SynchroBlog: Hope

Hope in the promise of yet another spring to come
is what keeps us from chopping down the firewood
of the apparently dead trees of winter.

 

A Christmas Message from Sister Joan Chittister

I’ve said it before: if the Catholic Church had the vision to ordain women to the priesthood, Joan Chittister would be the Pope. Here’s her Christmas message that I got in today’s email. You can find more or sign up for her emails at benetvision.org.

Now and here bells everywhere are ringing again. The gift boxes are heaping up. Everybody’s saying it: “Christmas Blessings… God bless you at Christmas time… Christmas Peace to you and yours… Merry Christmas.” But is there any truth at all to any of this manufactured joy? Or is this, at best, nothing more than an exercise in auto-suggestion: Say it often enough and you’ll think it’s true, whatever the facts to the contrary.

Christians, after all, at least from one perspective, live a very schizophrenic life. As Paul puts it in one of his letters to the fragile communities of the early church, “Your standards should be different than those around you.” But at Christmas time, those standards can get terribly confusing. The Christian standard says that Christ, our Peace, has been born. But look around you. The other standard, the real public norm, the front page of our daily newspapers, says that there is no such thing as peace anywhere.

So, are we simply kidding ourselves when we put up manger scenes in our parks, and weigh our churches down with bark-covered, life-size crèches, and decorate the crib sets under our Christmas trees? Will the world ever really come to peace? In fact, is there really any such thing as peace? And, most of all, what do we have to do with it? What are we singing about? (It depends, I believe, on what you think “peace” means.)

One kind of peace is a state of life that is free from chaos and turbulence, from violence and institutionally legitimated death. That kind of peace happens often enough in history to show us that such a thing is possible. But don’t be fooled: that kind of peace can be achieved as easily through force as well as through justice. In the latter, little is gained by it.

But there is another kind of peace. This kind of peace does not come either from the denial of evil or the acceptance of oppression. This kind comes from the center of us and flows through us like a conduit to the world around us.

This kind of peace is the peace of those who know truth and proclaim it, who recognize oppression and refuse to accept it, who understand God’s will for the world and pursue it. This kind of peace comes with the realization that it is our obligation to birth it for the rest of the world so that what the mangers and crèches and crib sets of the world point to can become real in us—and because of us—in our own time.

The award-winning foreign film “Joyeux Noël” reminds us of another Christmas Eve. This one in Europe during the bloodiest period in WWI. Knee deep in wet snow and ice that jammed their weapons and froze their souls, two armies—one French and Scottish, one German—faced one another across a barbed-wired field. Hundreds of fallen soldiers had already died on both sides of the rough and blood-soaked land. Then suddenly, the Christmas truce began. The men put down their weapons, ceased for awhile to be soldiers, and bowed their heads while they listened to the other side sing Christmas carols.

That is the kind of peace—disarmed, foreign to hate, and receiving of the other—that was born in the manger we remember at Christmas time. That is the kind of Christmas peace we must ourselves seek to be. Then “Merry Christmas” will really mean something.

Bill Hopper follow-up (from his family)

Dear Friends of Bill (and Mollie) Hopper,

We are sorry to have to tell you that our father died this past Monday, December 12th, nine days before his 86th birthday on December 21st.

Many of you know that he had been suffering from COPD for several years, and often his breathing was quite difficult. He contracted pneumonia after he had been taken to the hospital for an unrelated health problem a couple of weeks ago. Fortunately he had seen each of his three daughters very recently. Laura and Katie were with him on Thanksgiving, Jane was able to see him for a couple of days after he was moved from the hospital to a skilled nursing facility, and Mary Ann and Mark arrived to see him the day before he died.

Our parents had many friends and we know that their friendships with all of you gave them great joy and comfort. Bill and Mollie loved to keep in touch with all of you and to visit (and be visited) whenever they could.

There will be a memorial service for our dad on Saturday, January 21st at 3:00 p.m. at Westminster Gardens in Duarte, California. There will also be a second memorial service at Louisville Seminary in early February when his ashes are interred with our mom’s in the seminary’s memorial garden.

In lieu of flowers, we would appreciate memorial gifts to any of three organizations that our dad valued very highly – Louisville Seminary, the overseas mission of the Presbyterian Church, or Westminster Gardens, the wonderful community where Bill and Mollie lived for 15 years following their retirement.

The addresses are listed below.

Thank you all very much for your friendship with our parents. They were always very grateful for the part that you played in their lives.  There is a recent photo of our mom and dad at the end of this email, with the photo file attached.

Sincerely,
Mary Ann Kearns
Jane Adamson
Laura Hopper

Memorials may be sent to:

• Louisville Seminary
  Mr. Dale Melton
  1044 Alta Vista Rd.
  Louisville, KY   40205

• PC(USA)
  PO Box 643700
  Pittsburgh, PA   15264-3700
  make the check out to PC(USA) and write on the memo line E864015-World Missions

• Westminster Gardens
  Judy Thorndyke
  1420 Santo Domingo Ave.
  Duarte, CA  91010

William H. Hopper, Jr. – 1925 – 2011
Mollie Brown Hopper – 1925 – 2010

In Memoriam: William H. (Bill) Hopper, Jr.

A dear friend of mine died this morning.

From San Gabriel Executive Presbyter Ruth Santana Grace:

It is with deep sadness that I share the news that the Rev. Bill Hopper has passed away. He died early this morning. As you know, Bill dedicated his life to the ministry of the Church of Jesus Christ as a missionary, executive, pastor, leader and much more. He will be deeply missed. I am confident that the heavens opened to receive him as he crossed over from this life to the next; I am equally confident that God’s voice was heard echoing, saying “This is my servant and son, in whom I am well pleased.” We will let you know of plans for his memorial service once we have them. Please pray for his family as they make this journey – may they experience the hope of the resurrection and the love of Christ through friends and family.

I got to know Bill a number of years ago when I was working at Westminster Gardens, a local retirement community which was then exclusively for those who had served the Presbyterian church as missionaries, ministers, or some other capacity under the denominational Board of Pensions. Bill was the president of the Residents’ Association then and I was serving as the Director of Communications, so we worked together on several projects. As we got to know each other, I shared with him that I am a lesbian; he shared with me that one of his and his wife Mollie’s three daughters is also a lesbian. Since then I have spent quite a lot of time with Bill. Despite the fact that Melinda and I are the age of Bill’s daughters, and Bill was of an unknown-to-me age at least as old as my own parents, I always felt that we were friends. Check that: I knew that we were friends.

When Melinda and I legally married in 2008, it was in our church, and Bill and Mollie (who preceded him in death) were among those who gathered to witness the occasion and to rejoice with us. This meant and still means a lot to us.

Always a gentleman, Bill was born and grew up in Birmingham, Alabama. His father was a Presbyterian minister who was an eloquent preacher. Bill was a PK–a preacher’s kid–so there were certain expectations of him, some by his family, others by his friends. Many PKs rebel in some way: Bill’s way was in a socially acceptable one; Bill loved baseball.

As a kid, Bill would listen to the Birmingham Barons on the radio. He was a big fan of his home team. The radio announcer for the Barons was Bull Connor–who would later become in many ways the face of the racist, segregationist, Jim Crow South. I don’t know what Bill’s father’s theology and politics were, but when Bill found out about Bull Connor and what he stood for he stopped listening to the broadcasts. (I’m no Dodgers fan, but I’ve listened to the voice of the Dodgers, Vin Scully, for much of my life. It would be hard to say, “No more,” and turn off that voice forever.) Bill’s love of baseball continued, however–something that he and I shared. But his love for justice and equality and all things progressive were far greater–something else we shared.

Bill served as a missionary in Iran and Pakistan. Although the political leaders of those countries have changed since then, much of what we read now was true then. The three daughters lived their formative years in Iran, with one of them having been born there–they express remorse that they can never return to the land of their childhood. Bill contracted a powerful form of malaria in Iran, which cut their service short in order for him to return to the United States for medical treatment. He served the church in other ways for a few years, but he and Mollie felt like they needed to return to the mission field, so they got and assignment in Pakistan; they served there until his malaria returned. As Ruth said above, he served the church at every possible level: from the mission field to the local church to presbytery, synod and General Assembly. For a number of years he led the commissioner training prior to each year’s GA–something vital to the success of our then-annual conventions.

Well into his retirement, Bill and former PC(USA) Stated Clerk Clifton Kirkpatrick–a colleague, neighbor, close friend and tennis partner–decided they would write a book together. I played a small part in creating that book, What Unites Presbyterians: Common Ground for Troubled Times, so I know that Bill did much of the heavy lifting, while Cliff read the chapters and made suggestions and corrections. It was a good collaboration, and one they enjoyed, so they wrote several other books together after that. Something special about Bill, though, was that he wasn’t one who only associated with people who held the same theological and/or political views. Bill was a friend to many people regardless. Bill was the embodiment of grace.

Bill was active in the Witherspoon Society (now part of Presbyterians for Justice), More Light Presbyterians, the Covenant Network of Presbyterians, and was a supporter of That All May Freely Serve. He encouraged me, prodded me, helped me, and occasionally gently guided and tempered me in my work with those groups and for those same causes. Bill was an ardent supporter of women’s ordination and service, of racial and ethnic civil rights, and of many other causes. I don’t know if anyone will ever know his full effect on the world though, because he was so modest about his own contributions.

At the same time, he had a great dry sense of humor, and was a wonderful conversationalist and story-teller. He had a deep, somewhat gravelly voice and that Alabama-Kentucky accent which was so easy to listen to. He delighted in sharing stories about his children and grandchildren in way that I loved to hear.

Even though I know that he’s now rejoined with his life and life-ever-after partner Mollie and other friends and family members in the presence of the Christ who he served and loved in life, I will miss him a lot. I am proud that he was both a friend and a mentor, and I am a better person for having known him. Thanks, and God bless you, Bill Hopper.

* * * * * * * * * *

I forgot to say something important! Bill was one of the few people I know who liked fruitcake. A long-time tea-totaller, he even liked the booze-soaked ones. Every year someone would likely give me a fruitcake for Christmas (or I’d rescue one from someone else), and I’d make sure that it went to Bill. He’d have a tiny sliver every day for months–and would enjoy it immensely. If someone gives me a fruitcake this year I’ll make sure to have a tiny slice and think of him.

REVEREND (See also MINISTER)

Melinda and I were out running errands last Saturday afternoon. Because of traffic on the freeway, we took a route that we don’t usually take, and we drove past a church where a friend of ours serves as the pastor. Like at many churches, they have a sign, a marquee out front. This one had the sermon title and the hour of the service, as is typical–but we both noticed that the pastor’s name wasn’t included.

I think that Melinda was upset a little bit, but I was delighted. I told her why: so many churches proclaim the name of the pastor, but that’s not who it’s about. She immediately got it. Good for our friend!

Then this week I pulled out a book of little ditties called Wishful Thinking: A Theological ABC by Frederick Buechner, an author and a Presbyterian minister. I love Fred Buechner, and this is one of those well-worn volumes in my library. Flipping through this book, I stopped to read what Buechner had to say about revelation. Right after that was the topic “Reverend.”

REVEREND

     A title of respect to be used only in the third person, if then. Speak about the Reverend Samuel Smith if you have to, but never go up to him and say, “That’s telling them, Reverend!” any more than you’d go up to a Congressman and say, “How are things in Washington, Honorable?”
Reverend means to be revered. A minister is not to be revered for who he is in himself, but for who it is he represents, just as the British Ambassador is seated at the hostess’s right not because of his beaux yeux but because he represents the Queen.

     (See also MINISTER)

+ + + + +

[Okay, so there's that little problem of non-inclusive language. It grates at me, sure, but in the first place, Buechner was born in 1926; when he went to seminary and then was ordained, all ministers were male. In the second place, this book was published in 1973. And finally, Buechner is a tremendous advocate for inclusivity--for women, for LGBT folks, for everyone. He preached in 1997 at the PC(USA)'s General Assembly, the national church convention, in 1997, talking about how he had experienced God more at a lesbian wedding--a service officiated by a female minister) than he had in church for a long time.]

But I digress…

I live and am an elder in San Gabriel Presbytery. Southern California isn’t like the rest of the country in most ways, and our version of presbyterianism is no different. Teaching Elders (as ministers are now called) and Ruling Elders (elected congregational leaders) both serve as voting commissioners to the presbytery (regional governing body); historically they differ in function only, as they (along with Deacons) take the same ordination vows with the exception of one question having to do with responsibilities. But here the presbytery moderator (elected for one year as vice-moderator who then becomes the moderator of presbytery, and then the moderator of presbytery council) seems to be a job for male ministers, since we have just elected our fourth male minister in a row. At least this most recent one, unlike the previous three, is non-European American… And all of the committee chairs–the ones who have presentation roles at our presbytery meetings–are ministers. There are only three elders on the presbytery council: two at-large, and one the chair of a “minor” committee (ironically, the presbytery’s Committee on Representation). Worship at presbytery meetings almost always features a sermon or message from the pastor of the host church, and prayers and other parts of the service are almost always given by “Rev. So-and-So” as listed in the worship bulletin. We rarely see the names of nor hear the voices of ruling elders, either in the church’s work or it it’s worship.

Yep. Clergy-centric. This is sad. It’s certainly not the church of our founder John Calvin (who himself was probably not ordained). And it’s certainly not the church that professes to dislike the idea of having bishops or popes.

+ + + + +

And, in case you’re curious, here’s what Buechner says about “minister”–and remember: 1973… also that he also wrote a book called Son of Laughter:

There are three basic views:

1.  A minister is a Nice Guy. He’ll take a drink if you offer him one, and when it comes to racy stories, he can tell a few right along with the best of them. He preaches a good sermon, but he’s not one of these religious fanatics who thinks he’s got to say a prayer every time he pays a call. When it comes to raising money, he’s nobody’s fool and has all the rich old ladies eating out of his hand. He has bridged the generation gap by introducing things like a rock group at the eleven o’clock service and what he calls rap sessions on subjects like drugs and sex instead of Sunday school. At the same time he admits privately that though the kids have a lot going for them, he wishes they’d cut their hair. He’s big on things like civil rights, peace, and encounter groups. He sends his children to private school. He makes people feel comfortable in his presence by showing them that he’s got his feet on the ground like everybody else. He reassures them that religion is something you should take seriously but not go overboard with.
2.  A minister has his head in the clouds which is just where a man should have it whose mind is on higher things. His morals are unimpeachable, and if you should ever happen to use bad language in his presence, you apologize. He has a lovely sense of humor and gets a kick out of it every time you ask him if he can’t do something about this rainy weather we’ve been having. He keeps things like sex, politics, race and alcoholism out of his sermons. His specialty is religion, and he’s wise enough to leave other matters to people who know what they’re talking about.
3.  A minister is as much an anachronism as an alchemist or a chimney sweep. Like Tiffany glass of the Queen of England, he is a camp figure whose function is primarily decorative. Although their various perspectives are admittedly limited, Maharishis, Communists, homosexuals, drug addicts, and the like are all to be listened to for their special insights. The perspective of ministers, on the other hand, is so hopelessly distorted and biased that there is no point in listening to them unless you happen to share it.

     The first minsters were the twelve disciples. There is no evidence that Jesus chose them because they were brighter or nicer than other people. In fact the New Testament record suggests that they were continually missing the point, jockeying for position and, when the chips were down, interested in nothing so much as saving their own skins. Their sold qualification seems to have been their initial willingness to rise to their feet when Jesus said, “Follow me.” As St. Paul put it later, “God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise, God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong.” (1 Corinthians 1:27)
When Jesus sent the twelve out into the world, his instructions were simple. He told them to preach the kingdom of God and to heal (Luke 9:2) with the implication that to do either right was in effect to do both. (see HEALING) Fortunately for the world in general and the church in particular, the ability to do them is not dependent on either moral character or I.Q. To do them in the name of Christ is to be a minister. In the name of Christ not to do them is to be a bad joke.

     (see also REVEREND)

And under VOCATION, Buechner say in part, “The place God calls us to is the place where our deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” Amen.

Wishful Thinking: A Theological ABC.
Copyright 1973 by Frederick Buechner.
Harper & Row.

Transgender Day of Remembrance

We all have friends. Some, of course, are closer than others. Some are close enough that we call them our chosen family.

I had a friend named Greg who was like that.

Greg was transgender. More accurately, Greg was bi-gender–the only person I’ve ever known to use that terminology. Ze (a gender-neutral pronoun often preferred by transgender people) was also Delia (deh-LIE-a) but the personal expression that I knew best was Greg.

[I know this sounds weird. That's because I don't have the right words, not because of the person I knew and loved. Greg/Delia wasn't a multiple personality. Ze flowed freely back and forth, but was mostly integrated into one being. It's hard for me to explain, but I never had a problem with it because of the human being who ze was. But since I knew Greg best, I'll use Greg for this post.]

Greg lived in the Tenderloin District of San Francisco. Ze had a great old apartment at Geary and Leavenworth. The Tenderloin is a very rough-edged place with its obvious homeless people, substance users and sellers, and sex workers, but it’s also very real, with many charms (even if they’re a bit frayed). From the street, the building looked run-down and funky, but as soon as you crossed through the solid wood door you were in a beautiful place built in the 1930s. To get to Greg’s apartment you walked up two sweeping round staircases with thick carpeting and polished wooden bannisters. It was a world unto itself. (Go here for a fascinating look at the Tenderloin.)

We spent many hours in hir (gender-neutral possessive pronoun) apartment. This was in the mid-1980s. I lived in the Castro, but Greg wasn’t as comfortable there–and Delia definitely was uncomfortable there. We cooked and ate together, we laughed and told stories. We went to the movies. We often went to a bar on the corner of hir block–the Hob Nob Lounge.

The Hob Nob was a mostly male-to-female transgender bar but there were some older gay men who hung out there too. This was the kind of place that opened at 6:00a.m. and stayed open until 2:00a.m. There was a little bar with about five barstools, and about four tables: the capacity of the place had to be around 20 patrons. This was the epitome of a Tenderloin dive bar. The bartenders were all very protective. I’m not petite by any measure, but the one who was there most often when I went in absolutely dwarfed me. I certainly wouldn’t mess with hir! It was best to walk in with someone who was a regular customer–someone like my friend. Unlike in the Castro, drinks were cheap and they were strong. I mostly knew the daytime clientele, since I didn’t often stay in the Tenderloin after dark unless Greg and I were having a slumber party. I was busy living my wild lesbian life in those days, but I probably averaged a trip to the Tenderloin once or twice a week.

Greg had come to San Francisco from Dallas. He (and I use that intentionally here) had grown up in a small West Texas town that a queer kid can’t wait to get away from. Ze had a strong Texas accent and a great laugh and a twinkle in zir eye that made you want to know the story behind it.

But, as with all of us, there was baggage. The worst part for Greg was being estranged from family of origin. It was “bad enough” for them when Greg came out as a gay man, but when ze came out to them as transgender/bi-gender, they just couldn’t listen any longer, so ze left and they never talked again. Greg wanted to be a happy-go-lucky person, so that was what ze projected, but there was so much more that wasn’t let out that it led to self-medication. Not just the alcohol consumed at the Hob Nob, but ze also got into drugs–marijuana, then both speed and heroin. And then Greg got AIDS and quickly died.

I miss Greg. I miss Delia. I’m only reminiscing. There’s no lesson here. Well, I guess there is: people are people, and you never know how wonderful someone is until you take a risk and get to know them. This is true no matter what their worldly condition is. I’m just glad that I once had Greg in my life.

+ + + + +

Transgender Day of Remembrance is on November 20. For more information go to http://www.transgenderdor.org/.

Ushering in the Reign of Christ — right now

My friend Katie Mulligan pastors what she calls tinychurch in New Jersey. This morning, on the Sunday that the church calendar calls “Reign of Christ” Sunday (or the less inclusive language “Christ the King” Sunday), there was to be no sermon this morning. Instead they were going to read this poem, then go out and “do something” to make the world a better place… even if just for this moment.

Now that’s ushering in the Reign of Christ.

---

T H E N E W P O E T S Hungry by “Street” from New Jersey, USA Sometimes you do something you think you never would do it just for crazy people not people like you but sometimes things happen that you didn’t plan no matter how hard you try you can’t understand something like that happen to me today i never ever thought i would act this way i tried everything else so i didn’t have to do it i never saw myself ever doin’ this shit first i was asking for change in front of a store but people act like they daunt even see me no more i went to the pizza place to see if they need help but they already got somebody so it was up to myself i was tired and hungry and feeling real sad i was out of ideas and getting real mad i don’t want to steal or hurt anyone but of all my ideas all that was left was one i look all around and went to the back of this hamburger place they call the Shack i was so embarrassed and so upset i never did nothing as sick as this yet it something i really don’t understand i took food out of the garbage can i bag of hamburgers they threw away how do you explain and what do you say i hid in the back and look all around and ate from the garbage and forced it all down it made me cry and then i got sick i just aint use to nothing like this i aint a bum and i aint crazy i want to work and i am not lazy but nobody saw me like i wasn’t there maybe they busy or just don’t care i never wanted my life to be this way but that’s how it was on this cold rainy day

The author’s name was only listed as “Street.” The poem can be found at http://www.viewzone.com/poet66.html.

Heart…

Our next door neighbors are more than people inhabiting the space next to ours. They’ve been here for about fifteen years. The kids have grown up in front of our eyes, and we’ve been a part of their lives since before they can even remember. These people are friends, extended family.

Gloria, the mother of the woman next door, grandmother to the kids, is dying. She has advanced untreatable lung cancer. It’s metastasized throughout her body. She’s in home hospice, and soon she’ll be gone.

Gloria is only in her early 60s. She and her husband Henry (Enrique in Spanish — she’s the only one who calls him Ricky) have been together since junior high, and they were friends even earlier than that. At a recent family party I checked in with him: he told me that they haven’t had enough time together even after fifty years. Their love is sweet and tender, and the impending loss is heartbreaking. In fact, it’s so deep that it wouldn’t surprise me to see Henry die of a broken heart soon after Gloria’s passing.

+ + + + + + + + + +

I got several requests on Facebook today. The message was to post a heart as a status update. No explanation — just a heart. The idea is that this is a simple, silent sign of support for women with breast cancer.

I can’t do it.

It seems to me that there’s a sort of hierarchy of cancers. Breast cancer. Sure, we can run, walk, wear pink ribbons and all that good stuff. We can urge women to get mammograms. And I’ve done all of that and will continue to do so. Heck, even my golf bag has a pink ribbon on it.

But hmmm… I had colorectal cancer. I’m a statistical miracle. By the numbers I should be dead, but I’m a ten-year survivor. But I have yet to see an event like a Revlon colorectal cancer event. Same for prostate cancer. And lung cancer? Even after non-smoking Dana Reeve’s death, there’s a real tendency to blame those with lung cancer for their disease.

So… even though my heart goes out for those with breast cancer, my heart is with them, don’t expect to see a <3 as my Facebook status.

The Presbyterian Outlook: Blessed Are the Sissies

Today’s mail brought the current issue of the “Presbyterian Outlook” magazine. The cover article is about retirement, a topic near-and-dear to our hearts, as Melinda and I have both passed the magic milestone of 59-1/2 — when we can start drawing from our IRA accounts without incurring penalties. Retirement may be just around the corner. Or not, depending on the economy… I haven’t even opened the magazine yet.

However, I find the choice of words on the cover to be sad and inappropriate: “Retirement: Not for sissies.”

What’s a sissy? Here’s what the dictionary says:

SISSY
sis·sy/ˈsisē/
Noun: A person regarded as effeminate or cowardly.
Adjective: Feeble and cowardly.
Synonyms: girlish

In the queer community to a great deal, and to a somewhat lesser degree in the church, we’ve examined the issue of bullying. We just observed the anniversary of the 1998 torture and murder of Matthew Shepard; this could be considered to be the epitome of bully-versus-sissy. Certainly there isn’t a universal condemnation of bullying, with stories being told every day. But it’s getting some much-needed attention through the week-long examination of the subject on Anderson Cooper’s CNN segments this week.

So tell me: is this use of this offensive word anti-woman or anti-queer? Or both? Either way, it’s tremendously offensive.

I grew up in the sticks-and-stones-will break-your-bones-but-words-will-never-hurt-you era. Also in the boys-will-be-boys era. But words do hurt. And words are a representation of how we think. If we think “sissies” then we think “bullies.” Weak = lesser, strong = greater. As Christians we follow the one who said “blessed are the meek.”

In other more contemporary words, blessed are the sissies.

Matthew Shepard

Just before going to church on Sunday, October 9, I checked my email. Included was a message from Fenceberry, telling about the beating of a young man in Wyoming. His life hung in the balance at that time. I went to church and cried. Fortunately, this was at an LGBT-inclusive church, the kind of place where I could share this during the Prayers of the People.

I don’t have much to say that hasn’t already been said by so many others. I’m just remembering Matthew, and thinking about his parents–particularly about his mother Judy, who has become such a strong advocate and spokesperson, despite and because of her deep, deep loss.

Occupy Wall Street | Jesus: A Revolutionary Biography

I’m re-reading Jesus: A Revolutionary Biography by John Dominic Crossan. It’s a short book, but not a quick nor easy read for me since there’s so much to process. (Assume however that since it’s a re-read that I recommend this book highly.)

In this book, Crossan talks about the socioeconomic status of Jesus: not the well-educated, suburban Republican Jesus invoked by so many so-called Christians of our time, but the historic Jesus of his time and place.

Read this excerpt. Think about the current corporate greed and the Occupy Wall Street, Occupy Everywhere movement that’s going on. Compare the social structure and percentages of Jesus’ time to our own. How can there be any question as to where the REAL Jesus would stand?

__________

Whether we read “carpenter” with Mark or “carpenter’s son” with Matthew makes little difference in a world where sons usually followed their father’s professions in any case. But what exactly was the social or economic class of a tekton, here translated as “carpenter”? The immediate problem is to avoid interpreting a term like carpenter in modern terms as a skilled, well-paid, and respected member of the middle class. But the only way to do that effectively is to discipline our imagination with both social history and cross-cultural anthropology.

Ramsay MacMullen has noted that one’s social pedigree would easily be known in the Greco-Roman world and that a description such as “carpenter” indicated lower-class status.[1] At the back of his book he gives a “Lexicon of Snobbery” filled with terms used by literate and therefore upper-class Greco-Roman authors to indicate their prejudice against illiterate and therefore lower-class individuals. Among those terms is tekton, or “carpenter,” the same term used for Jesus in Mark 6:3 and for Joseph in Matthew 13:55. One should not, of course, ever presume that upper-class sneers dictated how the lower classes actually felt about themselves. But, in general, the great divide in the Greco-Roman world was between those who had to work with their hands and those who did not.

An earlier study by Gerhard Lenski helps put all of that in a wider cross-cultural frame of reference.[2] He divides human societies, by technology and ecology, into hunting and gathering, simple horticultural, advanced horticultural, agrarian, and industrial societies. The Roman Empire was an agrarian society, characterized by the forging of iron plows, the harnessing of animal traction, and the use of wheel and sail to move goods. It was also characterized by an abysmal gulf separating the upper from the lower classes. On one side of that great divide were the Ruler and the Governors, who together made up 1 percent of the population but owned at least half of the land. Also on that same side were three other classes: the Priests, who could own as much as 15 percent of the land; the Retainers, ranging from military generals to expert bureaucrats; and the Merchants, who probably evolved upward from the lower classes but who could end up with considerable wealth and even some political power as well. On the other side were, above all, the Peasants—that vast majority of the population about two-thirds of whose annual crop went to support the upper classes. If they were lucky they lived at subsistence level, barely able to support family, animals, and social obligations and still have enough for the next year’s seed supply. If they were not lucky, drought, debt, disease, or death forced them off their own land and into share-cropping, tenant farming, or worse. Next came the Artisans, about 5 percent of the population, below the Peasants in social class because they were usually recruited and replenished from its dispossessed members. Beneath them were the Degraded and Expendable classes—the former with origins, occupations, or conditions rendering them outcasts; the latter, maybe as much as 10 percent of the population, ranging from beggars and outlaws to hustlers, day laborers, and slaves. Those Expendables existed, as that terrible title suggests, because, despite mortality and disease, war and famine, agrarian societies usually contained far more of the lower classes than the upper classes found it profitable to employ. Expendables were, in other words, a systemic necessity.

If Jesus was a carpenter, therefore, he belonged to the Artisan class, that group pushed into the dangerous space between Peasants and Degradeds or Expendables. I emphasize that any decision on Jesus’ socioeconomic class must be made not in terms of Christian theology but of cross-cultural anthropology, not in terms of those interested in exalting Jesus but in terms of those not even thinking of his existence.
[1] Ramsay MacMullen, Roman Social Relations: 50 B.C. to A.D. 384 (New Haven, CT, and London: Yale Univ. Press, 1974), pages 17-18, 107-108,139-140,198 note 82.

[2] Gerhard Lenski, Power and Privilege: A Theory of Social Stratification (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1966), pages 189-296.

Troy Davis

Here in the San Gabriel Valley of California there’s a nearby town called San Dimas. I frequently go to San Dimas, since that’s where the nearest Trader Joe’s is located.

Jesus was convicted in a Jewish court, and then went through the appellate process of being brought before Herod, who didn’t provide any legal relief from that decision. When Jesus was executed it was between two common criminals. In the gospel of Luke, the one on the right acknowledges Jesus as the Messiah. Jesus responds to him with a message of love and forgiveness—assuring him of his eternal place in Paradise. This theif, San Dimas (or Saint Dismas in English), was never canonized by the Church. He’s only a saint by tradition—one of the people’s saints. As a matter of fact, he is unnamed in scripture: his name is also a tradition. Dismas comes from Greek, and means “sunset” or “death.”

Luke 23:32-43

³² Two others were also led off with Jesus, criminals who were to be put to death. ³³ When they had reached the place called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there—together with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. ³⁴ And Jesus said, “Abba forgive them. They don’t know what they are doing.” Then they divided his garments, rolling dice for them.

³⁵ The people stood there watching. The rulers, however, jeered him and said, “He saved others, let him save himself—if he really is the Messiah of God, the Chosen One!” ³⁶ The soldiers also mocked him. They served Jesus sour wine ³⁷ and said, “if you are really the King of the Jews, save yourself!” ³⁸ There was an inscription above Jesus that read, “This is the King of the Jews.”

³⁹ One of the criminals who hung there beside him insulted Jesus, too, saying, “Are you really the Messiah? Then save yourself—and us!”

⁴⁰ But the other answered the first with a rebuke: “Don’t you even fear God? ⁴¹ We are only paying the price for what we have done, but this one has done nothing wrong!”

⁴² Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your glory.”

⁴³ Jesus replied, “The truth is, today you’ll be with me in paradise.”

Today a man is most likely going to be executed by the State of Georgia. This man’s name is Troy Davis. He was convicted, and the conviction subsequently went through the appeals processes. All the while, Troy Davis (who had never previously been convicted of any crime) has persisted in proclaiming his innocence. Most of the witnesses who testified against him have recanted their testimony, and large numbers of people—ordinary people and some of great repute, like the Pope, Archbishop Desmond Tutu, former US Presidents and other elected representatives, and former FBI Director Sessions—have stepped forward and said no to this impending execution.

But the Georgia Board of Pardons and Parole has denied any further action on the part of Troy Davis and his lawyers to save his life. The execution of a man who may well not be guilty is to proceed in a matter of hours—just about at the dismas of the day: death followed by the sunset at 7:35 p.m.

No, I’m not comparing Troy Davis to Jesus. I do believe that if this injustice is carried out, Troy Davis will be with Jesus in Paradise. But things happen today as they have throughout history that are wrong—and they’re things that WE do, that WE create. May God have mercy on our souls.

Rooted and grounded in love, whether we like it or not

Ephesians 3:14-21

14 That is why I kneel before Abba God, 15 from whom every family in heaven and on earth takes its name. 16 And I pray that God, out of the riches of divine glory, will strengthen you inwardly with power through the working of the spirit. 17 May Christ dwell in your hearts through faith, so that you, being rooted and grounded in love, 18 will be able to grasp fully the breadth, length, height and depth of Christ’s love and, with all God’s holy ones, 19 experience this love that surpasses all understanding, so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God. 20 To God—whose power now at work in us can do immeasurably more than we ask or imagine—21 to God be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus through all generations, world without end! Amen.

The Inclusive Bible,
Priests for Equality

I am a sometimes elder-commissioner to the Presbytery of San Gabriel. In the Presbyterian Church (USA), elders are the lay leaders of the church, commissioned by the same ordination vows as those taken by members of the clergy. Teaching Elders and an equal number of Ruling Elders are voting members of the presbyteries, synods and the General Assembly of the PC(USA).

(Until very recently we called them Ministers of the Word and Sacrament, but now they’re called Teaching Elders — while elders are called Ruling Elders. This is actually a return to old nomenclature of the church.)

Anyway… I was sharing a little story with one of my friends there about an experience that I had at the 219th General Assembly in 2010:

I sat in the press section of the committee that was charged with issues pertaining to Marriage and Civil Unions — which is to say, “what do we do about the gays and lesbians who are getting married?” This was part of my work as web minister and social media coordinator of That All May Freely Serve (TAMFS), one of the inclusive church organizations of the denomination. I was sitting next to Jim Berkley of The IRD and the Presbyterian Layman during the session. The committee broke for lunch and everyone left; I too was preparing to leave when I got a phone call asking if I could do a little project during the lunch break. I agreed to do so. When people started filing back into the room, Jim Berkley took his seat. He made a remark to the effect that I must have found a quicker place for lunch than he had. I told him that I’d stayed there to work, skipping lunch. He then reached down to his briefcase on the floor, pulling out a Butterfinger and a package of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups — and he asked which one I’d rather have. I opted for the Peanut Butter Cups, and I thanked him.

Now, Mr. Berkley and I are at opposite ends of the theological spectrum; as far apart as two people could be. But God managed to find something that we had in common, and provide us with an opportunity to break bread (of sorts) together.

At the presbytery meeting yesterday we had a presentation and discussion of a “gracious dismissal” policy (which my fingers keep wanting to call “gracious dismal”) that will be voted on at a special meeting on September 27. There are several churches who have voted to leave our presbytery — but not the denomination — so this policy would not apply to them wanting to transfer, rather than to be dismissed. Nevertheless, it’s still a separation, something that is out of sync with the Apostle Paul’s “love that surpasses all understanding” he writes to the church at Ephesus about.

If some of the churches of the denomination choose to go other directions, opportunities such as the accidental (even if brief) friendship and communion that Jim Berkley and I were able to share will not arise. I admit that presbytery meetings and other such gatherings make me extremely cranky, I value diversity of all kinds. I have appreciated conversations with a conservative colleague who is also a cancer survivor. I honor the fact that another conservative serves as the president of the board of an organization that I love.

We are called by God to love one another as we love God. If God is our spiritual parent, then we are all siblings — whether we like it or not.

I haven’t decided how I will cast my vote, because I can’t see my way through to formulate other, better options. But one thing I am certain of is that God calls us to stay together and work on it as part of one family.

Synchroblog – The Devil Made Me Do It

Okay, so I wasn’t going to participate this month. The topic is just too weird, and there are way too many bizarro things out there attributing things to an evil entity with lots of names.

… what are some weird, whacky or just plain different things you’ve heard taught about Satan as you’ve been a member of this tribe called Christian? What do you think of those ideas? How have they shaped your perspective (or not) about Jesus and this tribe? This month is wide open for being fun or being serious … because this subject could run in many different directions depending on the tradition you come from. So as you write and as you read, please remember to have grace in abundance for the journey that each has been on.

And then… I ran into this. (Don’t ask how I got there. I can’t even remember because this strangeness chased it right out of my head.)

Gays Make New Devil DNA Squirt Gun

Yes, once again teh gays are in cahoots with Satan, this time to homo-convert young boys via “playthings.” And remember: “Nothing is worst than homosexuality.” Tyson Bowers III (who I’d never heard of before, and who apparently has no life of his own so he has to spend the time that God gave him attacking others) says so right here! Sigh…

You can find all of the posts on this month’s synchroblog here. Now excuse me because I have to go wash my mind out with soap to get rid of this stupid ridiculous, homophobic imagery.

Other posts from this month’s synchroblog:

• Jeremy Myers at Till He Comes – The Devil Made Me Go To Church
• K.W. Leslie at More Christ – Devilish Misinformation
• Marta Layton at Fidesquarens – The Christian Jihad
• Bill Sahlman at Creative Reflections – The [one who will go unnamed] Made Me Do It 
• Kathy Escobar at kathy escobar – the stranger (who’s a little to familiar) & the shepherd
• Liz Dyer at Grace Rules – Have You Inhaled Demon Spirits?