1 Samuel 25:1-22
I have mentioned before that for this two-year lectionary cycle I am studying with the King James Version. This evening I was reading along, following a typically awful Old Testament-style story of betrayal and bloodshed in 1 Samuel (the chapter which begins, by the way, with the death of Samuel...even though there are five more chapters to go, plus 2nd Samuel) but was taken aback when I got to the last verse of the lesson where David is praying to God for assistance in avenging an insult by slaughtering a bunch of innocent people, vowing by morning to have killed "any that pisseth against the wall."
Come again? LOL.
Curious, I turned to the other translations on my shelf (the NRSV, the NIV and the NKJV), all of which instead simply (and preferably...) refer to "men" or "males."
I Googled the phrase, and while admitting it's not like I spent hours of research on this, it does appear that in fact the King James has the more literal rendering of a Hebrew idiom for "men." (The phrase "that pisseth against the wall" appears in the KJV a second time in 1 Samuel 25, and in four verses of 1 & 2 Kings.)
But what really blew my mind was a video that came up of a Baptist pastor citing these verses to insist that God wants men to pee standing up. I won't link to it, you can find it yourself, if you're of a mind.
He relates a story about visiting Germany and seeing signs over toilets asking men not to pee standing up, and, explaining that his wife is German, he asked her, "Is this a joke?" and she apparently said, "No man in Germany pees standing up." "That's where we're headed in this country," says Pastor Steven L. Anderson.
Where to start?
I lived in Switzerland for a year and have visited Germany a couple of times. I lived in a university dorm in Zurich and, yes, there were signs over the toilets in the restrooms saying that peeing standing up was verboten. Now, this isn't because Switzerland has been taken over by anti-Christian feminist zealots, it's because, well, some men have really terrible aim, and no one likes to have to wipe someone else's pee off a toilet seat before using it. Duh. It's called etiquette.
But the idea that there is some sort of Teutonic cultural prohibition against urinating in a vertical position on principle is ridiculous. Any public restroom -- especially in train stations, etc -- will have urinals. In fact, in Switzerland, where the German dialects are sprinkled with French words, the common name for a men's restroom is a pissoir, where there's not a toilet in sight, and not even individual urinals, but just one long porcelain wall (!!!) with a drain at the bottom.
Moreover, "Sitzpinkler" -- which literally means "one who sits to pee" -- is a very common German derogatory word for a less-than-manly man, specifically one who can't stand up for himself.
Anyway, this has nothing to do with poor St Macrina, whose feast unhappily coincides this year with this particular lesson, and who deserves a better post.
Pastor Anderson goes on to caution his listeners against judging him for using bad language by arguing that this word "pisseth" comes directly from the mouth of God, via the Bible. He rails against other translations, including the New King James, for rendering the euphemism as "males" instead of keeping the word-for-word idiom, and cites this as evidence of the extent to which anti-Christian feminizing political correctness has infested even the church itself, in what basically amounts to a xenophobic, sexist, homophobic rant where a holy concept of "masculinity" can be so narrowly defined as to require certain orthodox, patriotic postures for peeing.
I lament that this is the sort of sermon that gets regularly posted to YouTube, and this is what has the potential to go viral. When I think of the hundreds or even thousands of thoughtful sermons that must be given in all kinds of churches every Sunday, to think this is the sort of pathetic nonsense that will form or reaffirm some people's ideas about Christianity and the Bible, I am filled with anger and despair.
Showing posts with label saints. Show all posts
Showing posts with label saints. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Friday, July 08, 2011
St Elizabeth of Portugal
OK, so here's another observance not in the Episcopalians' calendar.
However, unlike Thomas More, I had never before heard of St Elizabeth. How did she make it on to my blog?
This evening I felt a real desire to have evening prayer; whereas I have been feeling fairly disinterested and passionless, even sometimes thinking of the office as a chore, tonight I really felt called to enter into intentional meditation. We are right in the middle of a two-week period nearly unbroken by the observance of any special feast, with the exception of St Benedict of Nursia coming up on Monday. My own made-up discipline calls for music and incense only on feast days, and I was missing that particular vehicle for creating a sense of the immanence of the divine. So I decided to look to the list of proposed new feasts for the calendar (to be approved next year), but nothing for today.
Then I turned to my copy of the 1962 Roman Missal (one of my favorite resources), and saw that the appointed feast in the Catholic tradition is St Elizabeth. "Well, that's odd," I thought, since I was pretty sure that St Elizabeth is in our calendar, too. I turned to Lesser Feasts & Fasts and saw that, yes, St Elizabeth of Hungary is venerated on November 21. So I went back to the Missal for a closer look: ah, this is Elizabeth of Portugal, who was named for her great aunt, Elizabeth of Hungary. "Neat," I thought. As I read further, I saw that, after she was widowed, the queen took the veil and entered the order of the Poor Clares, the Franciscan order for women founded by St Clare of Assisi. That would be the same St Clare of Assisi whose prayer book I am using this week. Whoa.
After all this, I decided I didn't really want to bother with music and incense, so I just settled in and began. The texts were wonderful; I'll touch on them below. But the really weird thing? The "prayer of the saints" in the St Clare Prayer Book for Friday evening was written by...Elizabeth of Hungary. (Cue Twilight Zone music.) Chills.
I have had similar experiences before, when saints just sort of randomly decided to reach out of the ether and catch my attention. I will spend some more time this evening meditating on why I think this happened tonight. It is interesting; before I began evening prayer I remember thinking, I'm so tired of my prayer discipline becoming so rote, I need one of those rare spiritual experiences that keep me coming back. And, voila.
So let's talk about those texts. One of the interesting things about this St Clare Prayer Book is that each section of morning and evening prayer for a seven-day week opens with a form of confession using a portion of Psalm 51, the first half of the psalm for the morning, and the first verse followed by the second half in the evening. I had thought maybe this would be the focus for tonight's meditation, but then the whole double-Elizabeth thing came up and so I've put that off, maybe for tomorrow.
Each section also opens with a brief Gospel sentence, to help us focus our intentions on the given theme for the day. This morning's Gospel sentence ("No one can be the slave of two masters; he will either hate the first and love the second, or be attached to the first and despise the second," Matthew 6:24) was actually taken from the selected Gospel passage for tonight (Matthew 6:22-27), which I don't think happens anywhere else in the book.
The Franciscans, of course, were devoted to holy vocational poverty; that is, they chose it. They rejected the idea of possessions (Francis himself is said to have asked to be allowed to die naked so that he could leave this world possessing absolutely nothing at all, but the brothers persuaded him instead, for modesty's sake, to borrow a brother's habit, and St Clare's rules for her order were initially rejected by the pope for being too severe), and so this theme of the corrupting power of wealth and materialism is naturally recurring in this prayer book.
The idea is not so much to suffer poverty for God's sake, but to embrace poverty in an exercise of trust that God will provide all you really need. In the context of tonight's Gospel reading, that opening sentence from this morning is immediately followed by, "Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?" This is a core principle of Franciscan life.
Of course, Christians throughout history have found this a difficult, even impossible challenge to accept. Fear and doubt keep us worrying about all kinds of things, and hold us hostage. One of the most salient critiques of the biblical literalists is that hardly any of them even acknowledge, let alone obey, Christ's requirement that to follow him we must sell everything we own and give the money to the poor. I freely acknowledge my own fears on this point, which is why I feel it is important for me to come back frequently to St Francis, and confess my failures.
Where I have come in this process is a belief that truthfully I possess nothing. Everything belongs to God, but some things have been entrusted to me, for my benefit and use. However, I should always be mindful that nothing is mine and I should always be willing to part with anything I have for the sake of someone else who needs it. It's not quite living fully into the Gospel life, but it's as far as my fears allow me to go right now.
And so, back to Elizabeth of Portugal. She had an illustrious pedigree, great-great-granddaughter of the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick I (also known as Red-Beard or "Barbarossa"), and became Queen of Portugal at the tender age of 12. Widowed at 54, she left the royal life and entered a convent, where she lived in voluntary poverty for eleven years, until her death.
This really speaks to me. I am always thinking about money, how my life might be easier or better or more interesting if I had more money. I think God asks us to accept that this is an illusion. A while back I was told I was being promoted and given a significant raise, but then one thing led to another and it all fell through the cracks. For many months I was just angry thinking about the money I should have been making. Eventually it worked itself out and I got my raise and, well, truthfully, I am no happier or less fearful than I was before the raise.
However, unlike Thomas More, I had never before heard of St Elizabeth. How did she make it on to my blog?
This evening I felt a real desire to have evening prayer; whereas I have been feeling fairly disinterested and passionless, even sometimes thinking of the office as a chore, tonight I really felt called to enter into intentional meditation. We are right in the middle of a two-week period nearly unbroken by the observance of any special feast, with the exception of St Benedict of Nursia coming up on Monday. My own made-up discipline calls for music and incense only on feast days, and I was missing that particular vehicle for creating a sense of the immanence of the divine. So I decided to look to the list of proposed new feasts for the calendar (to be approved next year), but nothing for today.
Then I turned to my copy of the 1962 Roman Missal (one of my favorite resources), and saw that the appointed feast in the Catholic tradition is St Elizabeth. "Well, that's odd," I thought, since I was pretty sure that St Elizabeth is in our calendar, too. I turned to Lesser Feasts & Fasts and saw that, yes, St Elizabeth of Hungary is venerated on November 21. So I went back to the Missal for a closer look: ah, this is Elizabeth of Portugal, who was named for her great aunt, Elizabeth of Hungary. "Neat," I thought. As I read further, I saw that, after she was widowed, the queen took the veil and entered the order of the Poor Clares, the Franciscan order for women founded by St Clare of Assisi. That would be the same St Clare of Assisi whose prayer book I am using this week. Whoa.
After all this, I decided I didn't really want to bother with music and incense, so I just settled in and began. The texts were wonderful; I'll touch on them below. But the really weird thing? The "prayer of the saints" in the St Clare Prayer Book for Friday evening was written by...Elizabeth of Hungary. (Cue Twilight Zone music.) Chills.
I have had similar experiences before, when saints just sort of randomly decided to reach out of the ether and catch my attention. I will spend some more time this evening meditating on why I think this happened tonight. It is interesting; before I began evening prayer I remember thinking, I'm so tired of my prayer discipline becoming so rote, I need one of those rare spiritual experiences that keep me coming back. And, voila.
So let's talk about those texts. One of the interesting things about this St Clare Prayer Book is that each section of morning and evening prayer for a seven-day week opens with a form of confession using a portion of Psalm 51, the first half of the psalm for the morning, and the first verse followed by the second half in the evening. I had thought maybe this would be the focus for tonight's meditation, but then the whole double-Elizabeth thing came up and so I've put that off, maybe for tomorrow.
Each section also opens with a brief Gospel sentence, to help us focus our intentions on the given theme for the day. This morning's Gospel sentence ("No one can be the slave of two masters; he will either hate the first and love the second, or be attached to the first and despise the second," Matthew 6:24) was actually taken from the selected Gospel passage for tonight (Matthew 6:22-27), which I don't think happens anywhere else in the book.
The Franciscans, of course, were devoted to holy vocational poverty; that is, they chose it. They rejected the idea of possessions (Francis himself is said to have asked to be allowed to die naked so that he could leave this world possessing absolutely nothing at all, but the brothers persuaded him instead, for modesty's sake, to borrow a brother's habit, and St Clare's rules for her order were initially rejected by the pope for being too severe), and so this theme of the corrupting power of wealth and materialism is naturally recurring in this prayer book.
The idea is not so much to suffer poverty for God's sake, but to embrace poverty in an exercise of trust that God will provide all you really need. In the context of tonight's Gospel reading, that opening sentence from this morning is immediately followed by, "Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?" This is a core principle of Franciscan life.
Of course, Christians throughout history have found this a difficult, even impossible challenge to accept. Fear and doubt keep us worrying about all kinds of things, and hold us hostage. One of the most salient critiques of the biblical literalists is that hardly any of them even acknowledge, let alone obey, Christ's requirement that to follow him we must sell everything we own and give the money to the poor. I freely acknowledge my own fears on this point, which is why I feel it is important for me to come back frequently to St Francis, and confess my failures.
Where I have come in this process is a belief that truthfully I possess nothing. Everything belongs to God, but some things have been entrusted to me, for my benefit and use. However, I should always be mindful that nothing is mine and I should always be willing to part with anything I have for the sake of someone else who needs it. It's not quite living fully into the Gospel life, but it's as far as my fears allow me to go right now.
And so, back to Elizabeth of Portugal. She had an illustrious pedigree, great-great-granddaughter of the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick I (also known as Red-Beard or "Barbarossa"), and became Queen of Portugal at the tender age of 12. Widowed at 54, she left the royal life and entered a convent, where she lived in voluntary poverty for eleven years, until her death.
This really speaks to me. I am always thinking about money, how my life might be easier or better or more interesting if I had more money. I think God asks us to accept that this is an illusion. A while back I was told I was being promoted and given a significant raise, but then one thing led to another and it all fell through the cracks. For many months I was just angry thinking about the money I should have been making. Eventually it worked itself out and I got my raise and, well, truthfully, I am no happier or less fearful than I was before the raise.
Thursday, July 07, 2011
Maybe Less Discipline is Good Discipline
Oh, dear, I have really fallen off the disciplinary wagon.
I attempted to write something last week for the Feast of Saints Peter & Paul, one of my favorites, but it was rambling and obvious, so it has been condemned to the purgatory of "drafts" and will no doubt remain there.
I might have had something to say yesterday commemorating the death of Thomas More, who was executed by Henry VIII for exercising his conscience and refusing to support the political separation of the Church of England from Rome. He is venerated as a martyr by the Roman church on June 22 (unclear why) and by the Church of England on July 6, the anniversary of his execution. Though the Episcopal Church in the United States is busily adding to the calendar what seems to be hundreds of people small and great who in some noteworthy way or other played a role in church history, Sir Thomas has yet to be nominated, an omission I find very strange in the context of new additions such as John Calvin. So although there is no official Episcopalian observance for Thomas More, I write him into the calendar myself and keep the day by watching the classic film A Man for All Seasons. (One week earlier I kept Saints Peter & Paul by watching the extraordinary Quo Vadis, which is campy and overwrought but magnificent). (For the record, I also write in my own observances for Gandhi and the Buddha, whom I am certain were saints who in fact preached the Gospel, even if not in the name of Christ.)
In general, my "daily office" discipline has been pretty weak. I think it's less about the health of my faith life than it is a symptom or symbol of my general state lately: I'm tired. I've worked incredibly hard the last few months both professionally and on volunteer projects, and I am needing a break from responsibility and commitments, more flexibility, more fun and more me-centered time.
For these two weeks in July, I have even set aside the BCP completely as there are no feasts in the calendar to observe. Instead, I have two Franciscan prayer books, one focusing on St Clare and another on Francis himself, which each contain a week's worth of morning and evening prayer liturgies. They are shorter and simpler than what I normally do, but I think that's a good boundary to stretch, as well. I use the readings provided therein, which are chosen for thematic relevance, rather than keeping the lectionary.
Even though the simplified liturgy means I can get through the office in 10 or 15 minutes, rather then 30-45, I'm still finding the structure burdensome, though I trust it is beneficial. My mind seems permanently elsewhere. I am reading, but not comprehending, looking, but not seeing.
This isn't to say that I'm not thinking about God these days. I am, and quite frequently. I am feeling rather unsettled -- or, perhaps, too settled -- and it reminds me of how I was feeling about five years ago back in New York when I had this great sense that what I was doing wasn't working and that a big change was needed. That change ended up being leaving everything behind in New York and starting over from scratch with a new life, new friends, new job and new community in Portland.
In hindsight, the change was absolutely the right one, for many reasons. I do truly feel that I had opened myself up to discernment, to listening to that 'still, small voice,' and was called back to Portland at an important time. Now I feel restless. I don't know whether this is leading me on to yet another city and another life, or whether it's change on a less dramatic scale. I think frequently about moving to another part of town, but the pro/con analysis always keeps me where I am. (For now.)
The other thing that is going on seems to be that I am possibly emerging from many years of emotional and romantic isolation. The Christian ethos I have been raised with trains me to seek one partner with which to make a committed relationship and to be abstinent otherwise, and so, in the absence of a partner all these long years, I have been...lonely, shall we say. But in my meditations in recent months (especially in Lent) I have had a great deal of focus on sex and sensuality and relationship, and as I enter tentatively back into the "dating world," part of me remains unclear whether I even want a relationship. I am sensing that the church's historic sexophobia is wrong and damaging, and yet also feel certain that there is a higher standard to which Christians are called for their intimate behavior.
The Bible doesn't anywhere condemn sex, or sexual pleasure, or sex for the sake of pleasure. That thinking is a product of the middle ages, a legacy of St Augustine's over-compensation for his own admitted debauchery and a mistaken assumption that "original sin" has something to do with sex. This got codified in Aquinas' ideas about natural law, and got us to the persisting religious argument that sex is for procreation, and only within the bonds of male/female Christian marriage; any sex that is not procreative in intent or capacity is sinful, and even procreative sex is understood to be sinful if the participants enjoy themselves. This cannot be what God intended.
Obviously this is the subject for a post of its own...many posts, probably. I concede the Bible repeatedly condemns fornication and adultery, but I think those are specific abuses of sexual behavior, not sex in general that is being condemned. Somehow I was raised with a very traditional, sex-negative religious outlook, and I think that has kept me emotionally and spiritually retarded in many ways. I have a sense that God is calling me to a healthier physical life. We'll have to see.
I attempted to write something last week for the Feast of Saints Peter & Paul, one of my favorites, but it was rambling and obvious, so it has been condemned to the purgatory of "drafts" and will no doubt remain there.
I might have had something to say yesterday commemorating the death of Thomas More, who was executed by Henry VIII for exercising his conscience and refusing to support the political separation of the Church of England from Rome. He is venerated as a martyr by the Roman church on June 22 (unclear why) and by the Church of England on July 6, the anniversary of his execution. Though the Episcopal Church in the United States is busily adding to the calendar what seems to be hundreds of people small and great who in some noteworthy way or other played a role in church history, Sir Thomas has yet to be nominated, an omission I find very strange in the context of new additions such as John Calvin. So although there is no official Episcopalian observance for Thomas More, I write him into the calendar myself and keep the day by watching the classic film A Man for All Seasons. (One week earlier I kept Saints Peter & Paul by watching the extraordinary Quo Vadis, which is campy and overwrought but magnificent). (For the record, I also write in my own observances for Gandhi and the Buddha, whom I am certain were saints who in fact preached the Gospel, even if not in the name of Christ.)
In general, my "daily office" discipline has been pretty weak. I think it's less about the health of my faith life than it is a symptom or symbol of my general state lately: I'm tired. I've worked incredibly hard the last few months both professionally and on volunteer projects, and I am needing a break from responsibility and commitments, more flexibility, more fun and more me-centered time.
For these two weeks in July, I have even set aside the BCP completely as there are no feasts in the calendar to observe. Instead, I have two Franciscan prayer books, one focusing on St Clare and another on Francis himself, which each contain a week's worth of morning and evening prayer liturgies. They are shorter and simpler than what I normally do, but I think that's a good boundary to stretch, as well. I use the readings provided therein, which are chosen for thematic relevance, rather than keeping the lectionary.
Even though the simplified liturgy means I can get through the office in 10 or 15 minutes, rather then 30-45, I'm still finding the structure burdensome, though I trust it is beneficial. My mind seems permanently elsewhere. I am reading, but not comprehending, looking, but not seeing.
This isn't to say that I'm not thinking about God these days. I am, and quite frequently. I am feeling rather unsettled -- or, perhaps, too settled -- and it reminds me of how I was feeling about five years ago back in New York when I had this great sense that what I was doing wasn't working and that a big change was needed. That change ended up being leaving everything behind in New York and starting over from scratch with a new life, new friends, new job and new community in Portland.
In hindsight, the change was absolutely the right one, for many reasons. I do truly feel that I had opened myself up to discernment, to listening to that 'still, small voice,' and was called back to Portland at an important time. Now I feel restless. I don't know whether this is leading me on to yet another city and another life, or whether it's change on a less dramatic scale. I think frequently about moving to another part of town, but the pro/con analysis always keeps me where I am. (For now.)
The other thing that is going on seems to be that I am possibly emerging from many years of emotional and romantic isolation. The Christian ethos I have been raised with trains me to seek one partner with which to make a committed relationship and to be abstinent otherwise, and so, in the absence of a partner all these long years, I have been...lonely, shall we say. But in my meditations in recent months (especially in Lent) I have had a great deal of focus on sex and sensuality and relationship, and as I enter tentatively back into the "dating world," part of me remains unclear whether I even want a relationship. I am sensing that the church's historic sexophobia is wrong and damaging, and yet also feel certain that there is a higher standard to which Christians are called for their intimate behavior.
The Bible doesn't anywhere condemn sex, or sexual pleasure, or sex for the sake of pleasure. That thinking is a product of the middle ages, a legacy of St Augustine's over-compensation for his own admitted debauchery and a mistaken assumption that "original sin" has something to do with sex. This got codified in Aquinas' ideas about natural law, and got us to the persisting religious argument that sex is for procreation, and only within the bonds of male/female Christian marriage; any sex that is not procreative in intent or capacity is sinful, and even procreative sex is understood to be sinful if the participants enjoy themselves. This cannot be what God intended.
Obviously this is the subject for a post of its own...many posts, probably. I concede the Bible repeatedly condemns fornication and adultery, but I think those are specific abuses of sexual behavior, not sex in general that is being condemned. Somehow I was raised with a very traditional, sex-negative religious outlook, and I think that has kept me emotionally and spiritually retarded in many ways. I have a sense that God is calling me to a healthier physical life. We'll have to see.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
St Barnabas
Ecclesiasticus (Sirach) 3:31-11; Acts 4:32-27
I suddenly dig St Barnabas. If you'd asked me yesterday who St Barnabas was, I couldn't have given you a very good answer. It's not that I've never kept his feast before, it just never stuck. I wish I had looked him up before I visited a parish of St Barnabas last week.
Reading the lessons appointed for morning prayer on this feast, one wonders just which Bible, exactly, a lot of Americans are reading. (Okay, fair enough: they are in fact probably reading one that does not contain Ecclesiasticus, found in the apocrypha.)
It's hard for me to resist the temptation of pointing out what I think other people should take away from these readings, instead of concentrating solely on what they say to me, but I just get so angry at the way our faith is misrepresented, distorted, even, yea, perverted by those who have appointed themselves its greatest advocates and true believers. Today's reading from Sirach is exemplary, but not unique. How is it, exactly, that so much of America's Christian culture aligns itself with a political system that serves Mammon? I get equally despondent over many liberals, the self-appointed guardians of objectivity and education, who are satisfied that all they need to know about the Bible or Christianity they have heard on television from crackpots, and dismiss Christians as ideological zealous bigots, or, at best, sad, deluded people clinging to some bizarre ancient myth to bring rays of hope into their pathetic little lives, and think of the Bible as an archaic manifesto for every kind of small-mindedness and oppression known to history.
The rich person toils to amass a fortune,
and when he rests he fills himself with his dainties.
The poor person toils to make a meagre living,
and if ever he rests he becomes needy.
Bam! That's about as succinct a summation of the progressive view of the shortcomings of capitalism as you could find. We hear a lot, especially from the "libertarian" crowd, about how the rich are the products of their own success and hard work and, ergo, the poor must be so because they chose not to work as hard. Assuredly, there probably are some underachievers out there who ought to take more responsibility and show some initiative, but a general philosophy that the poor don't work as hard as the rich when more often than not it's the poor who end up working the physically exhausting or the dangerous or the smelly or unpleasant or unrespected tasks is delusion. Some wealthy people definitely work very hard, but usually in a comfortable and safe way, and they are able to rest from time to time in comfort, if and when they choose. And, of course, some rich people don't work at all. We live in a celebrity culture, where some people are famous for being famous.
One who loves gold will not be justified;
one who pursues money will be led astray by it.
Many have come to ruin because of gold,
and their destruction has met them face to face.
Okay, enough shooting fish in a barrel. I certainly am no saint in this regard; perhaps I sin even more egregiously, because I read things like this, and I feel their truth, and while I desire to live a comparatively simple and modest life, the plain truth of the matter is that I am stinking, filthy rich. I don't think most Americans would agree with that assessment -- I drive a Honda, I live in a suburban apartment, I don't have a butler or a maid or take fancy vacations; in fact, I think a lot of Americans would say my life is kind of lame. I don't even have cable. And yet, given my income, I am in the top 1% of earners worldwide. More than 99% of humanity has less money than I do, so I don't know how I could define myself as anything other than loaded.
Sure, I work pretty hard (by "middle class" standards). But I'm not pursuing any particular passion; it's just a job. I want to have my modest but comfortable life, pay off my student loans, and put some money away for retirement. In our culture, that's not bad. It's considered normal and responsible. But there's the serious disconnect between a real Christian life and a generic American life. The stories of the saints are filled with people who walked away from comfort for the sake of the Gospel; in America, we tend to think that following the Gospel entitles us to comfort.
St Barnabas is one of these heroes. He was a landowner who sold his property and gave the money to the church. Now, maybe that doesn't sound so extraordinary to us. Wealthy folk - even the non-religious - commit acts of generosity and philanthropy all the time. But this information about Barnabas comes to us immediately following the controversial section of Acts that appears to claim that the early Christians were essentially socialists. "No one claimed private ownership of any possession, but everything they owned was held in common....There was not a needy person among them, for as many as owned lands or houses sold them and brought the proceeds of what was sold...and it was distributed to each as any had need." Barnabas didn't donate a fortune in exchange for getting the new wing of the hospital named after him. He simply gave away everything he had so that those who had nothing might have something, trusting that the community would be there to meet his needs, too. He didn't decide there was a certain fraction of his income he could do without; he laid his money at the apostles' feet.
Note how at odds this is with the political wing of our country that most loudly claims to be the paragons of Christian virtue. They abhor the notion of living like this, and rail against anything that might benefit the poor at the inconvenience of the wealthy. Of course, they defend this by noting that all this charity was voluntary, not compelled by the government. But we have a totally different system; we are not run by hereditary monarchs (hereditary oligarchs, maybe...), or puppet princes in the service of a foreign empire. We govern ourselves; it's not like Caesar taxing the poor to pay for his own excesses. Instead, we, like the apostles, are supposed to be sitting down together, adding up our resources, and using them to address our needs and problems.
I still have such trouble with the hypocrisy of these "conservatives" who claim the authority of Scripture, but only when it's not inconvenient or at odds with their personal political views. Somehow we end up with "Christians" who want to cut off unemployment assistance in a time when there are vastly more people looking for work than there are jobs to be filled, arguing that unemployment insurance just encourages people to be lazy. We get "Christians" who deny global climate change, even as poor communities in coastal areas around the world continue to be inundated by rising seas, as icecaps and glaciers disappear and deserts expand, because making a meaningful effort to combat these problems would necessarily mean making major changes in the comforts and conveniences to which Americans (especially, but not exclusively) have grown accustomed. We get "Christians" who argue that there is no "right" to health care, as though our capacity to prevent and cure disease and eliminate or ameliorate suffering is a special privilege of the wealthy, rather than a moral obligation.
Blessed is the rich person who is found blameless,
and who does not go after gold.
Who is he, that we may praise him?
Good question.
I suddenly dig St Barnabas. If you'd asked me yesterday who St Barnabas was, I couldn't have given you a very good answer. It's not that I've never kept his feast before, it just never stuck. I wish I had looked him up before I visited a parish of St Barnabas last week.
Reading the lessons appointed for morning prayer on this feast, one wonders just which Bible, exactly, a lot of Americans are reading. (Okay, fair enough: they are in fact probably reading one that does not contain Ecclesiasticus, found in the apocrypha.)
It's hard for me to resist the temptation of pointing out what I think other people should take away from these readings, instead of concentrating solely on what they say to me, but I just get so angry at the way our faith is misrepresented, distorted, even, yea, perverted by those who have appointed themselves its greatest advocates and true believers. Today's reading from Sirach is exemplary, but not unique. How is it, exactly, that so much of America's Christian culture aligns itself with a political system that serves Mammon? I get equally despondent over many liberals, the self-appointed guardians of objectivity and education, who are satisfied that all they need to know about the Bible or Christianity they have heard on television from crackpots, and dismiss Christians as ideological zealous bigots, or, at best, sad, deluded people clinging to some bizarre ancient myth to bring rays of hope into their pathetic little lives, and think of the Bible as an archaic manifesto for every kind of small-mindedness and oppression known to history.
The rich person toils to amass a fortune,
and when he rests he fills himself with his dainties.
The poor person toils to make a meagre living,
and if ever he rests he becomes needy.
Bam! That's about as succinct a summation of the progressive view of the shortcomings of capitalism as you could find. We hear a lot, especially from the "libertarian" crowd, about how the rich are the products of their own success and hard work and, ergo, the poor must be so because they chose not to work as hard. Assuredly, there probably are some underachievers out there who ought to take more responsibility and show some initiative, but a general philosophy that the poor don't work as hard as the rich when more often than not it's the poor who end up working the physically exhausting or the dangerous or the smelly or unpleasant or unrespected tasks is delusion. Some wealthy people definitely work very hard, but usually in a comfortable and safe way, and they are able to rest from time to time in comfort, if and when they choose. And, of course, some rich people don't work at all. We live in a celebrity culture, where some people are famous for being famous.
One who loves gold will not be justified;
one who pursues money will be led astray by it.
Many have come to ruin because of gold,
and their destruction has met them face to face.
Okay, enough shooting fish in a barrel. I certainly am no saint in this regard; perhaps I sin even more egregiously, because I read things like this, and I feel their truth, and while I desire to live a comparatively simple and modest life, the plain truth of the matter is that I am stinking, filthy rich. I don't think most Americans would agree with that assessment -- I drive a Honda, I live in a suburban apartment, I don't have a butler or a maid or take fancy vacations; in fact, I think a lot of Americans would say my life is kind of lame. I don't even have cable. And yet, given my income, I am in the top 1% of earners worldwide. More than 99% of humanity has less money than I do, so I don't know how I could define myself as anything other than loaded.
Sure, I work pretty hard (by "middle class" standards). But I'm not pursuing any particular passion; it's just a job. I want to have my modest but comfortable life, pay off my student loans, and put some money away for retirement. In our culture, that's not bad. It's considered normal and responsible. But there's the serious disconnect between a real Christian life and a generic American life. The stories of the saints are filled with people who walked away from comfort for the sake of the Gospel; in America, we tend to think that following the Gospel entitles us to comfort.
St Barnabas is one of these heroes. He was a landowner who sold his property and gave the money to the church. Now, maybe that doesn't sound so extraordinary to us. Wealthy folk - even the non-religious - commit acts of generosity and philanthropy all the time. But this information about Barnabas comes to us immediately following the controversial section of Acts that appears to claim that the early Christians were essentially socialists. "No one claimed private ownership of any possession, but everything they owned was held in common....There was not a needy person among them, for as many as owned lands or houses sold them and brought the proceeds of what was sold...and it was distributed to each as any had need." Barnabas didn't donate a fortune in exchange for getting the new wing of the hospital named after him. He simply gave away everything he had so that those who had nothing might have something, trusting that the community would be there to meet his needs, too. He didn't decide there was a certain fraction of his income he could do without; he laid his money at the apostles' feet.
Note how at odds this is with the political wing of our country that most loudly claims to be the paragons of Christian virtue. They abhor the notion of living like this, and rail against anything that might benefit the poor at the inconvenience of the wealthy. Of course, they defend this by noting that all this charity was voluntary, not compelled by the government. But we have a totally different system; we are not run by hereditary monarchs (hereditary oligarchs, maybe...), or puppet princes in the service of a foreign empire. We govern ourselves; it's not like Caesar taxing the poor to pay for his own excesses. Instead, we, like the apostles, are supposed to be sitting down together, adding up our resources, and using them to address our needs and problems.
I still have such trouble with the hypocrisy of these "conservatives" who claim the authority of Scripture, but only when it's not inconvenient or at odds with their personal political views. Somehow we end up with "Christians" who want to cut off unemployment assistance in a time when there are vastly more people looking for work than there are jobs to be filled, arguing that unemployment insurance just encourages people to be lazy. We get "Christians" who deny global climate change, even as poor communities in coastal areas around the world continue to be inundated by rising seas, as icecaps and glaciers disappear and deserts expand, because making a meaningful effort to combat these problems would necessarily mean making major changes in the comforts and conveniences to which Americans (especially, but not exclusively) have grown accustomed. We get "Christians" who argue that there is no "right" to health care, as though our capacity to prevent and cure disease and eliminate or ameliorate suffering is a special privilege of the wealthy, rather than a moral obligation.
Blessed is the rich person who is found blameless,
and who does not go after gold.
Who is he, that we may praise him?
Good question.
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