So, I'm leaving the hospital yesterday, in between calls on parishioners in the hospital and the nursing home, and decide to try to find a coffee shop to pass the time by reading exegesis on Isaiah 40 for next week.
I found a new-to-me coffee place about a block away, and I'm stirring the sugar in my coffee, and I look up and do a double-take, because there at the table next to me is...Gordon Atkinson.
Gordon is better known in the blogisphere as the Real Live Preacher. He started an anonymous blog a while ago, and I started reading it when directed there by my friend the Naughty Church Secretary. I seem to remember that was while we were still in California, but my memory might be flawed, because that's right about when he started writing. I've been a regular reader ever since, and he's been a source of inspiration and challenge.
Anyway, the man has a gift. And, by now, lots and lots of practice at writing. When I finally got drug kicking and screaming into the blogisphere, I mentally told myself that I wanted to write like he did. I also want to preach like Haddon Robinson, Fred Craddock, and Peter Gomes, and hit like Ted Williams... we all aim for something.
he gets upwards of 5,000 visitors a day to his site. (as of recent count, I think 15 people know about the existence of this blog) Then he wrote a book, which I gave to several seminary classmates as gifts. Than I found someplace to do ministry, and it's in San Antonio, and I thought, maybe, someday, I'd go knock on this guy's real-world door, just for the purpose of shaking his hand and then going away again.
Anyway, there he was, drinking coffee and talking on the cell phone. And when I said "hey, are you Gordon Atkinson?" is was HIS turn to do the double-take.
We ended up talking a long time. At least an hour, maybe two, much of it about preaching. He is, as you might expect, fabulous to meet in person.
28 January, 2006
20 January, 2006
A better post on intelligent design
Just read an excellent essay by Uncle Orson on Creationism, intelligent design, and the like. The kind of argument I'd like to have made in the parish newsletter. Except that my word limit is about 250 words, and this essay contains 3626.
12 January, 2006
...and make him a priest in your church
Here the Bishop lays hands upon the head of the ordinand, and prays:
Therefore, Father, through Jesus Christ your Son, give your Holy Spirit to Cristopher; fill him with grace and power, and make him a priest in your Church.
I felt it.
Didn't expect to. But God has a way of doing things I don't expect.
I need to think about it for a few days before trying to tell the story or describe.
It was glorious fun. Packed church. Friends from California, Virginia, New York, New Jersey, Houston, Dallas, Friendswood, Austin, including one from California who showed up unannounced at the last minute. Still have houseguests. The feasting and celebration continues.
Therefore, Father, through Jesus Christ your Son, give your Holy Spirit to Cristopher; fill him with grace and power, and make him a priest in your Church.
I felt it.
Didn't expect to. But God has a way of doing things I don't expect.
I need to think about it for a few days before trying to tell the story or describe.
It was glorious fun. Packed church. Friends from California, Virginia, New York, New Jersey, Houston, Dallas, Friendswood, Austin, including one from California who showed up unannounced at the last minute. Still have houseguests. The feasting and celebration continues.
09 January, 2006
National Champions addendum
Last night, I read the news that Vince is going to the NFL. I called down the hall to my beloved, something like "did you hear Vince Young declared for the draft?" Her response:
a blank look.... then she said "Who's Vince Young?"
I just stared at her for a minute.
Then she said, "Oh, yeah, isn't he the hot-shot running back for Texas?"
THAT got her the open-mouthed, disbelieving stare.
So she tried again. "um... coach?"
Thank God for my wife, who keeps me in perspective.
a blank look.... then she said "Who's Vince Young?"
I just stared at her for a minute.
Then she said, "Oh, yeah, isn't he the hot-shot running back for Texas?"
THAT got her the open-mouthed, disbelieving stare.
So she tried again. "um... coach?"
Thank God for my wife, who keeps me in perspective.
06 January, 2006
Thoughts on national championships
So: The University of Texas, National Champions.
Actually, the University of Texas is now the reigning NCAA Divison 1 title holder in Football and Baseball, and for a time early this season the basketball team was ranked #2 in the country. Which makes for a bunch of happy UT alumni and fans. I've been a Texas athletics fan since...since I was born, practically. My father played football at the University of Texas. I grew up in Austin. I have pictures of myself, as a four-year-old boy, posing in front of Big Bertha with a UT cheerleader. Right now, in the CD player in my truck, there's a recording of the Longhorn Band. My sisters got tickets to the Rose Bowl and flew to Pasadena. And, yes, I watched, and cheered myself hoarse, and wore burnt orange to the office the next day.
All that said, the current state of collegiate athletics in this country has taken on a life of its own rather than being an integrated part of the education of our best and brightest. I believe that the availability of athletic challenge--for students, not as a spectator sport--is a significant part of an elite education. And every so often I wonder if being a fan of college athletics means that I’m missing the point.
How many Nobel laureates are teaching at UT? How many volumes in the libraries? Or, if that's too esoteric for you, how about this--who's the current president of the University?
(seven, but only one in Austin; eight million, give or take a few; as of Feb 1st, it's William C. Powers, Jr)
I view the current state of big-time collegiate sports, including those played at my alma maters, as entertainment—something disconnected from the purpose of a university, played by people who are not students in the usual sense of the word. Nothing wrong with entertainment; I’m a big fan of the NFL and of professional baseball at all levels, and I’m learning to be a Spurs fan, here in my first season. But that’s what professional sports are for. Professional football, baseball, and basketball leagues exist in this country for both men and women--multiples of all three, actually.
One really good reason I can think of to have scholarship athletes is one that I can put a face on. My freshman year roommate in college was a bright, articulate fellow, funny and handsome. And huge. I’m remembering him about 6-4, 275. He played center for the football team, and majored in English. Late at night, I’d be up doing Math and Physics homework, and he was almost always up late, reading glasses on, under the lamp, in the middle of yet another book. He parlayed his size and athletic skill into a university degree and a good education. Sadly, not all scholarship athletes take the same path, getting by with minimal grades and minimal effort in less than meaningful curricula.
Here's the biggest reason for my discomfort: the enormous extent to which alumni of schools, and even non-alumni residents of college towns, identify with collegiate athletics rather than the "sober, fearless pursuit of truth, beauty, and righteousness..." (to quote the language on my undergraduate diploma) is shameful. Many large-school alumni seem to care more for the performance of the current athletic team than they care for each other—at least, to judge from the content of their conversations.
When the most common place for the alumni of America's great places of learning to interact is at the stadium or in front of the TV watching sporting events, and if our conversations never go beyond sports, then we've forfeited our power to change the world.
Actually, the University of Texas is now the reigning NCAA Divison 1 title holder in Football and Baseball, and for a time early this season the basketball team was ranked #2 in the country. Which makes for a bunch of happy UT alumni and fans. I've been a Texas athletics fan since...since I was born, practically. My father played football at the University of Texas. I grew up in Austin. I have pictures of myself, as a four-year-old boy, posing in front of Big Bertha with a UT cheerleader. Right now, in the CD player in my truck, there's a recording of the Longhorn Band. My sisters got tickets to the Rose Bowl and flew to Pasadena. And, yes, I watched, and cheered myself hoarse, and wore burnt orange to the office the next day.
All that said, the current state of collegiate athletics in this country has taken on a life of its own rather than being an integrated part of the education of our best and brightest. I believe that the availability of athletic challenge--for students, not as a spectator sport--is a significant part of an elite education. And every so often I wonder if being a fan of college athletics means that I’m missing the point.
How many Nobel laureates are teaching at UT? How many volumes in the libraries? Or, if that's too esoteric for you, how about this--who's the current president of the University?
(seven, but only one in Austin; eight million, give or take a few; as of Feb 1st, it's William C. Powers, Jr)
I view the current state of big-time collegiate sports, including those played at my alma maters, as entertainment—something disconnected from the purpose of a university, played by people who are not students in the usual sense of the word. Nothing wrong with entertainment; I’m a big fan of the NFL and of professional baseball at all levels, and I’m learning to be a Spurs fan, here in my first season. But that’s what professional sports are for. Professional football, baseball, and basketball leagues exist in this country for both men and women--multiples of all three, actually.
One really good reason I can think of to have scholarship athletes is one that I can put a face on. My freshman year roommate in college was a bright, articulate fellow, funny and handsome. And huge. I’m remembering him about 6-4, 275. He played center for the football team, and majored in English. Late at night, I’d be up doing Math and Physics homework, and he was almost always up late, reading glasses on, under the lamp, in the middle of yet another book. He parlayed his size and athletic skill into a university degree and a good education. Sadly, not all scholarship athletes take the same path, getting by with minimal grades and minimal effort in less than meaningful curricula.
Here's the biggest reason for my discomfort: the enormous extent to which alumni of schools, and even non-alumni residents of college towns, identify with collegiate athletics rather than the "sober, fearless pursuit of truth, beauty, and righteousness..." (to quote the language on my undergraduate diploma) is shameful. Many large-school alumni seem to care more for the performance of the current athletic team than they care for each other—at least, to judge from the content of their conversations.
When the most common place for the alumni of America's great places of learning to interact is at the stadium or in front of the TV watching sporting events, and if our conversations never go beyond sports, then we've forfeited our power to change the world.
05 January, 2006
Christmas is over
When the song of the angel is still
When the star in the sky is gone
When the kings and princes are home
When the shepherds are back with their sheep
The work of Christmas begins:
to find the lost
to heal the broken
to feed the hungry
to release the prisoner
to rebuild the nations
to bring peace among people
to make music in the heart
---Howard Thurman
(sent to me by a seminary classmate)
When the star in the sky is gone
When the kings and princes are home
When the shepherds are back with their sheep
The work of Christmas begins:
to find the lost
to heal the broken
to feed the hungry
to release the prisoner
to rebuild the nations
to bring peace among people
to make music in the heart
---Howard Thurman
(sent to me by a seminary classmate)
22 December, 2005
The meaning of Christmas?
The third week in November, the local Christian radio station ran an advertisement for a program that was about giving toys to disadvantaged children on December 25th. A nice man with a mellifluous voice came on the air and encouraged everyone to “spread holiday cheer, and show a needy child the true meaning of Christmas.” While I have nothing against giving presents to children, and in fact I hope lots of people do so this December, I cast a skeptical eye on assigning such a grand title to that activity. If we could try to capture the ‘true meaning’ of incarnation, I doubt seriously it would include wrapping paper and a bow.
To be honest, tinsel and elves and flying reindeer disturb me, just a little. Why? Because I’m afraid that the fairy-tale world we create for ourselves at Christmas blinds us to the awe and wonder of the Christmas narrative. The event we remember is fairly simple—a young Jewish girl gives birth to a baby. Was it an international event at the time? No. Was there something clearly miraculous about it? Maybe. Two of the four gospel stories in the Bible don’t even mention Jesus’ birth. But the other two gospels tell a story that a scientific age has problems with.
The miraculous nature of Jesus’ birth wasn’t the issue for early Christians. They didn’t follow him, gives their lives to him, lay down their lives for him, because of what they knew or didn’t know about his parentage. They weren’t convinced because they had heard stories that he didn’t have a human father, or because of stories of angels and mangers and stars and camels and shepherds when he was born. No, they followed because of what they saw in the man.
Jesus showed them a new kind of living. A new kind of being. A new and unexpected manifestation of God’s love, God’s power. They looked at him and saw something of the mystery and wonder of God. They saw in Jesus something so profound, something so deep at the bedrock of reality, that their very natures were transformed by his presence. And, at the limit of their ability to comprehend what was going on, they confessed: God was in Christ.
It would not have occurred to the Biblical writers to separate this story from the world of everyday occurrence. So, in the supernaturalistic world in which they lived, they told the story of his birth with poetry and song, with silver starlight and the roar of angel wings, to allow us, the readers of the story, a way of brushing against the significance of the man as we slide past. As the creation stories of Genesis tell not how the world was created, but why, so the birth narratives stretch past the mundane, past what happened? and on toward Why? Who was this man? and What can it mean?
But when we 21st-century folk read the stories of the virgin birth, we wonder how such a thing might really happen, and we find ourselves in danger of reading into the gospel account the conclusion that Jesus was special because he was fundamentally different, when instead the story is trying to tell us that he was human, the same as us, from birth to death.
Modern Christmas stories leave me quietly disturbed because when we tell each other stories of flying reindeer and magic elves, we know they’re not in any way real. Sure, they’re heartwarming, or inspiring, or funny. But maybe, when we tell those silly stories, we push the story of Jesus away from our reality at the same time.
If we allow Jesus to be a fairy-tale, then he’s something other than one of us—kinda like us, but not really one of us. And then the gospel melts away into dirty slush, right along with the January snow.
To be honest, tinsel and elves and flying reindeer disturb me, just a little. Why? Because I’m afraid that the fairy-tale world we create for ourselves at Christmas blinds us to the awe and wonder of the Christmas narrative. The event we remember is fairly simple—a young Jewish girl gives birth to a baby. Was it an international event at the time? No. Was there something clearly miraculous about it? Maybe. Two of the four gospel stories in the Bible don’t even mention Jesus’ birth. But the other two gospels tell a story that a scientific age has problems with.
The miraculous nature of Jesus’ birth wasn’t the issue for early Christians. They didn’t follow him, gives their lives to him, lay down their lives for him, because of what they knew or didn’t know about his parentage. They weren’t convinced because they had heard stories that he didn’t have a human father, or because of stories of angels and mangers and stars and camels and shepherds when he was born. No, they followed because of what they saw in the man.
Jesus showed them a new kind of living. A new kind of being. A new and unexpected manifestation of God’s love, God’s power. They looked at him and saw something of the mystery and wonder of God. They saw in Jesus something so profound, something so deep at the bedrock of reality, that their very natures were transformed by his presence. And, at the limit of their ability to comprehend what was going on, they confessed: God was in Christ.
It would not have occurred to the Biblical writers to separate this story from the world of everyday occurrence. So, in the supernaturalistic world in which they lived, they told the story of his birth with poetry and song, with silver starlight and the roar of angel wings, to allow us, the readers of the story, a way of brushing against the significance of the man as we slide past. As the creation stories of Genesis tell not how the world was created, but why, so the birth narratives stretch past the mundane, past what happened? and on toward Why? Who was this man? and What can it mean?
But when we 21st-century folk read the stories of the virgin birth, we wonder how such a thing might really happen, and we find ourselves in danger of reading into the gospel account the conclusion that Jesus was special because he was fundamentally different, when instead the story is trying to tell us that he was human, the same as us, from birth to death.
Modern Christmas stories leave me quietly disturbed because when we tell each other stories of flying reindeer and magic elves, we know they’re not in any way real. Sure, they’re heartwarming, or inspiring, or funny. But maybe, when we tell those silly stories, we push the story of Jesus away from our reality at the same time.
If we allow Jesus to be a fairy-tale, then he’s something other than one of us—kinda like us, but not really one of us. And then the gospel melts away into dirty slush, right along with the January snow.
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