynamics of power, control, and sacred violence, as played out between the Romans, the rulers of the Jewish people and those who rebelled against both.

There’s another, discomfiting thing that has occurred to me as I’ve reflected on this passage and others like it.  The irony, according to Girardian theory, is that as the roots of sacred violence are exposed and questioned by Jesus and his Gospel, the reality of profane violence, the chaos lying just below the surface, is still there.  In a way, Jesus seems to be saying that it’s going to get worse before it gets better.

Girard says this:

The theme of the Christian Apocalypse involves human terror, not divine terror: a terror that is all the more likely to triumph to the extent that humanity has done away with the sacred scarecrows humanists thought they were knocking over on their own initiative, while they reproached the Judeo-Christian tradition for striving to keep them upright. So now [according to them] we are liberated. We know that we are by ourselves, with no father in the sky to punish us and interfere with our paltry business. So we must no longer look backward but forward; we must show what man is capable of. The really important apocalyptic writings say nothing except that man is responsible for his history. (Girard, Things Hidden, p. 195)

In Christian communities like this one, we talk a lot about justice, about sharing God’s love, about welcoming all, about challenging structures of oppression, as we should.  It seems so obvious to us that these things ought to be done, and even obvious sometimes exactly what needs to be done, that it can be disconcerting when we face resistance and outright opposition to our work.  Things can seem to get worse before they get better.

I think this is what Jesus is pointing to.  Some of what he’s describing is simply a sinful human world, one in which victims are sacrificed to maintain the structures of power, structures in which we all are complicit.  Some of it may be a warning that the sharing of God’s good news, the working for justice and peace, the working against oppression will not always be received joyfully.  There will be resistance.

And so, Jesus says, “stand up and raise your heads.”  Be confident in the work you do, in the gospel you preach, the God you follow.  This resistance is, in part, itself a sign that your work is being effective.

I was watching one of the Harry Potter movies with my kids the other night.  For those of you who’ve missed Harry Potter, the main narrative thread involves an evil wizard, Voldemort, who had some years earlier wreaked havoc on the wizard world and who has been regaining his strength and is preparing to take over once more.  The trick is that only Harry has actually encountered Voldemort in his progressively stronger forms.  Some believe him; others do not.

In addition to the violence exerted by the overtly evil Voldemort and his followers, there is a dangerous culture of fear that permeates the Ministry of Magic, the official governing body of the wizard world.  For many, particularly those in power, the fear of Voldemort leads them to deny his return and growing power, to deny the very real danger that they all face.  Fear that denies reality becomes rigid, willing to do most anything to protect the illusion of control.  In the novels that blind fear leads eventually to betrayal, even of family members, the scapegoating of those who are different and even torture – for the victim’s own good, of course.

When Jesus says, “stand up and raise your heads,” he is telling us not to be paralyzed by our fear.  We must look with clear eyes around us (and at our own selves) and recognize the depths of evil and violence we confront.  It is real.  We all know it.  The fragile state of our economy and the complex interplay of greed, self-delusion, and not paying attention that got us here, the war zones abroad and a bus ride away, the ways that we can wound and oppress not only the poor and marginalized, but also those who are nearest to us – all of these are part of a web of evil and violence that can seem insurmountable.

Jesus is saying, first, look.  It is the end of the world as we know it.  It’s chaotic and scary and confusing.  Evil is real and seems often to be in control – and if not evil, problems so complex that solutions seem a vain fantasy.  So much seems far beyond our control and we can’t get a handle on what seems to be in our control.

Jesus tells his disciples to hold their heads up and not to fear, in part because fear can blind and paralyze us, causing us, inadvertently, to become like the powers that we challenge. Fear will cloud their vision, making them unable to see the signs, not only of the end of the world but also the signs that redemption is near.

They are not to fear also because they can be confident in the promised coming of God’s kingdom.  But how not to fear?  It’s certainly easier said than done.  “Don’t fear!” can be something like the command to relax, the more we force it, the less it happens.

The REM song I quoted at the beginning has that strange refrain:  the end of the word as we know it (over and over), and I feel fine.  This could be just being fatalistic or apathetic, but maybe it points to another way to live in the year-round Advent that we inhabit.

Jesus is giving us a clue in his parable of the fig tree.  Amid all of the images of war and cosmic turmoil – the end of the world – we have the emerging leaves of the tree – the beginning.  In the midst of real fear, real turmoil, real danger, Jesus tells us to look for signs of life, signs not just in the fig tree, but in all trees, signs that contradict the machinery of war, the shaking of the foundations, the turmoil in the heavens.  These sprouts may be found everywhere: in the changing of an unjust policy, in the rescuing of a child from abuse, in the reconciliation of enemies individual and communal, in the small triumphs over our own sin and weakness.

Stand up, raise your heads, Jesus says, for your redemption not only draws near, but in him, has arrived

Stand up, raise your heads so that you can see the signs of that redemption, small and tender and green.

Stand up, raise your heads, as a witness that the powers of this world cannot control us through fear

Stand up, raise your heads, so that you can see those for whom the turmoil of this world is causing pain and suffering, and respond.

Stand up, raise your heads, as an invitation to do the same for those who live in fear and without hope

Stand up, raise your heads, for it may very well be the end of the world as we know it, but the beginning of a new world is appearing . . . and I feel fine.

Texts:  Luke 9 and 11

I was intrigued to learn that these two texts, which I’ve rarely seen engaged together, are not read in the lectionary cycle.  Congregations who use the lectionary will not be confronted by these two statements in the same year:  one, which is nicely inclusive and universal, and the other, which seems to be of the exclusivist camp.  Even paying attention to the subtle differences between the two doesn’t seem to help.  It’s fabulous that Jesus says to his disciples, that those who are not against them are for them.  This forces the disciples to have a broader, more open view of their ministry.  Not only the properly trained and education, not only those officially sanctioned by official authority, but anyone doing the work is, well, doing the work.

But then Jesus, only two chapters later turns and says, that those who are not with him are against him.  This one makes me uncomfortable.  Soon after telling the disciples that doing the work is doing the work, Jesus then says either you’re on my side or you’re not.

There are some very rich layers in these two texts that would bear more study.  The first saying, for example, is in the context of a discussion about who is great in the Kingdom Jesus proclaims.  The second is in response to questions about the source of Jesus’ power.

I was struck, however, by the fact that both sayings are in the context of discussions about exorcising demons.  I don’t know much about exorcisms.  I’ve never seen the movie.  My diocese – and I’ve asked – does not have a diocesan exorcist, although we are instructed to inform the bishop should we believe an exorcism is warranted.  I don’t think I’ve known any people needing exorcising, although I’m convinced I’ve encountered places and organizations that could use a good casting out.

In the first text, Jesus seems to be saying, hey guys, the demons are being cast out.  Less work for you!  In the second, he seems more concerned about the power by which people understand he casts out demons.  The more I think about this, the more it seems to me that the struggle against demons casts light on questions we ask about diversity, particularly religious diversity.

It could be argued, I think, that an important element of nearly all religious traditions is the casting out or guarding against demons, that is the forces of evil or disease.  Christians, of course, battle sin and Satan.  Buddhists seek ways to overcome desire.  Santeros invoke the orishas to protect against curses, hexes and disease.  The law in Judaism sets up a strong sense of ethical expectations and corporate identity, keeping chaos and idolatry at bay.  Even atheists fight off the demons of superstition and dependence on supernatural powers.

In the ancient stories, it is often essential to know a demon’s name in order to cast it out.  It occurs to me that in the various religious traditions, human beings have developed have ways of naming and casting out demons that are unique and to which I would do well to pay attention, because just as my tradition has its gifts, it also has its blind spots.

Christians’ belief in resurrection and reconciliation has been a powerful gift.  But it also has made it difficult to know how to respond to relationships that need to be broken or end, relationships too fraught with abuse, too twisted by changing circumstances and people, built on unstable and unhealthy foundations.  The demon of codependence is a hard one for us Christians to cast out.

The Christian understanding of Christ’s return and the final judgment provides a sense of ethical urgency, but has also makes the demon of environmental destruction difficult for some Christians even to recognize.

It has been difficult for Christians (as it is for any of us) to be aware of, much less name, the blind spots in our tradition wherein demons might dwell.  I would assert that all human religious traditions will have such blind spots that can harbor the demonic (although it’s not my place to name them here).  I believe that one of the gifts of hearing diverse religious voices is that it can help me to see the demons in my own tradition.  It can give me hints of what resources might lie in my own realm that could aid in casting out those demons and give me comfort that, even when I can’t get the name quite right to cast it out, there is likely to be someone whose tradition knows that demon’s name, just like those other exorcists about which the disciples complain.

So that takes care of those who are not against you are for you.  What about Jesus’ more troublesome saying that those not with him are against him? As opposed to the relative nonchalance of the first saying, Jesus seems quite incensed that there are murmurings that he is casting out demons in a demon’s name.  What happened to focusing on doing the work?

Demons are serious business.  If we take evil seriously, then we need to understand that we’re not playing around.  When a teenage girl can be gang-raped with multiple witnesses and no one calls for help, I call that demonic.  Bombs calculated to kill innocents, especially to pursue religious ends, are demonic.  Demons are dangerous, sneaky, masters of disguise.  Casting them out requires spiritual discipline, the wisdom of elders, the energy and daring of the young, a community of support.

I believe that Jesus is telling us in this second saying that while there may be many ways to cast out demons, you need to choose one.   Our religious commitments are like languages, and while one can certainly be multilingual, to communicate one must choose one at a time.  A language requires the discipline of grammar, a certain vocabulary, a community of speech.  If we are to cast out the demons that our particular religious tradition has the gifts to name and banish, we must know our language well enough to name them properly (and to know when what we’ve assumed is a demon may actually be one of God’s own messenger angels).  As a Christian, I can best cast out demons in Jesus’ name, but if I’m going to do that, I had better make sure that I’m hanging out with other people who know Jesus, I need to watch Him at work and take notes, I need to practice on the minor demons I find in myself and in my community.

Last night I was part of a panel in conversation about humanism and atheism and what those forms of belief have to say about the ethical life.  I didn’t talk about demons there, but I did talk about courage.  The religious and ethical life is, in part, about facing down demons.  Every day.  Each tradition has its own form of courage, its own incantations, its own names for those demons.  Each tradition has its blind spots and special demons that dwell there.  Each tradition has its own clarity and its own gifts that the rest of us would do well to understand and appreciate.

Jesus says to me, as one of his followers, if they’re not against you, they’re for you.  Those guys over there may be fighting a demon whose name you don’t know, be glad they’re doing the work.

He also says to me, as one of his followers, if you’re not for me, you’re against me.  Be clear, he says, about what language you’re speaking and what demons you’re battling.  There are others who are depending on you to know their names.

I am a Christian.  I love Jesus.  He is, as they say, my Lord and Savior.  However, I don’t know what I’d do without the atheists in my life. At my last call, in a smallish city, my two non-church friends, an atheist and a Wiccan, kept me sane and gave me a sense of perspective. Even more, my sister-in-law, Shana, who, like Greg,  is Jewish by heritage and atheist by choice, is one of the most grounded, ethical, loving and sane people I know. When we brought my mother home to die, Shana kept us going, doing all that was required to keep my mother comfortable in that horrible and holy time. So it sort of surprises me that there’s a need for a book that explains that one could be good without God (although I know better).

Being an atheist requires a certain kind of courage, a courage that I admire. It is a daunting thing to say that I – and not some divine being – am responsible for my choices, my ethics, my values. John Haught wrote an article that came out in the Christian Century earlier this year on the Dawkins / Hitchins / Harris type of atheism and, while I didn’t buy the entire thrust of his argument, this stuck in my head:

. . . You will have to . . . realize that true freedom in the absence of God means that you are the creator of the values you live by. . . . [T]his will be an intolerable burden from which most people will seek an escape[.] Are you ready to allow simple logic to lead you to the real truth about the death of God? Before settling into a truly atheistic worldview you will have to experience the Nietzschean madman’s sensation of straying through “infinite nothingness.” You will be required to summon up an unprecedented degree of courage . . . *

If one takes this commitment seriously, it seems to me that it is as profound, challenging and life-altering a process as any other spiritual journey. And to do it in community, as I understand Greg to be proposing, is not only enriching, but essential.

Being a theist requires a different kind of courage, not opposed to that of nontheists, simply different. In my tradition, we’ve been reading from the book of Job over the past couple of weeks. It is a disturbing and frustrating book, telling the story of a God who inflicts suffering on an innocent to prove a point (and to make himself look good). In the end, the only answer is, essentially, “I am God and you’re not.” Job, who all along has maintained his innocence, receives his stuff back (although any parent would take issue with the idea that children can be replaced) and is essentially scolded (although not blamed) by God. Now, in the wrestling with this text I’ve done over the past two weeks, I’ve come to have a sense that there is a deep – and perhaps helpful – truth in this strange bit of Scripture, but that’s a story for another day.

The fact is, that those of us who claim, not only that there is a God, but that the existence of that God matters in our lives, must step out each day knowing that the world is a very unsafe place and that innocents suffer scandalously and pointlessly. We even have a word for it – theodicy – and the answer to the question—if God is love, if God matters, if God is good, then why do the innocent suffer? – is at best that it is a mystery.  If we are paying attention, we step out every day, not into the wide open, challenging and terrifying space that I imagine atheists inhabit, one which requires building something completely on our own. Instead people like me who love and attend to a personal God, go each day into a world-wide and life-long game of hide-and-seek, in which our Beloved sometimes appears to us as radiant and overwhelming as anyone could wish – in the natural world, in the face of a friend or enemy, in the quiet of the soul, in triumphs of justice and acts of mercy, in art or music – but often masked or hiding – frightening, confusing, maddening, contrary, absent.

But in the end, I can’t be who I am without that search for my Beloved. I have my doubts, but I have the need, like Jacob, perhaps, to wrestle with this presence, this force, this awareness, this foundation, this frustration, this strength, this irritation, this voice.

Religion – or not – is the story we tell ourselves about who we are and what we mean.  Some of us populate that story with certain kinds of supernatural characters and events, others will not.  Ultimately, it is about engaging the world with integrity, a satisfying and terrifying process, but one which both atheist and theist alike can embrace.

*John F. Haught, “Amateur atheists:  Why the new atheism isn’t serious,” The Christian Century, February 26, 2009.

Jacqueline (Jack) Clark, our work-study intern whom you are funding through your grant, has been doing marvelous work with us. In a ministry with a highly transitional congregation― university students!― having good, easily maintained information systems is crucial. This may seem hard to connect with the work of proclaiming the Good News and sharing God’s love, but consider these ways she has already made a difference:

• A new student wants to get involved. By getting his/her information set up well right away, we can track that student through his/her career at the University of Chicago and be able to stay in touch with that alumnus/a after graduation, encouraging that person’s support financially, as a member of our board, or as an advocate for these sorts of ministries. Jack has gone through our donor database, which is substantial but had been inconsistently maintained over the years, cleaned it up by tracking down missing names and information, and is coordinating information between the various online data and communication systems we use.
• If we want to apply for a grant that allows us to broaden and deepen our ministry on campus, having a good overview of what information we have on file is essential. It allows us to gather the appropriate resources to show our previous work on such an issue, its prior success (or failure), who was involved and the continuity between past, present and future. Jack has gone through all of our files, reorganized them, and developed a list of what is there― and what isn’t, so we can track it down and include it.
• A ministry like ours relies on donations and its tax-exempt status to keep costs low and to be able to keep the majority of its resources focused on the students and their programming. Soliciting in-kind donations and tracking the tax-exempt procedures for vendors is a time-consuming process and not the best use of the chaplain’s time. Jacqueline has already managed to procure a donated computer, replacing a machine that more than 10 years old and inadequate for our needs.
• Most important, at a time when non-profits and congregations are facing financial uncertainty, having Jack allows the chaplain to be more present and effective with the students, which is the main thing, and to move the chaplaincy forward in our development and fundraising efforts, which will make us more stable for the future.

http://news.uchicago.edu/news.php?asset_id=1583