The Internet Monk Archives

Another Look: Depression and Delight

Note from CM: I’ve been in a funk for several weeks now. Functioning okay, but with little enthusiasm or joy. I needed to read this post I wrote back in 2012. I may need it again tomorrow, and the next day . . .

• • •

The opposite of depression is delight, being spontaneously surprised by the goodness and beauty of living. This is not something we can ever positively crank up and make happen in our lives. It is, as every saint and sage has told us, the by-product of something else. It is something that happens to us and which can never, on our own, make happen to us. As C. S. Lewis suggests in the title of his autobiography, Surprised by Joy, delight has to catch us unaware, at a place where we are not rationalizing that we are happy. The famous prayer of Francis of Assisi, with its insistence that it is only in giving that we receive, suggests the same thing.

This is what it would mean to not be depressed: Imagine yourself on some ordinary weekday, walking to your car, standing at a bus stop, cooking a meal, sitting at your desk, or doing anything else that is quite ordinary. Suddenly, for no tangible reason, you fill with a sense of the goodness and beauty and joy of just living. You feel your own life — your heart, your mind, your body, your sexuality, the people and things you are connected to — and you spontaneously fill with the exclamation: “God, it feels great to be alive!” That’s delight, that’s what it means not to be depressed.

• Ronald Rolheiser, The Holy Longing: The Search for a Christian Spirituality

Ron Rolheiser suggests that the default position for many of us in contemporary culture is “depression,” which he defines as the inability to access our inner energies in order to engage life. When we are depressed (not clinically depressed — that’s something else) we feel dead inside, or at least lethargic. There is a dimness or dullness of spirit that deflates us. We are right to see this as a spiritual problem — it is traditionally recognized as the deadly sin of acedia: a state of restlessness or listlessness that keeps us from our work or prayer, or at least from finding joy in them. We can’t find the energy to care.

The American approach to overcoming such spiritual problems is typically direct and technological in nature. I identify an area of sin or weakness, a habit or fault that I imagine hinders my relationship with God or others, something that displeases God or keeps me from being effective in his service. I develop strategies for conquering this problem, and then seek and make use of proper tools to win the battle. This is the (inadequate) Christian practice of “sin management” that Dallas Willard and others write about.

Life becomes a project. A self-improvement project. Or, in more Christian terms, a “sanctification” project.

I understand the attraction of this kind of methodology. It is logical and consistent with the way people approach work and many aspects of life in modern society. It is easy to understand and communicate. It is practical and satisfies our common sense realism about dealing with life and its problems.

And in the final analysis, it is all up to you and me to accomplish — with God’s help and blessing, of course.

However, Ronald Rolheiser puts his finger on something we forget. God rarely signs on to our projects. While we are diagnosing, strategizing, and implementing solutions for our lives, he’s smiling. He has something entirely different in mind.

When we first moved to Indianapolis twenty years ago, we lived in a rental house. I offered to do some painting for our landlord in exchange for rent, and he agreed. So I went to work, painting the house and garage. When I got to the back of the garage, I thought it would be fun to let my little preschool boy “help.” I poured some paint in a bucket, put a brush in his hand, and let him have at it. Oh, that was fun! Paint everywhere! Of course, I had a lot of clean up and touching up to do later, but I wouldn’t trade anything for those hours “painting” with my little boy. It was, as Rolheiser says, delightful.

I sometimes think that all my work for God, all my sin management projects, all my attempts at improving myself and overcoming things like the “depression” Ron Rolheiser speaks of are like my young son trying to paint the back of the garage. I really have no idea what I’m doing and even when I understand what God is telling me to do, I don’t have the spiritual coordination to pull it off.

What I hadn’t counted on, however, was my Father’s smile and the delight in his eyes. I never knew it could feel so good to be such an utter mess — with him. There I stand, covered in paint, having completely botched the job, yet never closer to him, never more filled with joy.

It’s not up to me after all.

Joy breaks through.

Delight descends.

Suddenly, in the middle of my ordinary day — the laughter of God.

Some friends I’d like you to meet

Last week I attended the death of a man who had been a police officer and then an investigator for a major corporation. Sometimes he was asked by the company’s HR department to deal with employees who were being dismissed. He would go to that person’s desk or office, watch as they cleaned it out, and then accompany them out of the building to make sure no equipment or proprietary information was stolen and to provide security in case there was an incident. His wife told me that HR liked to have him do this because he was so good at it. In fact, she said that one time, after having escorted a fired employee out, that employee actually sent him a “thank you” note for his kindness and consideration while doing a difficult job. “What is desirable in a man is his kindness…” (Proverbs 19:22, NASB).

• • •

One of the best funerals I’ve attended recently (actually I officiated this one) was of a man who had been non-religious most of his life, but was one of the gentlest and kindest people you’ll ever meet. He was also a musician, and had played saxophone for years in various clubs around the region. For some reason, he and I hit it off on our first visit, and you might have thought we were lifelong friends, the way we enjoyed being together and swapping stories. He eventually went into the hospital and on my last visit was unresponsive. So I took out my phone and played some Billie Holiday for him as I sat at the bedside. At the funeral I was surprised to hear his daughter express thanks that he told her in his final weeks he had come to believe in God. Later, his wife said meeting someone like me, who didn’t fit his image of a “religious person” was one of the key factors in helping him come to faith. At the cemetery the family scattered his ashes in a wooded garden while a sax player from a well-known local jazz club played. One of the saints went marching in while he did.

• • •

Several years ago, I had one of my favorite patients. Dick and his wife were also not very devout, unless you count golf. But his terminal illness humbled him and he soon looked forward to my visits and to having me pray for him. They were a funny pair. They had a little dog that got so excited when visitors came it peed all over the floor, and she used to get so embarrassed and make the funniest remarks. They were both pretty hard of hearing, especially Dick, and so she bought him one of those wireless headphone sets so he could watch TV and understand what was being said. Well, she didn’t quite have the concept, because she thought in order for him to hear through the headphones, she had to turn the volume on the TV all the way up. I could hear it at the end of their block. Dick decided he wanted to be baptized and so we set it up. His son and family came to witness and were moved to ask for baptism themselves. As did his wife. It was a “household salvation” moment. Jack died and I did his funeral and a couple of years later his wife succumbed to dementia and died as well. They asked me to do her service also. Just this week I saw their son and his family, and we embraced like our time together had been only yesterday. Jack also had a daughter, with whom I became close. When I saw Jack’s son this week, he told me her husband, a fun, likable guy, has been fighting cancer since January. I called him immediately. “Mike,” he said, “I’m gonna beat this.” I know he’ll give it his best shot and I told him so. So much sadness, and yet so much grace and love. It makes your heart fairly break.

• • •

In late spring I visited a woman who had been a genuine “Rosie the Riveter” during World War II. In her factory, they made one of the main troop carriers that was used in the Pacific theater. She loved to talk about her work and was proud to have contributed to the war effort. Right after hearing her stories, I visited a World War II veteran who had served near the end of the war in the Pacific and Japan. He specifically mentioned the ship he was on. It was one of the carriers my “Rosie” had helped build. Now they lived within five miles of one another, and I had the privilege of meeting them both. It’s life’s little epiphanies like that that make me smile.

• • •

One patient who had been on our hospice service longest (3-4 years) died a couple of weeks ago. Josephine had Alzheimer’s disease and her family had cared for her for nearly a decade before she was admitted to hospice. Her son had been adopted, and now he and his wife and their two young children became her caregivers. She came to them at the beginning of their marriage, survived a move from the east coast to the Midwest, and bounced back from every conceivable infection and medical problem over the years to remain a fixture in their home and in our lives as clinicians. When I heard she died, I wasn’t able to go to the house because of another emergency, but I went on my way home that evening. I had to. I just had to see them, to express not only my condolences but also my deep admiration for this young family. I told them their children will never be the same, having witnessed true devotion and service in their own home. As I prepared to leave, the husband pointed to his wife, who I suddenly noticed had a bit of a protruding belly. “We’re expecting in October,” he said. Josephine’s room will have a new occupant, and the world will be better because this family continues to choose life.

• • •

Two of the kindest, most encouraging people I’ve ever known, a husband and wife, both died this summer. They were members in one of the congregations where I served, they were good friends, helpful with our children, and they were true lights in our community. I deal with death all the time — impending and actual — and go to funeral homes every week to pay my respects or officiate services. But this is different. This kind of loss touches something that sucks the breath out of me and doubles me over. This hurts.

Sundays with Michael Spencer: August 2, 2015

“We didn’t crawl out from under no rocks. We didn’t have no tails. And we didn’t come from monkeys you atheist pinko meathead.”

“It ain’t supposed to make sense; it’s faith. Faith is something that you believe that nobody in his right mind would believe.”

• Archie Bunker

• • •

I used to watch “All In The Family” with my dad. It was strange. Strange because my dad was the virtual clone of Archie Bunker (and my mother the twin of Edith), and all the comedy- which I increasingly found both hilarious and truthful — usually went right past him.

Archie was perhaps the greatest practitioner of the art of argumentation ever portrayed on stage or screen. He had all the necessary gifts. He believed himself to be more knowledgeable on any subject than anyone else in the room. He had a vocabulary that ran circles around a normal person. He was never daunted by logic, compassion, or mercy. No, he pressed on, wagging his finger–or cigar–in your face, making his points, calling Mike a meathead or the neighbor an idiot or worse.

Archie loved an argument the way most people love dessert. At the slightest provocation, he bullishly inserted his opinion and denigrated yours. Reality, facts, common sense, sheer numbers of opponents–none of it made a dent in Archie. Inventing and redefining terms was an art form with him. It was Archie who explained that male behavior was determined by khromostones, and later discovered both his-mones and her-mones. When he found humility, it was always his special variety: “The only thing that holds a marriage together is the husband bein’ big enough to keep his mouth shut, to step back and see where his wife is wrong.”

I’ve decided that Archie Bunker is the patron saint of Christians who can’t stop making their point. Christians who love to argue. Christians who can’t stand it that someone somewhere disagrees with them. Christians who are caught up in theological controversy like University of Kentucky basketball fans are caught up in defending their team. Christians who have to correct everyone the way obsessed Lord of the Rings fans must correct any deviation from the Holy Canons of Tolkien. Christians who can’t rest easy if someone somewhere is not understanding, reading, or getting “it,” whatever “it” happens to be.

. . . The little brothers of Saint Archie Bunker, I call them.

I meet Calvinists who have no control over their need to make all Biblical discussions turn into debates on predestination. There are young earth creationists who hunt down anything that smells like a less-than-literal view of Genesis one and label it evolution. Pentecostal/Charismatics have all varieties of little brothers of Saint Archie who can’t stand it that someone isn’t riding the latest wave of the Holy Spirit into last days revival. Seminary students who can’t understand why there is anyone refusing to read N.T. Wright, and hand-wringers staying up nights writing letters to people who do read N.T. Wright.

There are political types who won’t shut up, and Dobson types who won’t leave you alone, and don’t even start on those people caught up in the euphoria of the latest evangelical product, and have to make sure any peaceful gathering is subjected to commercials and testimonials.

Are religious enthusiasts just naturally obnoxious? Or do certain forms of Christianity attract people who have an insatiable need to impose their beliefs on others? Do some of us simply have nothing on the the mental dashboard that registers “too intense?”

. . . A few years ago, I started to figure something out. There were people who didn’t want to be around me. Not many, but some. Now it wasn’t hard to engage in all the usual justifications and criticisms to deal with that, and I could easily blow it all off. It wasn’t that I was being rejected, just avoided. At some point, through an offhand comment made by a much older friend, I realized something clearly. I was always making these people listen to my opinions, my arguments, and my insights about everything. They were uncomfortable. I thought it was all important and insightful. They wanted a pleasant lunch.

These were some of the people we’d had in our home for meals who had never reciprocated, and I was starting to suspect why. I was too much. I came on too strong. My opinions. My insights. My own horn being played loudly and too long in your ear.

Could it be that that if your religion has turned you into a neurotic, others might not want to join it? They might turn out like you.I’m better now. (I’ve given up on real people and just write all my arrogant wise-yammering on here).

. . . It would be far better if we enjoyed the truths we believe, rather than if it appeared we are made anxious by the need to convert others to those truths. Delighting in, exulting in and savoring the truth we believe is a God-honoring witness free from the ministry of Saint Archie. If we yearn for others to know the truth, then may that truth satisfy our own yearnings, even the yearning to be heard and be right. May it bring, as Peter said, the welcome questions that seek to know of the hope that is in us, and why it is a source of joy. It really helps when it IS a source of joy.

And if it doesn’t bring us to that fountain of joy, and bring us delight, trust, worship, and peace, why are we talking about it anyway?

Saturday Ramblings, August 1, 2015

Hello, imonks, and welcome to the weekend. Gay emojis banned in Russia, Rambo turkeys, re-directed art and ricocheting armadillos. Ready to Ramble?

Marvel continued their amazing run: Antman was the 12th Marvel movie in a row to open at number 1. Yes, Antman. A movie about a superhero whose special power is…to shrink to ant size. Yeah…

Continue reading “Saturday Ramblings, August 1, 2015”

Damaris Zehner: Yielding Rights

Yielding Rights
By Damaris Zehner

When discussions occur on Internet Monk defending abortion rights, contraceptive rights, rights to same-sex marriage, rights to divorce, even rights to receive communion in a denomination not one’s own, I tend not to take part. One reason I refrain has to do with the rules for ethical argument, at least as I teach them to my students. I define argument as a means of working together to find the truth; if I do not anticipate being able to change my views no matter how compelling the opposition, then I would be entering into an argument under false pretenses. So I mostly stay out of the arguments that exist or (with a few exceptions) refrain from starting any myself. Does that imply that I think I’m right in these areas? Well, it implies that I think the position I have accepted is the right one – which is why I accepted it, after all. It says nothing about my own righteousness, which is as filthy rags.

So I stay quiet on Internet Monk, but I feel like a hypocrite. I have considered quitting the site from time to time and finding more congenial surroundings (assuming there are any), but I would then be isolated from those I disagree with, which is an unhealthy position. Most importantly, though, my refusal to take up an opposing position to those commonly expressed on Internet Monk is an insult to all of you, as if I thought that you weren’t worth the effort of honest discussion. I regret these sins of mine and resolve to do better.

Here goes: I cannot condone abortion. I do not accept same-sex unions as marriage, although I support laws to allow individuals to establish legal relationships of inheritance, sharing of benefits, etc., as they choose. I believe that divorce is rarely an option. You know how I feel about artificial forms of contraception. It has never occurred to me that any denomination is obliged to give me communion when I do not share their beliefs or practices.

Rather than explain my reasons for each of those positions separately, although I have many, I think I can say that they all rest on the same foundation, as do my positions on suicide, extreme aids to conception such as sperm banks and in vitro fertilization, and other issues. That foundation is not political conservatism; I am not a political conservative, and in fact, politics is as opaque to me as music is to the tone-deaf. It is a conviction based on Scripture, that when we become Christians, we yield our rights in exchange for grace.

Continue reading “Damaris Zehner: Yielding Rights”

Miguel Ruiz: New light on the oldest profession

Note from CM: After thinking about the way many Christians today devise their moral theology, our friend Miguel offers a “modest proposal” about reconsidering “the oldest profession.”

• • •

The history of Christianity is a twisted tale of conflict over sexuality and the suppression of those who dissent the party line on bedroom ethics. These days, it is commonly argued that there is only one correct approach, from sound exegesis of Scripture, to human sexuality and appropriate boundaries. However, we still must concede that what is commonly accepted as “right” today is not exactly how we have always taught. Throughout the centuries, various sexual practices have gone in and out of favor with the church catholic at various times and in various cultures, as external influences have doubtlessly impacted how the relevant Scripture passages were read and understood. We’ve run the gamut from repressing to libertine, and everything in between. It is nothing short of confounding how difficult it is to get the Bible to speak directly and consistently on these matters. If we truly value and respect the Word of God, we would be wise to continue listening and respectfully consider alternate interpretations, especially those coming from fellow believers as a matter of conscience. We’ve all made mistakes in Biblical interpretation before, probably not for the last time. So I challenge you to listen with an open mind as I explain how we’ve been largely wrong about a particular issue for a number of years: Prostitution.

Continue reading “Miguel Ruiz: New light on the oldest profession”

Another Look: That for which every heart yearns

This is the time of year a Midwestern boy like me looks forward to with all his heart.

It is, without a doubt, the very best time of year.

For this is the season when the three most wonderful words in the English language fill the air.

Three simple, sublime words.

They are everywhere. These three magnificent words come to mind whenever you drive down the road, almost any road around here. When you are out and about, when you go to the store, when you come home and walk in the back door, you think about these words and they make you smile.

They are the most splendid, the most appealing, the most astounding words ever spoken.

They represent what I believe may be the greatest gift in all of God’s creation.

These words bring the promise of satisfaction, delight, and wonder. They capture our hopes and dreams, the yearning we all have deep within us.

As far as I am concerned, there is no greater three-word phrase in all the world. Continue reading “Another Look: That for which every heart yearns”

Ryan McLaughlin: A Luminous Darkness

A Luminous Darkness
By Ryan McLaughlin

At long last, I had found my way out of the wilderness!

Or so I thought, at least. My wife and I became Roman Catholic on a beautiful spring evening in the heart of Boston. As Holy Saturday became Easter Sunday, the bells rang out and the lights came on in the century-old parish and I, too, felt like I was leaving a spiritual grave. We’d found a new beginning! Our little apartment smelled like the chrism oil we’d been doused with for days afterwards, and my sense of rapture lasted for many weeks more.

I had been wandering in the “post-evangelical wilderness” for several years at that point. I had been burned to my core by my experiences in Sovereign Grace Ministries (as many readers will know, a “non-denominational denomination” with Calvinist leanings that’s been plagued by scandals for years now), and had been searching for a new home. At some point along the way, I’d become fascinated by Church history, and began reading the Fathers. A little while later, I became enamored by modern Catholic luminaries such as Hans Urs von Balthasar, Henri de Lubac, and Joseph Ratzinger (Benedict XVI). After that, I fell under the spell of the Catholic pens of the likes of G.K. Chesterton and Flannery O’Connor.

Under a deluge of Roman books, I began to feel like Catholicism had the answer to all of the questions I’d left Evangelicalism with a few years earlier. Eventually, we signed up for RCIA classes, and that bright night in Boston came just 4 months later.

We were excited to begin life as practicing Catholics. What we weren’t ready for was the agony and frustration of it all.

We weren’t ready for the huge disparity between what we read and what we were about to experience. Being a practicing Roman Catholic in the United States has nothing to do with reading a good Ratzinger or Chesterton book. For us, American Catholicism was a wilderness that made the post-evangelical one pale in comparison.

To begin with the smaller things: nobody prepared us for the fact that the beautiful liturgy that inspired Catholics of old is almost entirely gone, and has largely been replaced by a silly caricature of contemporary Evangelical worship. Or that modern Catholic priests often just don’t take preaching seriously, and many a homily is just ten minutes of your time that’s wasted. Or that becoming a member of a Catholic parish means that you will be constantly hounded for money—I mean, they pass the collection plate TWICE almost every Sunday of the year. And that’s just the parish, wait until the diocese comes after you for the annual “pastoral appeal.”

Nobody warned us that Catholics don’t talk to each other on Sundays, and that making friends and finding fellowship was going to be brutally difficult, and that you can attend a parish for over a year and still feel like a complete stranger there. We didn’t get a heads up that when we did finally manage to make Catholic friends, the liberal ones were going to think it odd that we went to Eucharistic Adoration, and the conservative ones were going to raise their eyebrows at the fact that we vaccinate our children or that we’re not planning on homeschooling them.

We weren’t ready for the new bishop we’d have after we moved to Florida, who is widely known to have sexually harassed a male employee of the diocese and yet still serves in office. We weren’t ready for the priest at a prominent local parish that was arrested for masturbating in public, but who is still in ministry. We’d figured all of that had been taken care of a decade earlier after the clergy sex abuse scandal had broken. Wasn’t there zero tolerance for that sort of thing now?

Doctrine felt like a bait-and-switch: somehow, in all of the deep and inspiring books I’d read, I missed the fact that the Catholic Church still teaches that missing Mass on just one Sunday without a good reason puts you out of the state of grace, and into immediate danger of hellfire. Not once in our RCIA class did we hear that using contraception isn’t just against the Church’s teachings, but that it can actually send an otherwise faithful Catholic married couple into an eternity in hell if left unconfessed. When we learned all of this after we’d already gone through with becoming Catholic, we did the best we could to be faithful to the Church we’d committed ourselves to. Still, deep in the recesses of my heart, it was hard to square those beliefs with faith in a loving and merciful God… I learned that while the depths of Catholic academic theology are profound and beautiful, the doctrines that affect a Christian’s day-to-day life—the ones I’d failed to read about before becoming Catholic–seem to come from a different universe.

I wasn’t ready to feel angry and confused all the time, or to feel like God was slipping further and further away from me the more I tried to get close to Him. Most of all, I wasn’t ready to think about the Catholic Church in America, and then look at my three young children, and think “how on earth am I supposed to raise my kids to love Jesus in an environment like this? If I stick with this, they’re going to want nothing to do with religion of any kind long before they turn 18.”

If this was leaving the wilderness, man, maybe the wilderness wasn’t that bad.

I don’t want you to get the impression that I’d expected a perfect, sinless church when we became Catholic. But I had made a decision to convert that was entirely intellectual, and not based in reality. The church to which I thought I was converting didn’t seem to exist anywhere in the real world. And the doubts I was having about various points of doctrine were really gnawing at me…

Last year I finally broke down. I just couldn’t see myself staying Catholic anymore. It was painful to admit it to myself, but I’d been wrong. I was embarrassed: I was very vocal and public about becoming Catholic, and was now making a retraction. But I was too far down the rabbit hole of Church history to go back to being an Evangelical. You see, I was still convinced by many of the things I’d learned about the Eucharist, Mary, the Saints… These were firm convictions that I’d formed through years of study. Meanwhile, I’d had some friends that converted to Eastern Orthodoxy…

We visited an Eastern Orthodox parish. Then we visited another one. And we kept going back to that second one… The people there actually talked to each other, and to us, and the priest was really kind. The liturgy was serious and beautiful. At some point, my wife told me that it was the first time in years that she was looking forward to going to church on Sunday mornings.

Meanwhile, I’d gone back to my reading, looking to reevaluate what I’d been so sure of a few years earlier… My doubts began to grow, and I decided to take down the triumphalist little Catholic convert blog I’d been writing. Honestly, I’d gone from being angry all the time to just feeling hollow and spent. I felt broken, humbled, and in need of peace. I found enormous comfort in going to vespers at the Orthodox parish by myself on Saturday nights, lighting a few candles and just letting the words of the prayers and the Scripture readings carry me along.

Eventually, we knew we were supposed to be Orthodox. I wish I could tell you that we had a “seeing the light” kind of moment. But it was more like climbing into what St. Gregory of Nyssa calls a “luminous darkness.” It wasn’t finding the answer to all of our questions, it was more like finally figuring out that God wasn’t in the earthquake or the storm or the raging fire, but in the gentle whisper of the wind. And while I did my fair share of reading great books, and I truly fell in love with Eastern Orthodox theology, that’s not what finally convinced me that I needed to become Orthodox: it was the offer of healing. It was the slow realization that I wasn’t going to able to read my way out of the spiritual wilderness I’d thought I’d left, I was going to need to learn how to really pray and fast. It was looking around at the dear people of St. Andrew’s OCA, and hearing Fr. Patrick preach, and thinking to myself: “yeah, I could see myself raising my kids to love Jesus here.”

We were chrismated into Orthodoxy in February. This time we weren’t received into our new Church during the Easter Vigil. It was, appropriately enough, the last Sunday before Lent. And so we began again, not triumphantly, not feeling like we’d figured everything out, not thinking that the healing process was done… but we began again in peace.

Teaching One Another: Feeding the Crowds

We haven’t done much Bible study recently, and I thought today might be a good day to dig in again. Yesterday’s lectionary readings intrigued me, particularly the OT reading and the Gospel. I think they raise some questions, not only of biblical interpretation, but of how we approach the Bible and stories like this.

???? First Testament Reading: 2 Kings 4:42-44

A man came from Baal-shalishah, bringing food from the first fruits to the man of God: twenty loaves of barley and fresh ears of grain in his sack. Elisha said, “Give it to the people and let them eat.” But his servant said, “How can I set this before a hundred people?” So he repeated, “Give it to the people and let them eat, for thus says the Lord, ‘They shall eat and have some left.’” He set it before them, they ate, and had some left, according to the word of the Lord.

???? Gospel Reading: John 6:1-21 (1-15 is below)

After this Jesus went to the other side of the Sea of Galilee, also called the Sea of Tiberias. A large crowd kept following him, because they saw the signs that he was doing for the sick. Jesus went up the mountain and sat down there with his disciples. Now the Passover, the festival of the Jews, was near. When he looked up and saw a large crowd coming toward him, Jesus said to Philip, “Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?” He said this to test him, for he himself knew what he was going to do. Philip answered him, “Six months’ wages would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little.” One of his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, said to him, “There is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish. But what are they among so many people?” Jesus said, “Make the people sit down.” Now there was a great deal of grass in the place; so they sat down, about five thousand in all. Then Jesus took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated; so also the fish, as much as they wanted. When they were satisfied, he told his disciples, “Gather up the fragments left over, so that nothing may be lost.” So they gathered them up, and from the fragments of the five barley loaves, left by those who had eaten, they filled twelve baskets. When the people saw the sign that he had done, they began to say, “This is indeed the prophet who is to come into the world.” When Jesus realized that they were about to come and take him by force to make him king, he withdrew again to the mountain by himself.

• • •

“The Feeding of the 5000” is one of Jesus’ miracles that invites a lot of thought and discussion.

First of all, it is one of those rare miracles that is told in all four Gospels (Matthew 14:13-21, Mark 6:32-44, Luke 9:10-17, John 6:1-15). This fact in and of itself makes it interesting, for comparing and contrasting the different Gospel accounts brings out the theological interests of each Gospel writer. For example, John is the only one who mentions that Passover was at hand. John also specifies that Jesus initiated a conversation with Philip about how they were going to feed the crowds, and that he did so in order to test him. John also is alone in recording the crowd’s reaction (v. 14), that Jesus perceived they were going to try and make him king by force, and that this was the reason Jesus withdrew to the mountain. Matthew and Mark, by contrast, only say that he went up on the mountain to pray. The other unique thing in John’s Gospel, characteristic of the way he follows events with extended discourses and controversy narratives, is that this story leads into the great “Bread of Life” account later in the chapter. The fact that we can examine this same miracle in all four Gospels brings up questions of why they considered this miracle so important and what lessons they each drew from it for their readers.

Second, it is a miracle that recalls a specific First Testament miracle (2Kings 4:42-44). There is inter-textuality not only between the four Gospels with reference to this miracle, but also with the OT narratives of Elisha the prophet. There must be some tie between the two stories; the parallels between them are nearly identical. Now this certainly raises questions, does it not? What is the relationship between the story of Jesus and that of Elisha? Do the Gospel writers intend that we readers will have the Elisha narratives in mind as a foundation for understanding this miracle Jesus worked? Did they shape their accounts in order to make them parallel to the Elisha miracle and to draw attention to those parallels (and differences)?

Third, it is a miracle that also has a parallel in the Gospels themselves (Matthew 15:32-39, Mark 8:1-10). “The Feeding of the Four Thousand” shows up later in Matthew and Mark, and the story follows the same arc. This kind of a “doublet” in the Gospels is a rarity, and has led, as one might imagine, to all kinds of discussion among NT scholars about the possible relationships between the events and their tellings.

Fourth, it is a miracle that raises some theological questions, especially with regard to matters like the Eucharist. This discussion usually has focused on how John sets this story at Passover and develops it into the discourse about Jesus, the Bread of Life, and about eating his flesh and drinking his blood. But don’t miss the fact that the Synoptics also contain elements that evoke Eucharistic themes as well. Matthew, Mark, and Luke all record that Jesus “looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke [the loaves], and gave them to the disciples.” It is not likely that the event itself had anything to do with the Eucharist, but we are talking here about how the Gospel writers chose to tell the story. They all included details which the Church, who read these accounts, would recognize as characteristic of the Eucharistic meals they celebrated. If these stories do evoke the Christian meal gathering, the Church’s worship, what do they tell us about it?

Finally, we must not forget to say that this is a wonderful story about Jesus. No matter what interesting biblical or theological issues it raises, it ultimately is designed to tell us about him, to help us encounter him, to experience something of what he came to do for Israel and the world. How does Jesus meet us in this account?

• • •

Well, that’s enough priming the pump for today.

This is a day for “teaching one another.” Let’s talk together about “The Feeding of the 5000.”

Sundays with Michael Spencer: July 26, 2015

Note from CM: You will find a link to the HubbleSite in our Links list as well as in this post. I encourage you to go there often and “consider the heavens.”

• • •

One of my life-long loves is astronomy. I’ve owned some very nice telescopes, and I’ve spent many a clear, cold winter night out on someone’s farm, looking at the glories of the heavens. Since I was a child of the golden age of the space program, my interest in astronomy and NASA made me a big fan of the Hubble Space Telescope. My students are quite used to me refering to my favorite Hubble photographs, and getting a bit glassy-eyed about the vast universe that Hubble brings into view through its photos. The beauty of the Hubble photos continues to be a delight for me, and I can never get enough of those that show dozens of galaxies filling a photo the size of a postcard. It’s quite astonishing.

When I look at Hubble’s pictures, I get some idea — a very paltry one — of the vastness and greatness of the universe. The miniscule fact of all earthly concerns fills my mind. I realize that I am far less than dust. There is really no calculation as to how small I am, and how insignificant I am, in such a vast and majestic universe as we glimpse through Hubble’s mirror. What we cansee is awe-inspiring, but it is less than a sliver — less than a grain of dust — of what we cannot see.

Hubble has always been a deeply theological hobby for me, because the men who wrote lines about “the heavens declare the glory of God,” had no idea what they were actually saying. Hubble deepens and further exalts the greatness of God. It magnifies the miracle of the incarnation. It inspires worship at the being that would call such a universe into existence and sustain it by the word of His power.

Contemplating the universe revealed in the Hubble photos, those of us who believe in the personal God revealed in Jesus must be, if we are at all cognizant of what we are seeing, brought to a kind of worshipful silence and humility. The God who created this universe, and who holds it in the palm of his hand like I hold a drop of water in my own, has presented himself to me in the person of Jesus. He has brought the mind that conceived the mysteries of this universe to express itself in the words and teachings of Jesus. He has brought the power that sustains such a universe into our world in those tiny demonstrations of power we call “miracles.”

I will admit that meditating on the Hubble photos plays havoc with my understanding of theology. The Bible was written in a pre-scientific culture. Despite the valiant attempts of my Creationist friends to rescue the Bible as a book of literal science, I increasingly see that the Bible delivers its story to us in the language of people who simply could not have fathomed what Hubble is showing us. The greatness of God was measured in stars that were mysterious powers in the firmament and the power demonstrated in weather and earthquake. Hubble shows us a God who spins galaxies into existence with the ease and delight of a child throwing sand into the air; a God who continually paints his universe with the tapestries of nebulae that surpass any Michelangelo.

I realize that the heart of reality, however, is not the depth and beauties of space. The heart of reality is the God revealed in Jesus. The story of the Prodigal Son takes me deeper into God’s universe than any telescope or space probe. The cross and resurrection show me more of the essence of reality than can be seen in the information gathered by any ingenious human instrument.

The imagery of Hubble has also affected my theology in another way. More and more, my books of theology seem comically inadequate. The theological debates that populate the blogosphere — debates that feature an endless string of experts so confident in their ideas about God that all variation from their opinions is a rejection of God’s own truth — can easily take on the character of children viciously arguing about matters of which they can know only the vaguest crumbs of reality. My outlines of “systematic” theology and my certainties on how God views every issue seem remarkably pallid.

In fact, the very notion that theologians, in all their various expertise, have reduced the God of the Hubble photographs down to their personal collection of words, is laughable to me anymore. Is God — this God? the God of this majestic universe — sorting out eternal fellowship with or exclusion from Himself based on whether I agree with the language of some denomination’s description of something called justification or some other doctrine we deem essential? Do my words and conceptions determine the extent to which I am taken in by the grace of such a God? Is Jesus really all about the message of “You better get it right?”

I am convinced that every person who met Jesus was utterly, deeply, life-alteringly convinced that God loved him/her with the love of a Father for his very own child. “This is beloved child; with you I am well-pleased.” I do not know what those first persons who met Jesus thought about many other things, but I have no doubt that every person who encountered Jesus realized that God’s love for him/her was unshakable and unending. Lepers. Adultresses. Fishermen. Tax collectors. Teenagers. Grandmothers. Rabbis. Demon oppressed. Gentiles. Women. Samaritans. Everyone. They all walked away knowing that God loved them in and through Jesus, and that all they needed to do was receive this love, and not reject it. (Amazingly, there were those who not only walked away, but insisted on killing Jesus and his God of relentless love.)

This is what the God who made the universe, the galaxies and my life wants me to know. It is the love of God taking hold of me in the Word, Jesus. It is his teaching. It is his example. It is his stories. It is his exorcisms. It is his miracles. It is his suffering. It is his cross and resurrection. It is his call to his disciples to live in through, with and by this Love of God. The God of the Hubble photos wants me to know this, and to live generously serving Him and die fearlessly trusting in Him because of Jesus.

My friends will notice I am debating theology less these days. The team sport of theological jousting is less interesting that those Hubble pictures…and the one who created all that is in them. I am caring about Jesus more as life grows longer. I look at my shelves of books, and I listen to the endless debates over this theology or that theologian or another interpretation of a scripture. I am told, constantly, that all depends on embracing someone’s theology.

I cannot believe it. I do not believe the God who created and became incarnation leaves it up to me to think the right thoughts; to be a proper and correct theologian. I believe this God came to earth in Jesus, loved me, and gave Himself that I might know him and freely receive his salvation. The Bible is the story of this God, introducing himself to us human language and culture through the story of Israel, but always setting the stage for the time that He, himself, would come to this little blue planet and show us that the Word has been made flesh, and how those who receive Him are now and forever, the children of God.

Forgive my absence from the latest debate. I am looking at my Hubble pictures, and thinking of God.