Traveling in Place

Superstar Still Rocking

Forty-one years after its Broadway debut, Jesus Christ Superstar has made a roaring comeback.  Playing at the Neil Simon Theatre since March, it has received enthusiastic reviews and been nominated for two Tony Awards – “Best Revival of a Musical” and “Best Featured Actor” for the performance of Josh Young, who plays Judas.

This show just won’t quit.  It’s been playing off Broadway, traveling around the country and the world, to packed houses for four decades.  I can’t help but smile.  Superstar was a formative cultural experience of my youth.  When it was made into a movie in 1973, it was roundly condemned by every adult I knew who had an opinion about it.  Conservative folk were appalled at the depiction of Jesus as a rock singer.  (Rock music was widely suspected to be the primary contributor to the moral degradation of teen youth.)  Liberals chastised the production for being racist (by casting a black man, Carl Anderson, as Judas) and anti-Semitic (for portraying Jews as villains).

It survived all that criticism and now seems rather tame in the world of entertainment.  But in the 1970’s, it was radical stuff.  The fact that stodgy adults dismissed it out-of-hand made it all the more appealing to the younger set.  When I was 14, a friend of mine who owned the original double LP let me borrow it so I could dub it onto a cassette.  My parents were not pleased.  But one day, while I

Growing Down

My friend Wendell Berry recently published a new collection of poems.  It is the most extensive to date, gathering together verses that have appeared in eleven previous collections over the last four decades.

One of these poems was written nearly twenty years ago during Wendell’s sixth decade.  Probably because my sixth decade began last December, the poem now resonates with me in a way it could not have when I first read it.  It is entitled “Thirty More Years.”

            When I was a young man,

            grown up at last, how large

            I seemed to myself! I was a tree,

            tall already, and what I had not

            yet reached, I would yet grow

            to reach.  Now, thirty more years

            added on, I have reached much

            I did not expect, in a direction

            unexpected.  I am growing downward,

            smaller, one among the grasses.

I won’t say I could have written this poem.  I’m not Wendell Berry.  But in writing from his own experience, he has captured the experience of many, including myself. 

Report from the Empty Nest

This past Saturday, I was sitting on our back deck enjoying the gentle breeze and the warmth of a beautiful spring afternoon.  Martha and I had spent the better part of the day tilling the ground, moving a row of hostas from the front to the side of the house, planting spireas, and spreading twenty bags of mulch.  It was time to rest.

A commotion rustled the leaves in the sugar maple tree not far from the deck.  I looked in the direction of the noise and saw four tiny birds fall straight to the ground, slowing their descents by frantically flapping their wings.  They bounced around and into each other, and then all flew off toward the back fence.  A nest somewhere up in that tree was now empty.

An hour later, Martha joined me on the deck.  She spotted a daddy cardinal trying to remain stationary in flight about halfway up the chain link fence at the edge of our yard.  “What’s he so interested in?” she asked.  I turned to see.  He looked like he was imitating a hummingbird, but soon gave up and assumed a perch on the top of the fence.  When he did, Martha and I could see that something was stuck in the fence.  We walked closer to investigate.  There, clinging for dear life to the chain link wire, was a baby cardinal rocking back and forth, trying to find the nerve to fly.  His parents were both nearby, calling to him.  I picked up a twig from the ground and walked over to the fence.  I thought perhaps the little thing was too confined to be able to expand his wings, so maybe a little coaxing off the fence might help.  I pried at his miniature talons.  His eyes grew wide, and his wings instinctively spread out, and he struggled out of the fence toward the ground.  “Go ahead,” I said.  “Fly!  You can do it!”  But he just stood there in the grass, darting his head back and forth, cheeping to his parents.

Pastors Turned Atheists

Recently, the pastor of a small Methodist Church in suburban Tallahassee, Florida, was thrust into the national spotlight when she announced that she was leaving the ministry because she was an atheist.  She made this public declaration at a national gathering of atheists, who warmly and enthusiastically cheered her for her courage and honesty.

The former pastor, Teresa MacBain, grew up in a pastor’s home.  She says she felt the call to ministry at the age of six.  Though raised in a conservative church, she was ordained in the more moderate United Methodist Church, probably because the tradition that cradled her faith, though it gave her a strong biblical foundation, did not accept female pastors.

National Public Radio featured MacBain on its afternoon program “All Things Considered.”  The story generated thousands of e-mails from listeners, so MacBain was invited to join host Neal Conan on “Talk of the Nation” earlier this week.  MacBain was joined by Jerry DeWitt, a former Pentecostal pastor from Louisiana who had also “come out” (declared himself to be an atheist) and now serves as the executive director of the Clergy Project, a nationwide support network for pastors who experience crises of faith.

I heard the original story and listened intently to the subsequent interview.  I was not only intrigued by what MacBain and DeWitt had to say, but also by those calling into the show, some of whom were former pastors who had either stopped believing altogether or had given up on organized religion.  I detected several commonalities among all of them.

Having Faith

Traffic was moving briskly along I-690.  Because this is the major east-west artery through Syracuse, I never know whether I’ll be zipping, crawling, or stationary when I merge onto it.  So I was grateful to be moving quickly. 

Then, the brake lights on the SUV in front of me lit up, so I lifted my foot from the accelerator and put on my brakes.  But I wasn’t slowing down quickly enough.  I could tell that the driver of the SUV had been forced to stop suddenly.  I pressed my brakes hard and heard my tires screeching.  I could see that I was not going to be able to stop in time, so I swerved into the right lane, hoping I wouldn’t sideswipe another vehicle.  I didn’t.  My car finally came to a complete stop nearly parallel to the SUV.  I realized then that I was panting and sweating.  I had just narrowly avoided a potentially fatal crash.  What had caused this near catastrophe?

Almost as soon as I stopped, I knew.  The car in front of the SUV began creeping across two lanes of traffic to get to an off-ramp.  Apparently, the driver of that car had almost missed her exit so she had hit her brakes.  I saw her looking nervously at me as she cut in front of me toward the exit ramp.  She must have known she was nearly responsible for a multi-car pile-up.

Humble Heralds

Ask most Adirondack enthusiasts when is the least desirable time of year to visit the region, and they’ll probably tell you early spring, particularly the month of April.  Most or all the snow is gone, but the trees are bare.  The prevailing hue is a dull brown.  Not much to see.

On the last day of April, I ventured into the mountains.  Tree buds were visible as far north as Forestport, but by the time I had crossed the Adirondack Park boundary a few miles further up Route 28, the colors of spring were behind me.  I drove past the Fulton Chain of Lakes and hiked up Castle Rock, a prominent outcrop overlooking Blue Mountain Lake.  Blue Mountain was brown and slightly purple.  The trees down below me were bare enough to see the leaf-covered ground.  Plus, the skies were quickly becoming overcast, replacing blue with gray.

Along the trail, there was but one wildflower already in bloom: the dogtooth lily.  This tiny plant stays close to the ground and appears shy.  Its bloom faces downward.  But its bright yellow petals stand out in an otherwise colorless forest.  These bashful, unassuming flowers drew my attention in spite of themselves.  I found one popping up over a rock.  It was actually facing straight ahead rather than down – a maverick in this floral community.  I spent several minutes contemplating its countenance.  As is often the case in an Adirondack spring, the most enthralling sight was not a grand vista of mountain peaks and glacial ponds, but tiny spots of color popping up through the moist soil.

Right Paths

“He leads me in right paths for his name’ sake.” (Psalm 23:3 NRSV)

The third Sunday of the Easter season has come to be known as “Good Shepherd” Sunday, because the lectionary texts always include some portion of the 10^th chapter of John, in which Jesus speaks of himself as the “Good Shepherd,” and Psalm 23, which portrays God as the shepherd of Israel.  This Sunday, my sermon will focus on Psalm 23.  This post concentrates specifically on one image found in the psalm.

Among the many interesting discoveries I made while visiting the Holy Land in 2008 was the meaning of the “right paths” or “paths of righteousness” referenced in Psalm 23:3.  As can be seen in the picture to the right, the steep hillsides in the Judean wilderness are often full of narrow ridges.  These are the paths that have been cut by Bedouin shepherds.  It is simply not possible for the sheep to ascend or descend the hills directly.  They are too steep.  So the shepherds lead the sheep in these narrow switchbacks – “right paths” – that prevent them from tumbling toward injury or even death.

When a resident of Judea pointed out these sheep paths to me, I was instantly intrigued by the meaning they bring to the familiar line, “He leads me in paths of righteousness.”  Bedouin shepherds know that the shortest path between two points is not always the “right” one.  In the hilly desert, the narrow circuitous switchbacks provide the sheep a safe way to cross over difficult terrain.  In the same way, God provides for us right paths that will get us where we need to go, but they are slow and narrow rather than quick and easy. 

Why We Worship on Sunday

“Why do we keep the Sabbath on Sunday rather than Saturday?”  This has to be in the top ten FAQ’s I get as a pastor.  Aren’t Christians bound to the Ten Commandments?  The fourth commandment – “Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy” – clearly states that the “seventh day is a Sabbath to the Lord” (Exodus 20:10).  So why don’t we go to church on the seventh day (Saturday) rather than the first day (Sunday)?

A couple of weekends ago, I was in Mystic Seaport, Connecticut, where my son Alex is in enrolled in a maritime studies program.  For one event, all the students and their families gathered in the building of an old Seventh-Day Baptist church, which at one time was the only house of worship in that little village.  The Seventh-Day Baptists trace their roots to early 17^th century England.  They split from other English Baptists over their conviction that by moving the Sabbath from Saturday to Sunday, Christians were in violation of God’s laws.  The first Seventh-Day Baptist church in America was founded in Newport, Rhode Island, not far from Mystic.

So do the Seventh-Day Baptists have a point?  Yes, but I believe they are also missing the larger point.  Let’s remember why early Christians adopted a new

Defending Faith

One of the courses I teach at a local Jesuit college is required of all sophomores.  The course content is a mixture of religious phenomenology and comparative studies.  We examine how the five major religious traditions developed historically and how they interpret the world.  A few weeks back, I sketched out the history of Islam following the death of Mohammed.  I explained the events leading to the rift between Sunnis and Shia, and described the major schools within Sunni Islam.  In doing so, I introduced the class to the Wahabist movement of the 17^th century, a resistance to Western colonialism in the Arab world, and explained how it eventually spawned more radical anti-Western movements such as the Taliban and Al Qaeda. 

After a rather lengthy back-and-forth class discussion, the lone Muslim student in the class, whom I will call Kalila, timidly raised her hand.  Kalila is a Palestinian.  She always wears a hajib.  She is reticent to participate in class discussion because, while her English is good, she sometimes struggles for the right words. 

“I feel the need to say something,” she said. 

How Patient Are You?

Last Saturday morning, per my routine, I poured a cup of coffee, sat down at the table and read the newspaper.  When I came to the page displaying church Easter ads, I found ours and discovered that the printed service times and the time for our Easter breakfast were all wrong.  I let out an audible groan and railed against the incompetence of the newspaper advertising staff.  Great start to the day.

After I finished my coffee, I put on my jacket and left for the market to buy bagels and donuts for the monthly Men’s Prayer Breakfast.  I pulled up to the stoplight at the exit of my subdivision behind one other car.  The light turned green, but the car in front of me did not move.  I could see that the driver was not looking ahead but was rummaging for something in the front seat.  I waited a few seconds and then did something I never do.  I made a fist and laid into the middle of the steering wheel to blow the car horn.

At the grocery store, I picked out the bagels and donuts, grabbed a container of cream cheese, and went to the checkout line.  There was only one customer in the express lane in front of me.  The cashier scanned all his items and told him how much he owed.  The customer slowly pulled out his wallet, took out all the paper bills, then reached into his front pocket and removed all his change.  He carefully counted out how much cash he needed, gave it to the cashier, then said, “No, wait, let’s do it this way,” and exchanged one of the dollar bills for some change.  I clinched my teeth and pulled my jacket sleeve away from my wrist to look at my watch.  My left foot started tapping.

And then I realized how impatiently I was acting.  On a better day, I would be