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| Current (short) Papers: Vol.2Here are the last two "shorts" that I had to write. Don't get too annoyed at my blog happy life right now. These are the last two that I have from that class. I dropped it, since my degree plan changed and didn't include it. You might notice a bit of disgruntled(ness) in my writing in these 4 papers, and you would be noticing correctly. Much back story -- much that I will not go into. Just read at your own pleasure!
Go Cowboys!
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12 September 2007
Paper 3 – Mark 10.46-52
The practice of locating oneself in the story of faith, any story of faith, is Christian tradition varied, long, and historical. Understanding, however, the text, and attempting to hear it as it shapes people, of whom I am a part, makes it difficult for me to locate myself, or put myself in, a specific story, with a specific question. Jesus' question to Bartimaeus is the same question that he posed to James and John a few verses earlier (and as we were discussing in Int. N.T. last week, it functions as a rhetorical device in Mark to propel us towards something else). That Jesus is concerned with the common human plight, with my humanity, is something of which I have little or no doubt. But to stop, make camp, and story myself into the single sentence “what would you like me to do for you?” goes against the grain for me – if feels like the proverbial fingernails on a chalkboard.
However, if I am to imagine the conversation outside of its context, imagine Jesus asking me what he could “do for me” (which seems like the opposite thrust of the epistles, in which what Jesus has done is proclaimed with a view towards what we are to do in response) I would probably want to know how I can live faithfully in a world that is so screwed up: how can I live in a way that holds tension between this good God that he came to show us and a world that makes way for belligerent capitalism, sex trafficking, child soldiers, AIDS ridden continents, and war.
“How, Jesus, would you like me to live in this world?”
Further imagining a free-floating narrative like this, I wonder what would Jesus say to me? What would his expression be? Would he give me words to challenge God to be God? Would he give answers? Would he promise supernatural powers to change all the hurt in the world? Probably not. He hasn’t done that yet. So instead of feeling like Bartimaeus, maybe I’m more like the dumb freaking disciples in the earlier text: I just don’t get it. Or maybe yet, the text really was meant to push us forward – towards the cross, to find the hope of a dying world in the sick irony of a dying God. And there I hope to find my tension. The world is dying, but at least God knows what that’s like.
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19 September 2007
Paper 4 - John 3.1-21
“How can these things be?” After 2000 years of church history, Christian theologians, Papal encyclicals; after a life spent in congregational living and worship, four years of undergraduate work, a degree in church ministries, unnumbered hours reading, listening, dialoging, I still identify with Nicodemus.
The temptation of belief, the unsatisfied longing, characterized in C.S. Lewis’ work as “joy,” the belief that God might actually be in the way God is portrayed in the stories of Jesus, perhaps that is what Nicodemus really wrestled with.
Or perhaps it’s just that it doesn’t make sense, not to him, not to me. John’s gospel never makes a whole lot of sense to me, and this idea of being “born again,” colored as it is by conservative American politics in the past two decades, seems even more distant now than ever before.
But, perhaps Jesus’ next remark is the place I can identify: “we speak about what we know and testify about what we have seen.” When I struggle with understanding, when my struggle tempts me to disbelief, I think about what I’ve seen in congregational life. I think about seeing lives made right in the world. I don’t think about Augustine’s City of God, Anselm’s ontological proof, or Luther’s “sola fide” or St. John’s “born again.” I think about what I’ve seen, what I know from the life of the congregation. This tempts me once again towards belief, towards hope, towards the God of Jesus: the crucified God. (borrowing from Jurgan Moltmann's terminology)
The temptation to faith isn’t wrought with logic or innocence. It’s the deep, deep desire to believe that God really did “so love the world”: to believe that this God is real, that life matters, that chance isn’t the unblushing ruler of the cosmos, that in Jesus of Nazareth the God of all came and suffered with us, that child soldiers, hopeless vagrants, fools, clowns, whores, and house moms have hope.
And, so with Nicodemus, I find that in my weaker moments I’m strong enough to slink through darkened alleyways, climb forgotten stairs, breathe deeply of the cool night air, to for a few moments forget the establishment I’m such a part of, and come to Jesus.
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| Paper (unedited)This is paper I finished about 2 minutes ago. I haven't proofed it, or work on the citations, both of which I will do tomorrow -- this includes references to sources. I am not stealing other people's work, this medium simply won't take the formatting with endnotes! if you would like a copy with the proper credit given please just send me your e-mail address with a request (and a check for $9.95 + shipping and handling!) However, the gist of the thing is there. Feel free to disagree, agree, comment or ignore!
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The Kingdoms of This World: Imagining God's World God's Way (this is just a working title)
Introduction
Jesus stories as given in the Gospel of Mark work with multiple layers. Historically they work with oral tradition, possible eyewitness accounts if one takes the tradition that Peter was the source for Mark, possible written accounts that had been both remembered and retold. Narrativally they work with different characters (and sometimes caricatures) including Jesus himself, the disciples, the religious leaders, the demonic presence, and the crowds, among others. There are also settings that are continuously setting proper platforms for miracles, dialogs, and other events within the stories. All of these come together in the dense passage this paper will explore. Noting the density, and the way in which many of these elements come to the fore in this passage, it will be argued that the placement of the pericope, the setting, the characters, and the actual events of the story all show the Kingdom of God as the authentic rule in the world in contrast to other competing forms of power, and that Jesus is the one who brings that rule into the world.
Regarding the background of the author/redactor of Mark and his or her sources, along with the intended audience much has been assumed and said in many places by many people. Craig S. Keener places the dating for Mark “during the time of the great persecution in Rome, about A.D. 64 . Others place the dating a bit later, citing the destruction of the temple: “Its final redaction came during or after the destruction of the temple… In much the same way there are various theories regarding the identity of the author, some holding to the tradition handed down from the earlier church that John Mark was the author and used Peter as his source, and others who hold to a strict redactor, and still others to allow the author to remain anonymous. The recipients were probably wide based on the style of writing, and would have been “intended to be heard with the ear rather than read with the eye…” For the sake of this paper, the authorial debate will be suspended for the lack of internal exclusive evidence, and the readers are assumed to be a community or group of communities about 70 C.E. Markan priority is also assumed in connection with “synoptic problem,” and as this paper does not concern Matthew or Luke expect in parallels, the question of Q, and other sources will not be examined, only accepted for the sake of the paper.
Placement:
The pericope actually sits within a larger story of Jairus and his daughter. It also includes a reference to a sea crossing by boat, which puts the setting in direct correlation to the story of Jesus’ power over the demonic “Legion” (5.1-20). Still farther removed is the story of Jesus calming the same sea, and before that, the conversation about the place of the “crowds” in the ministry of Jesus (4.10-33).
The word o1xlos appears 38 times in Mark, which is 2.85 times in every 1000 words of the gospel compared to Matthew’s use of 50 times, but only 2.30 times in every 1000 words. If the disciples are commonly seen as rather incoherent in the Gospel of Mark, the “crowds” are simply ignorant – and Jesus intends for them to stay this way. Jesus neither speaks to them in plain language nor allows demons to speak aloud in keeping with what has been called the “messianic secret.” In the text in question, however, the crowd is not a passive presence that is uninvolved in the action. Instead the crowd is important to the story: they both hide the woman’s touch, and they are a legal hindrance to her being there. They also are present to the action. In the larger story of Jairus’ daughter they are left outside are not allowed to even see the work. In this story of the other “daughter” they are active “pressing” (5.31) against Jesus. Even in the pressing, though, Mark shows them to be oblivious to what is actually going on. The crowd makes no response to the woman at all. They are back in the passive role they have played throughout the gospel.
This is one of three instances in which the crowd is active in a healing story. The first is the cripple man lowered through the roof of the house (2.1-12). The second is the healing of Bartimaeus (10.46-52). In each of these three cases the crowd is a restraint, keeping the people from getting to Jesus, but in each case once the persons have made it to Jesus the Miracle occurs. This fits well with the parable of the seeds, in that the crowd could function as a literary device displaying “the hard ground,” while the people working their way to Jesus (or being brought, like the crippled man) are the good soil. Also, according to Robert A. Guelich, the “miracles and the double reference to “faith (5:34, 36; cf. 4:40) prepare for Jesus’ startling rejection in Nazareth (6:1-6). This trend is worked out in Mark’s gospel in Jesus’ call in 8.34-5. The crowd is included in the call to “take up [your] cross and follow me,” and appears to be a passive, supportive group, which suddenly become supporters in the killing of Jesus.
The “sea” as mentioned earlier frames the entire gospel of Mark to this point. Jesus has crossed it multiple times, taught beside it multiple times, and even calmed it during a midnight storm that could have drowned the boat of the disciples. The Old Testament contains numerous references to water, the first being in Genesis 1. The exodus story includes a crossing, and Isaiah even references the water when describing God’s protection: you need not fear when going through the water. As the story moves from the Gaderene Demoniac to the story of the death of Jairus’ daughter, with this story found in the middle of it, the sea is more than a simple obstacle to be crossed, but rather a deep symbol of God’s work in the world.
The Woman:
By far the woman is the most dominating figure of this scene. Jesus is uncharacteristically passive in this narrative, and the woman is the only one with initiative in the text. She is in contrast to the other healing stories to this point in Mark. The paralytic man is lowered by his friends, is male, and there is a collective faith that is recognized by Jesus (2.5). Social customs and laws forbid her to be in contact with any other person. Not only is there the Jewish law that forbids her interaction with the community, but also she has flaunted the “ideal” of “Greco-Roman antiquity. According to Cotter “extraordinary attention is given to the woman’s situation…(1) she had suffered for 12 years (5.25); (2) she had suffered under many physicians (5.26); (3) she had spent all her money (5.26); (4) she was no better but rather was growing worse (5.26)…and only the detail of her having a flow of blood is necessary to fulfill the first part of the basic miracle story.”
This being the case, why is the extra detail provided? Considering again the immediate construction of the story in regards to Jesus freeing the demon possessed man in the tombs, and the forward push of the dead daughter, this woman is a third representation of power structures that have been oppressive. According to Crossan, in the story of the Gerasene demoniac, “in the first-century mind, there was a connection between demonic possession and colonial oppression.”
After freeing the man from this possession/oppression, Jesus crosses the same sea that he had calmed earlier in the narrative, reminiscent of the creation account in Genesis, and is now on his way to demonstrate “power” over death . On his way this woman touches him, a woman who has been separated from her community for 12 years. Human touch was forbidden for her on any level, and the indignity of her situation would’ve been evident in the most normal activities, including that of sitting on furniture. Also, she “had spent all that she had.” She is now economically destitute, and by being aggressive in this social stratum, she was risking divorce (if married), and thus any male provider. She was “no better” for her spent money. She was under the religious law of the Jewish community and it had provided no help or healing or restoration for her. In fact she “grew worse.” She had apparently abided by the law, spending all that she had to find restoration within the confines of the law. Like the Gerasene man, she is oppressed by a system larger than herself, made and enforced by people different from herself, to whom she had to submit (males). She represents on “the other side of the sea” the victim of systemic oppression. In breaking the law she becomes a “sinner” according to that law, but finds the restoration that had not been provided in it, and finds this in the “power” that came “out of” Jesus.
Her restoration is in sharp relief, however to that of the demoniac. Jesus actively came to him; she actively came to Jesus. Jesus confronted the evil/demons on his own; her faith made her well. As noted by
Jesus:
As noted already, Jesus is shockingly passive, and imposed upon in a way unprecedented, and in a way that will not be repeated. He has healed various people, proclaimed the Kingdom of God, taught, performed nature miracles, and consistently released people from demonic oppression, but in this story, he is “pressed” upon by a crowd, and the woman comes behind him “in the crowd” to touch his robe.
That Jesus is passive in the first part makes his reaction stand out all the more: instead of continuing on with the crowd, He is aware of “power” going out of him. This is the first time Mark uses the word duna¿meiß, in the gospel, but it will be repeated until the climax when Jesus says “you will see the Son of Man … in power…” (emphasis mine). This story, then, sets the stage for Jesus final trial. It demonstrates the struggle for power that will come the climax in the trial scene of Jesus. The woman who has been held down by other authorities now reaches out to touch Jesus’ garment, and is made well.
Jesus authority is over the cleanliness laws, in that instead of him becoming unclean by her touch (which was the law) she is made well. Jesus, instead of denouncing her for breaking the law, praises her for her faith, and gives her a place back in the community. To this point Jesus has already forgiven sins (2.1-12), and healed on the Sabbath (3.1-6). He has authority over the systemic authorities, even when that authority is religious. He also created a new category for “family” in 3.31-35, and by calling her “daughter” (5.34) he gives her a place in this new family. Whereas the bounds of community and family had been restrictive, and repressive – draining her emotionally, socially, and economically – Jesus’ authority over this power structure, is redemptive for her “immediately,” (5.29) which follows Mark’s language from the beginning of the narrative until the end. Jesus has power to bring the Kingdom of God into the world, over against, which all other power structures are broken or destroyed, be they imperial oppression, systemic oppression of gender, religion, exclusion, or even death.
Conclusion:
How does this rule of God in Jesus work in a congregation, or even world of current time and space? Mark’s continuation of the themes of God’s Kingdom, Jesus’ power and the culmination of these in the trial scene lead to the expectation that this is still reality. In fact the shorter ending, with its abruptness, and unresolved tension imply that what has been told in the narrative is now moving forward into history, into the larger world.
This expectation bids the current reader/hearer to respond to this power of Jesus to bring God’s Kingdom with faith like the woman. It calls to the reader/hearer to not be part of the “crowd,” to not be ones who hear but do not hear, and see but do not see. It calls for like everything else in Mark, disciples: people who will live into the world where God’s Kingdom in Jesus really does overturn all oppressive forms of government, rework all systemic injustices, and do away with the power of death. It calls for people who are willing to engage the possibility of hope in a world of demons, empire, oppression, and death, and find a world made right in the family of God.
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| Current (short) PapersHere are some one page papers I was forced to write for a class that
ended up not having to take, in which the papers seemed to cause a bit
of unrest. You may make judgments for yourself, as you like.
Paper 1:
Consolation and Desolation:
Here is a blog post I put up after the first day of school.
(Title) And Then There Were Innumerous...
(Body)...days.
That's the way it feels after two of them spent in orientation at
Perkins. The rest of them seem to stretch out in more than a slightly
daunting fashion.
It would seem poetic to say that I'm armed with a
grim determination or some self actualized rhetoric like that, but the
truth is that I feel more like I'm trying to carefully wade out into
the water (of a hurricane).
In what can be construed as
"journaling" I am at best sporadic, sometimes erratic in my sentence
structure, and even thoughts. My "blogs" help me release some of my
thoughts that get caught in my head in a way that forces me to
recognize myself knowing that others (no matter how few) will read what
I've said and this causes me to think even a bit more clearly about
what I'm thinking about.
The schoolwork doesn't quite scare
me. I have an advantage in some respects over a great number of the
people who are coming to theology fresh from other fields, in that I
know the language; I have an idea of what to expect in the classroom
and reading; I have friends in various theological institutions from
whom I can draw help, inspiration, and even competition to help drive
me to my work. However, when I pause to reflect on the job that I left,
the bills I have, the thousands of dollars peeking over my shoulder
like a poltergeist, I am left with the sensation of churning water,
forceful winds, (to borrow from the Psalmist) "billowing."
And
yet, in a sickly comforting way thinking about all the other options in
the world I know that I am drawn again and again to this one. It's what
I do when I'm doing something else: it's who I am. And this is my
reflection on "consolation" – the hope that I am held, the sick feeling
that I might actually be held. Something like the boy in "The Turkey"
by Flannery O'Connor:
"He walked four blocks and then suddenly,
noticing that it was dark, he began to run. He ran faster and faster,
and as he turned up the road to his house, his heart was running as
fast as his legs and he was certain that Something Awful was tearing
behind him with its arm rigid and its fingers ready to clutch."
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Paper 2:
5 September 2007
Dallas Gingles
Psalm 139
As I type I'm listening to Damien Rice's "The Animals Were Gone," and
reflecting on the past week – it's completions, the feelings, the
desires and pain. In the song, as he awakes "the animals are gone" "for
the first time." His lover has left and taken their animals with him –
neither his love nor their pets are present any longer.
In Jonathon
Edward's Sermon "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" he images the
congregation present as people who are suspended in midair over a
gaping hell like a spider held only by a thread over a flame. In a song
released several years ago by a Pentecostal church in Australia the
claim is made that "I feel like I'm falling…over and over in love with
you." In either case, love or fear the metaphor remains the same:
falling.
In the psalm attributed to David, he vies for attention
– vacillating for the status of main character between he and God. God
is present. This is the difference in the characters, David and God:
David is moving from place to place, ascending to heaven, descending to
Sheol, driven to the night to cover himself, alive in the day to see,
and yet God simply is…there.
As I wrestled with differing changes
this week, personal changes that cause for hurt, questions, and the
possibility of being driven to different ends in long run, I keep
thinking about "presentness." How is that possible? Why should I?
Present to what?
More than that, I guess, "is God present?" "Do I wish God to be present, or simply to go away and make everything easier?"
Graham Greene wrote "You can't conceive, nor can I, the appalling
strangeness of the mercy of God." I thought about that quote all day
yesterday, and I was looking at it on the internet last night and came
across a scene from the show "The West Wing" in which the president is
at a cathedral by himself, and has a dialog with God in which he quotes
Greene and follows with "I don't know who's ass he was kissing…" and
moves seamlessly between cursing and worship. That's maybe the way I
feel, between two poles.
Something similar I guess to what David might've felt.
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There are two more, but I'll wait to post them. | | |
| Self-Destruction, Salvation, and MoneyI was killing a few minutes in a store when I came across a book by Chuck Klosterman. It started with a story of guy saying that his whole life was defined by a single moment at a Jr. High basketball game. I don't know the conclusion of the story as my time had been killed, and I walked out to my jeep and drove four blocks to a party. I had already been thinking about ways in which life is defined, at least my life seems to be defined by one particular story that plays itself out over and over again.
Any good piece of literature, not the crap assigned as textbooks, but actual literature, works with hints, allusions, "inclusio", and shadow. Life seems to be the same way. And, it's never the upside that defines the story. I suppose the technical term for the defining moment is "conflict" or "rising conflict." That term only works from a detached reader's perspective. In "To Kill a Mockingbird," for instance, the shadow hangs long like a late summer evening. It starts with the title, and broods over the whole narrative. We as reader have the safety of detachment, but in real life "conflict" doesn't seem to cut it.
In fact, we have specialized fields of study to describe people who have experienced such deep "conflict" that they no longer function in a manner society (whatever the hell that is) deems appropriate. We look with at people with dependency problems and judge, and rightly wish to save. We hope for something (to use Christian language) to "be made right" -- for everything to be made right. We wish, however, askance. People continue to mess up their life, and the lives of everyone around them.
I relate. There is a time in my life, that looking back, has affected almost everything I've done. Not a good time, either.
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| A Little TimeI do have a little time before heading off to the next group of friends. I don't feel that I have much to say, but in the interest of killing time, keeping up with people farther away then Knox-Henderson Street, I thought I would drop a line or two in here.
School is going well. I'm enjoying almost all of it. I'm "learning" Greek, but the quotation marks should tell you that learning is a variable term...like all the components of Greek, ironically.
I'm hoping to find a couple (or even just one) people to ride to Jena, LA next week to be part of a social justice witness for the people (young boys) kept in jail there. If you care to check out any of the information you can find what you're looking for by "googling" "friends of justice."
Keeping with the theme of loving God/loving neighbor, I'm also planning a trip to San Francisco next month to attend the Pentecostal Charismatic Peace Fellowship conference/retreat. This is the 3rd annual meeting, and you should attend if you're interested in peace and justice: loving God/loving neighbor!
Here's the consistent thought running through my thoughts and conversations lately (and fair warning, many of you might wish to write me off as atheist or worse, but I'm just at the point where I don't care anymore): prayer scares me. If I pray, I can imagine 3 possible options. 1. I find the God of Jesus, who is merciful, cares about the hurting world, and indeed suffers with, in, and alongside of it. 2. I find there is no God at all, and the world is completely without meaning and hope. 3. I find a God who is unlike anything in Jesus: vindictive, hurtful and uncaring about the hurting people/creation in the world. The second two options scare me to death, but the first is so tantalizing I'm drawn to it like red kool-aid in a Texas Summer. Still, the thought of slowing down, shutting up, and being vulnerable to the God of these possibilities is scary as hell. (No, seminary didn't do this to me...people here believe radically in God, contrary to what popular opinion might be!).
So, I've rambled for no good reason. It's not poetic. It doesn't feel like a good "post." And, I still need to kill another 45 minutes, but I hope that you somehow enjoyed some of it.
And, I welcome your talk-back on it.
Peace. | | |
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