Don't think for a moment that I would abandon a high Christology. Credo the Messiah was God with us, consubstantial with the Father, and let me never deny it. Only today, as we talk about that ineffable glory enfleshed in the weakest of vessels, a little infant, I would reflect on Jesus the man.
Today is the mass of Jesus, and it is precisely by looking at that man amidst the procession of church heroes, squarely between St. Ambrose and St. Stephen in the December calendar, that I am gladdened by the feast of his birth, and I understand the scriptural account of his coming. As I read the accounts of St. Matthew and St. Luke, the first light in which the man Jesus presented is as a prophet, prophesied by those prophets before him, coming out of the prophetic tradition, and then going as a prophet into the adult form where we know and meet him. We learn later that he should be our priest and savior and sacrifice; still later we learn he would be our King and God. But it is first in the echoes of Isaiah and strange foretellings of the days of Caesar Augustus that we meet our Lord as a child.
I usually hear one of two Christmas sermons. There is sometimes another sermon about the cross and forgiveness of sins, but I don't think that's a Christmas sermon. It's a Good Friday sermon that someone accidentally preaches in December, and I shall come back to it in a moment, for it's more telling than we might think. The first Christmas sermon, which is still special and instructive to all of us, is the portrait of the baby, and the staggering realization of what that baby means in a high Christology. I pass by that portrait this morning, not because I think it unimportant, but because it's best left to another voice. It's more suited to Grandfather's knee, and not your stiff and dour cousin. The second type of Christmas sermon probably comes from the narrative-deconstructing current of postmodernity, and is all about how dirty the stable and manger were, and how the little Jesus surely did not 'sleep in heavenly peace,' but wailed and fussed all through Christmas night, and therefore all of our old songs and nativity sets have it wrong. I don't know why we hear this sermon so often. Perhaps it comforts those many people in our time who feel, especially around the holidays, like they're losing some measure of control and sanity, and they are comforted by other dirty living rooms and screaming children. But again, I suspect that to the postmodern mind, it's simply more fun to knock things down that to try building and protecting anything complex.
On this feast of Christmas day, I raise a glass to the man Jesus. I marvel at the paradox of his incarnation, and I pause, as I should much more often, to think of his example and mighty deeds, especially, marvelous as they are, his deeds for me. And I then ask, now what? Should we preach Good Friday sermons on Christmas as well? If this baby were come only to be born sinless of a virgin and die an atoning death for sinners, why did his parents take him to the temple for circumcision, and not sacrifice? We know that Jesus meant to die when he entered Jerusalem thirty years later, but why were the thirty years necessary? What were they about? How, in other words, does the birth of Jesus lead, not only to his death and resurrection, but to his life?
This Christmas season and New Year, let us learn from our Lord what he meant as a prophet, when he began to describe a Kingdom of God that was coming into the world. Let us learn what he meant as a teacher, when he so resoundingly answered the lawyers and professors of his day. Let us understand who he was a priest, and how, in some way, we have been made members of his priesthood. Let us realize what it means to be citizens of the King, and what we must do to advance his rule while we await the King's return. Let us, as ever, remember he is our salvation, always an salvation lowly, from a baby in a stable to an executed criminal on a cross, that we should receive him in humility. And let us remember that this Christ-child is our hope, by his message, reign, atonement and resurrection, for us and for our people. Amen and Merry Christmas!
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
Friday Morning Reading
Christmas Break!!!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xam01uaj6Vg
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OfuUlZdUtbg
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PjBd8O5LtKg
While James and J are sleeping, I am reading Statius, who describes
Digna deae sedes, nitidis nec sordet ab astris...
...perspicui vivunt in marmore fontes.
nec servat natura vices: hic Sirius alget,
bruma tepet, versumque domus sibi temperat annum
A house worthy of the goddess, nor squalid after the shining stars...
...clear streams of water flow in marble.
Nor does nature serve in seasons, here the Summer is cool,
mid-winter is warm, and the house adjusts the turning year to itself.
...and Aquinas, who writes in the Summa Contra:
Caput 69, Quod Deus cognoscit infinita
ergo, frater iuvenior eius dixit ut cognoscit infinita plus unum.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xam01uaj6Vg
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OfuUlZdUtbg
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PjBd8O5LtKg
While James and J are sleeping, I am reading Statius, who describes
Digna deae sedes, nitidis nec sordet ab astris...
...perspicui vivunt in marmore fontes.
nec servat natura vices: hic Sirius alget,
bruma tepet, versumque domus sibi temperat annum
A house worthy of the goddess, nor squalid after the shining stars...
...clear streams of water flow in marble.
Nor does nature serve in seasons, here the Summer is cool,
mid-winter is warm, and the house adjusts the turning year to itself.
...and Aquinas, who writes in the Summa Contra:
Caput 69, Quod Deus cognoscit infinita
ergo, frater iuvenior eius dixit ut cognoscit infinita plus unum.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
The Story of the Birth of James
By no design or intent, our son was supposed to be born on 11-11-11. We were told many times by friends and relatives (and, as is the lot of the expectant couple, by loose acquaintances and strangers) that we ought not to expect the baby on the due date itself. First-born babies especially, we were cautioned, are notoriously unpredictable. We nodded along to this, then continued filling in our datebooks and calendar almost indifferently. A month before the due date, I thought myself the model of paternal responsibility. After all, I had turned down a gig on 11-11-11, and hadn't accepted any other work until the 14th! I presumed that while predicting childbirth wasn't an exact science (something along the lines of, say, predicting the weather or sports scores) our son would be born within a few days before or after his due date. And by "a few days," I meant "the day before or after." After all, he would be the firstborn child of two fastidiously punctual firstborns. How could he dare to be late?
I was more worried about a performance with the BPO on 11-8 than anything else, and once that was over I breathed an easy sigh of relief. 11-11-11 came and went, and we stayed at home. The weekend passed, and I returned to school uneasily on Monday, 11-13. On Tuesday, I began to be nervous. I'd been hired for a full philharmonics week at RPO, plus the attached Symphony 101 services on Friday and Sunday. J, who'd been home on maternity leave for a full week, was beginning to get restless. She said that she now understood what was meant by the baby "dropping."
She still hadn't experienced much in the way of contractions, pretended or otherwise, and we began to wonder if the due date was wrong. On Thursday night I played my first concert of the week, with my cellphone (turned down to silent) perched on my stand. One down, three to go. That night, I felt a tap on my arm. Groggy, and still half asleep, I rolled over to see that Julie was waking me up. As far as I can remember, the conversation went like this:
Julie: My contractions are every five minutes apart. What do you think?
Roy: Are you sure?
Julie: Yes, I've been timing them.
Roy: For how long?
Julie: At least since midnight.
Roy: Sorry, what time is it now?
Julie: It's about 2 AM. Do you think we should go to the hospital?
Roy: Has your water broken?
Julie: No, but sometimes that doesn't happen until later. What should we do?
Roy: Well, let's call in and see what they say.
Julie, who I should politely and impartially note was in the throes of labor, remembers the conversation like this:
Julie: My contractions are every five minutes apart. What do you think we should do?
Roy: What?
Julie: My contractions are every five minutes apart. What should we do?
Roy: What?
Julie: I'm having contractions every five minutes! What should we do?
Roy: I think we should go to the concert.
Julie: What? That's not what I asked! Should we call the doctor?
Roy: What time is it?
Julie: It's 2 AM.
Roy: How long?
Julie: 2 AM
Roy: How long have you been having contractions?
Julie: Since at least midnight. What should we do?
Roy: Your water hasn't broken?
Julie: No, sometimes that doesn't happen until later. Should we call?
Roy: <falls back asleep>
Clearly Julie does not remember this early morning adventure very clearly, but we do both remember that we eventually got up and called the on-call doctor. They asked us to come in, and by about 2:30 we were driving into Strong, hospital bag in tow. I don't think either of us really expected the baby would be arriving that night, but we wanted to be responsible. We had failed to be responsible parents earlier, and had never gotten around to visiting the hospital or taking the recommended tour. We did, however, find it without difficulty and get checked into triage.
Julie was measured (if you don't know, you don't want to know) and though her contractions were seeming more and more "real" she wasn't dilating at all. We waited around and attempted to stay awake for an hour or so, and then were sent home with compassionate smiles. No baby yet.
Thankfully, I didn't have LCS the following morning, but was able to sleep in for a 9:30 RPO rehearsal. I drove to Hochstein, parked, and sat down for rehearsal. What good would come from telling anyone about visiting the hospital the night before? We just needed to make it through another 72 hours, and then the baby could come anytime he wanted. At the rehearsal break, I checked my voicemail. Julie said it was going to happen today. Her contractions were still every five minutes apart, and they were much more intense. This time it was genuine. I reassured her I'd be home soon, and went to find the principal trumpeter. Awkwardly and apologetically, I told him I thought my wife was going into labor.
He conferenced with the personnel manager (who was also awaiting an imminent delivery from the principal bassoonist's wife) and they found another sub to put on call. I assured them that I would do everything in my power to make the concert, and they (wonderfully) assured me that family came first, and to look to my wife's interests. I drove home, picked up Julie, and drove again to the hospital and the triage room. We waited longer this time, but the news was the same. Julie was not dilating. This time we didn't linger for a second measurement, but just wanted to go home. We were both disappointed, and Julie was starting to be in considerable pain. A kind doctor wrote her a pain prescription, and we had it filled on the way home. It did some good for her, but our nerves were being worn thin.
Neither of us had slept properly for some time, and with the hubbub of the previous night we were both spent. The afternoon was spent in nervous puttering (I had called off of LCS, having thought I'd be in the hospital) and we waited for any changes in Julie's condition. Her pain medication did slightly slow the contractions, but that magical moment (the breaking of her water) still hadn't come. Early in the evening I called into the orchestra and told them I'd be at the concert. I came, I fretted, I played. Two concerts down, two to go. Still no baby.
On Saturday, 11-19, we wandered in the wilderness for 40 years. Really we just wandered about our living room, and really it was just me wandering since Julie had hurt her back earlier in the week. She tried to nap while I paced and read, and we waited, waited, waited. We both started to think about the word "induce," but held off a little longer yet. Oliver was on call for me at Gates the next morning...but I had nothing to tell him. There was still a sub lined up for RPO, but nothing to report. The evening came, and I drove in (in some early snow) for the last Philharmonics concert. Three concerts down, one to go. Still no baby.
After another sleepless night, I drove into CPC on Sunday morning, and reported to my disappointed choir that there was still no news. I drove home, and found Julie exhausted on the couch downstairs. She had been, whatever the "type," in labor since Thursday night, and her contractions continued now as fiercely as ever. The date for induction had been set at Tue. 11-22 by our personal obstetrician, but we both knew that we couldn't wait that long. Whatever we would gain by waiting for labor's natural onset would be lost by the continuing toll of the contractions. If we waited any longer, she simply wouldn't have any stamina. We called the hospital, and they told us to come in at 4 PM. My last concert was at 2. I drove in, and as I'd done all week, played with my phone on my stand. It finished at 3 PM, and I had kept all of my foolish promises.
With the Bills being manhandled by the lowly Miami Dolphins on the radio, Julie and I drove into Strong. Having caught the nursing staff on a shift change, it was about 5 PM before we were checked into our birthing room and officially initiated. (I don't think it's official until you're wearing an uncomfortable plastic bracelet.) This, we told ourselves, was it. Our son was being born today. We let our parents know, and prepared to get things started.
The nurses set up a drip and (after fussing with the very expensive looking machines) gave Julie pitocin, the "inducement" drug. It worked. On the lowest possible setting, her contractions immediately increased in frequency, intensity, and duration. We were visited by staff members, (including an ultrasound technician who gave as an ever-so-brief glimpse of a face) and given vague assurances that we could speak to an anesthetist anytime we wished. We'd decided to play the anesthesia decision by ear, and I still think Julie could have delivered without any drugs if her labor had come on more quickly. Between her exhaustion, however, and the additional intensity of the pitocin-induced contractions, we decided to ask for an epidural.
Around 10 PM an anesthetist arrived. She spoke in a thick and menacing-sounding Russian accent, but gave us nothing but encouragement. The procedure was quick and easily done, and all of a sudden Julie was a new woman. My parents stopped by to visit us, and were even kind enough to bring me dinner. (From McDonald's the only place open at such a late hour...I was that hungry.) The epidural continued its magic, and Julie was convinced she might even be able to sleep for a bit. I agreed, and made myself as comfortable as I could in the "spouse chair" next to her bed.
Here again, our stories diverge. The next thing I remember is someone saying my name and telling me that I was missing my son being born. I was, at this point, quite sleep-deprived, and I apparently went down hard when I fell asleep. Julie had also fallen asleep, but apparently woke up around 2 or 2:30 AM, and without the slightest clue as to where I was. She was positioned away from the chair where I slept, and when she couldn't crane her neck back to where I was sleeping the in the darkened room, or elicit an answer to her calling my name into the dark, she presumed that I'd stepped out for some reason. Her contractions started up quite intensely again, and then she told her nurse it was time to push.
With me still asleep, doctors and students were assembled, and the pushing phase was begun. After fifteen minutes or so, Julie asked again where I was. A student asked, "is that this guy asleep in the chair." Julie instructed that I be woken up, which I was, and in considerable confusion. I immediately leapt to my feet and had the following thoughts:
-I think I'm dreaming...Julie's asleep with the epidural, and we're still just waiting for her to reach 10 cm.
-I don't know any of the people in this room
-My stomach is reminding me why I never eat fast food
Eventually I came into consciousness and realized what was happening. Julie proved to me over the next hour that everything that's ever been assumed about men being tougher than women is nonsense. She was a heroine, and while I was queasy and near-fainting at her knee, she was, incredibly, moving our child closer and closer to life. The doctors showed me his head, and confirmed that he was "sunny-side-up," which would complicate his delivery.
They gave wonderful encouragement to Julie while she was in the midst of pushes, but then promptly demonstrated that it wasn't to be trusted when the supervisor said "Push, Julie! He's almost here!" and then turned to a colleague and remarked "Okay, looks like that woman in 17 is about to deliver. I'll be back in a bit." Julie, however, outpaced their expectations. At the critical moment, only one other doctor and myself were in the room. The others were quickly called, and we saw that the baby was about to emerge.
If you don't know what an episiotomy is, please, do not attempt to find out. I saw that a doctor was about to inflict one upon my wife, and then was when my already unsettled stomach gave out. (Disclaimer: Not that that was anything compared to what Julie was going through) Someone saw me turn white and said "Sit down, Dad, get him out of the way." I remember sitting down and holding a bowl, and as soon as I did I heard a new sound, and then excitement. I stood up, and all of a sudden there was a human being there.
I was beyond amazed. He was a real person, and he was bleating, and looking up with wide open eyes. Julie was attempting to look at him, but couldn't see, and there were several people talking to me at once. I heard someone ask, "what's his name?"
I answered "his name is James" and realized that I was sobbing. There was a pair of scissors in my hand, and I cut his cord, and then his eyes met mine. His cries were just soft mews, and someone had put a cap on his full head of dark hair. He looked like us. I could see my eyes and Julie's ears, and the shape of my face. That a baby was coming had been my all-consuming thought for the past weeks, but I was somehow completely taken by surprise that he would be a person. I held him, and Julie held him, and we loved him. A child was born to us at 4:30 that morning, and his name is James.
I was more worried about a performance with the BPO on 11-8 than anything else, and once that was over I breathed an easy sigh of relief. 11-11-11 came and went, and we stayed at home. The weekend passed, and I returned to school uneasily on Monday, 11-13. On Tuesday, I began to be nervous. I'd been hired for a full philharmonics week at RPO, plus the attached Symphony 101 services on Friday and Sunday. J, who'd been home on maternity leave for a full week, was beginning to get restless. She said that she now understood what was meant by the baby "dropping."
She still hadn't experienced much in the way of contractions, pretended or otherwise, and we began to wonder if the due date was wrong. On Thursday night I played my first concert of the week, with my cellphone (turned down to silent) perched on my stand. One down, three to go. That night, I felt a tap on my arm. Groggy, and still half asleep, I rolled over to see that Julie was waking me up. As far as I can remember, the conversation went like this:
Julie: My contractions are every five minutes apart. What do you think?
Roy: Are you sure?
Julie: Yes, I've been timing them.
Roy: For how long?
Julie: At least since midnight.
Roy: Sorry, what time is it now?
Julie: It's about 2 AM. Do you think we should go to the hospital?
Roy: Has your water broken?
Julie: No, but sometimes that doesn't happen until later. What should we do?
Roy: Well, let's call in and see what they say.
Julie, who I should politely and impartially note was in the throes of labor, remembers the conversation like this:
Julie: My contractions are every five minutes apart. What do you think we should do?
Roy: What?
Julie: My contractions are every five minutes apart. What should we do?
Roy: What?
Julie: I'm having contractions every five minutes! What should we do?
Roy: I think we should go to the concert.
Julie: What? That's not what I asked! Should we call the doctor?
Roy: What time is it?
Julie: It's 2 AM.
Roy: How long?
Julie: 2 AM
Roy: How long have you been having contractions?
Julie: Since at least midnight. What should we do?
Roy: Your water hasn't broken?
Julie: No, sometimes that doesn't happen until later. Should we call?
Roy: <falls back asleep>
Clearly Julie does not remember this early morning adventure very clearly, but we do both remember that we eventually got up and called the on-call doctor. They asked us to come in, and by about 2:30 we were driving into Strong, hospital bag in tow. I don't think either of us really expected the baby would be arriving that night, but we wanted to be responsible. We had failed to be responsible parents earlier, and had never gotten around to visiting the hospital or taking the recommended tour. We did, however, find it without difficulty and get checked into triage.
Julie was measured (if you don't know, you don't want to know) and though her contractions were seeming more and more "real" she wasn't dilating at all. We waited around and attempted to stay awake for an hour or so, and then were sent home with compassionate smiles. No baby yet.
Thankfully, I didn't have LCS the following morning, but was able to sleep in for a 9:30 RPO rehearsal. I drove to Hochstein, parked, and sat down for rehearsal. What good would come from telling anyone about visiting the hospital the night before? We just needed to make it through another 72 hours, and then the baby could come anytime he wanted. At the rehearsal break, I checked my voicemail. Julie said it was going to happen today. Her contractions were still every five minutes apart, and they were much more intense. This time it was genuine. I reassured her I'd be home soon, and went to find the principal trumpeter. Awkwardly and apologetically, I told him I thought my wife was going into labor.
He conferenced with the personnel manager (who was also awaiting an imminent delivery from the principal bassoonist's wife) and they found another sub to put on call. I assured them that I would do everything in my power to make the concert, and they (wonderfully) assured me that family came first, and to look to my wife's interests. I drove home, picked up Julie, and drove again to the hospital and the triage room. We waited longer this time, but the news was the same. Julie was not dilating. This time we didn't linger for a second measurement, but just wanted to go home. We were both disappointed, and Julie was starting to be in considerable pain. A kind doctor wrote her a pain prescription, and we had it filled on the way home. It did some good for her, but our nerves were being worn thin.
Neither of us had slept properly for some time, and with the hubbub of the previous night we were both spent. The afternoon was spent in nervous puttering (I had called off of LCS, having thought I'd be in the hospital) and we waited for any changes in Julie's condition. Her pain medication did slightly slow the contractions, but that magical moment (the breaking of her water) still hadn't come. Early in the evening I called into the orchestra and told them I'd be at the concert. I came, I fretted, I played. Two concerts down, two to go. Still no baby.
On Saturday, 11-19, we wandered in the wilderness for 40 years. Really we just wandered about our living room, and really it was just me wandering since Julie had hurt her back earlier in the week. She tried to nap while I paced and read, and we waited, waited, waited. We both started to think about the word "induce," but held off a little longer yet. Oliver was on call for me at Gates the next morning...but I had nothing to tell him. There was still a sub lined up for RPO, but nothing to report. The evening came, and I drove in (in some early snow) for the last Philharmonics concert. Three concerts down, one to go. Still no baby.
After another sleepless night, I drove into CPC on Sunday morning, and reported to my disappointed choir that there was still no news. I drove home, and found Julie exhausted on the couch downstairs. She had been, whatever the "type," in labor since Thursday night, and her contractions continued now as fiercely as ever. The date for induction had been set at Tue. 11-22 by our personal obstetrician, but we both knew that we couldn't wait that long. Whatever we would gain by waiting for labor's natural onset would be lost by the continuing toll of the contractions. If we waited any longer, she simply wouldn't have any stamina. We called the hospital, and they told us to come in at 4 PM. My last concert was at 2. I drove in, and as I'd done all week, played with my phone on my stand. It finished at 3 PM, and I had kept all of my foolish promises.
With the Bills being manhandled by the lowly Miami Dolphins on the radio, Julie and I drove into Strong. Having caught the nursing staff on a shift change, it was about 5 PM before we were checked into our birthing room and officially initiated. (I don't think it's official until you're wearing an uncomfortable plastic bracelet.) This, we told ourselves, was it. Our son was being born today. We let our parents know, and prepared to get things started.
The nurses set up a drip and (after fussing with the very expensive looking machines) gave Julie pitocin, the "inducement" drug. It worked. On the lowest possible setting, her contractions immediately increased in frequency, intensity, and duration. We were visited by staff members, (including an ultrasound technician who gave as an ever-so-brief glimpse of a face) and given vague assurances that we could speak to an anesthetist anytime we wished. We'd decided to play the anesthesia decision by ear, and I still think Julie could have delivered without any drugs if her labor had come on more quickly. Between her exhaustion, however, and the additional intensity of the pitocin-induced contractions, we decided to ask for an epidural.
Around 10 PM an anesthetist arrived. She spoke in a thick and menacing-sounding Russian accent, but gave us nothing but encouragement. The procedure was quick and easily done, and all of a sudden Julie was a new woman. My parents stopped by to visit us, and were even kind enough to bring me dinner. (From McDonald's the only place open at such a late hour...I was that hungry.) The epidural continued its magic, and Julie was convinced she might even be able to sleep for a bit. I agreed, and made myself as comfortable as I could in the "spouse chair" next to her bed.
Here again, our stories diverge. The next thing I remember is someone saying my name and telling me that I was missing my son being born. I was, at this point, quite sleep-deprived, and I apparently went down hard when I fell asleep. Julie had also fallen asleep, but apparently woke up around 2 or 2:30 AM, and without the slightest clue as to where I was. She was positioned away from the chair where I slept, and when she couldn't crane her neck back to where I was sleeping the in the darkened room, or elicit an answer to her calling my name into the dark, she presumed that I'd stepped out for some reason. Her contractions started up quite intensely again, and then she told her nurse it was time to push.
With me still asleep, doctors and students were assembled, and the pushing phase was begun. After fifteen minutes or so, Julie asked again where I was. A student asked, "is that this guy asleep in the chair." Julie instructed that I be woken up, which I was, and in considerable confusion. I immediately leapt to my feet and had the following thoughts:
-I think I'm dreaming...Julie's asleep with the epidural, and we're still just waiting for her to reach 10 cm.
-I don't know any of the people in this room
-My stomach is reminding me why I never eat fast food
Eventually I came into consciousness and realized what was happening. Julie proved to me over the next hour that everything that's ever been assumed about men being tougher than women is nonsense. She was a heroine, and while I was queasy and near-fainting at her knee, she was, incredibly, moving our child closer and closer to life. The doctors showed me his head, and confirmed that he was "sunny-side-up," which would complicate his delivery.
They gave wonderful encouragement to Julie while she was in the midst of pushes, but then promptly demonstrated that it wasn't to be trusted when the supervisor said "Push, Julie! He's almost here!" and then turned to a colleague and remarked "Okay, looks like that woman in 17 is about to deliver. I'll be back in a bit." Julie, however, outpaced their expectations. At the critical moment, only one other doctor and myself were in the room. The others were quickly called, and we saw that the baby was about to emerge.
If you don't know what an episiotomy is, please, do not attempt to find out. I saw that a doctor was about to inflict one upon my wife, and then was when my already unsettled stomach gave out. (Disclaimer: Not that that was anything compared to what Julie was going through) Someone saw me turn white and said "Sit down, Dad, get him out of the way." I remember sitting down and holding a bowl, and as soon as I did I heard a new sound, and then excitement. I stood up, and all of a sudden there was a human being there.
I was beyond amazed. He was a real person, and he was bleating, and looking up with wide open eyes. Julie was attempting to look at him, but couldn't see, and there were several people talking to me at once. I heard someone ask, "what's his name?"
I answered "his name is James" and realized that I was sobbing. There was a pair of scissors in my hand, and I cut his cord, and then his eyes met mine. His cries were just soft mews, and someone had put a cap on his full head of dark hair. He looked like us. I could see my eyes and Julie's ears, and the shape of my face. That a baby was coming had been my all-consuming thought for the past weeks, but I was somehow completely taken by surprise that he would be a person. I held him, and Julie held him, and we loved him. A child was born to us at 4:30 that morning, and his name is James.
Monday, December 12, 2011
LCS Devotions
To many or even most of you, what I’ve brought in to speak about may be so rudimentary that it is either boring or laughable. For me, this was a revelation which re-charted my worldview quite dramatically, but for you who discovered it long ago, or perhaps even had the good fortune of never needing to “learn” the lesson at all, having grown up in nutritious soil, what I have to say may be like going back to multiplication tables. Still, if there is any one of you who has not given contemplation to this thought—and it is certainly not a sin if you haven’t—I encourage you to work out the wondrous consequences.
The truth, previously hidden from me, to which I refer, is this—that this body, according to St. Paul, these very hands and this hair and these fingernails, is in some mysterious way, headed towards immortality. Again, this would seem too obvious to merit comment, but it is a resounding note indeed to someone who, all his life, has assumed that only his disembodied consciousness was eternal, to which the body was but a temporary husk.
This all began to boil when I undertook to answer the question “What was it exactly that the first apostles brought to Asia Minor and the Mediterranean when they announced the euangelion for the very first time?” How would any of you choose to summarize the Christian gospel to those who have never even heard of it? Would you start with the Creator God, as Genesis does? Or the Ten Commandments, the natural law imprinted on the heart of humankind? Perhaps Yaweh’s dramatic actions on behalf of Israel? The foretelling and incarnation of Jesus? His moral teachings? It is certainly typical of modern evangelists to start with the actions on the cross, especially as they concern our atonement theology. All of these threads are found in the kerygma of the first apostles, but there is one idea super-eminent, to which these truths are but supporting points; important structural pieces to the central fact which the apostles made their theme to the Gentiles: The Resurrected Christ. When Paul entered the agora, before he discoursed on propitiation or justification, he announced that Jesus of Nazareth was raised from the dead. I Corinthians 15:3-4 says “for I entrusted to you in the foremost, even what I received, that the Messiah died for the sake of our sins according to the scriptures and that he was buried and that he was raised on the third day according to the scriptures.”
It is fitting here to open I Corinthians 15, Paul’s defense of and treatise on the Christian resurrection doctrines. It is often quite correctly said that the Jewish hope of the 1st century, while widely expecting a Messiah, did not expect one that would mildly dismiss their revolutionary hopes by ordering them to “render unto Caesar.” It is similarly true that the Jewish hope of the 1st century, while expecting, at least among the Pharisees, some sort of universal resurrection of the dead, did not anticipate the Messiah to be slain, and then, before the general resurrection, raised himself. This is why Paul calls him the aparche, the first-portion of the general resurrection. “For since through a man, Death, even through a man, the resurrection of the dead. For just as in Adam all died, thus even in the Messiah all will be made alive.” Jesus is therefore the archetype to which we look for our own hope, and the means by which that hope will be realized.
What can we know about our own hope? The accounts of his early appearances are certainly stranger than fiction. The Lord’s body and countenance were changed, but also recognizable. He passed through doors and over long distances in the manner of a ghost, but it is clearly recorded, in each account, that his body carried on normal functions. It could touch, be touched, and eat a piece of fish. N.T. Wright, the Anglican theologian, has suggested calling this state “transphysical”—the body which is a human body, but no longer subject to death, corruption, or apparently, some of physical laws which otherwise govern us. Our hope is our own body, but changed. Paul says “it is sown in corruption, but raised in incorruption, sown in dishonor, but raised in glory, sown in weakness, raised in might, sown a soulish body, raised a spiritual body. If there is a soulish body, there is even a spiritual, and thus it is written the first man Adam became unto a living soul, the last Adam unto a life-making spirit.”
I have neither the time nor the expertise to give a full analysis of this passage, but I ought to say that there have been some very bad mistranslations of this passage, given precedent by a liberty in the KJV for psuchikon as “natural” instead of “soulish” which has led to some confusion on what sort of hope we have. Neither was the psuche, in Paul’s language, an eternal consciousness which was merely housed in the body before its release at death, but it was rather the animating principle of a man’s “natural” and “supernatural” existence. What Paul says in these few verses is not “through Adam we exist in bodies, through Christ we will exist without bodies in heaven.” If so, he would contradict 41 preceding verses on the importance of the resurrection! Paul says through Adam we are creatures whose existence is “animated” by our own souls now…through Christ, we will be made alive by being “animated” by God’s Spirit.
What then, are we able to take from this? First, we ought to rethink our future hope, especially as it’s expressed in our hymnody. We are neither “going to a golden shore,” “escaping this world of woe” or “going to the blessed land.” A great deal of our talk about “getting to heaven” has to be rethought and reinterpreted through the resurrection of the body. It would be much more to St. Paul’s point to suggest that heaven is coming to this flesh, this hair, these kneecaps.
Secondly, we shouldn’t give any ground to the Platonic dualism in which the body/matter is evil, and the spirit is good. There are some passages in John’s writings that lean towards this, but his indictment of the flesh, or sarx, never goes so far as to say that it is irredeemable. In other words, we mustn’t think that the Messiah came only to save our souls…he came to save our lives, body and soul, and we don’t help ourselves by attempting to scapegoat the one and sever ourselves. This world, this whole cosmos, is promised a redemption/resurrection as well, and there is likewise no place in Christian political theory for writing the whole thing of as a doomed venture headed for destruction. Whatever destruction does come, there is a revivification to be had afterwards.
And lastly, the doctrine of the resurrection gives enormous dignity to what you and I are doing. You see, if the extent of our future hope is to simply exist as disembodied vapors of personality (and I realize I’m considerably underselling the reality that, even in this theory, we would be vapors in the presence of God’s throne) there would be very little point to whatever we do on this physical earth. St. Paul would suggest we ought to be pitied above all men, if there be no resurrection. D.L. Moody, laboring under this mistake, once suggested that he was aboard a sinking vessel and his task was to get as many souls into lifeboats as he could. But what if we were not only to save souls, but to salvage the ship itself? And, to extend the analogy, what if the repaired ship might some day come into harbor? If the dead are raised, let us write symphonies, let us teach children about the Pythagorean Theorem, let us read Herodotus and build universities. “Where then, O Death, is your victory, and where is your sting? But thanks be to God, who gives us victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”
Gig, Gigere, Gigi, Gigatum
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6nYa1jc5u_s
It's gig season! I'm out the door in a few minutes to an RPO Phils rehearsal, followed by wrap-ups of our run-out shows later this week, and then a week of Holiday Pops, shows for two different brass quintets, Christmas Eve services, school concerts, and did I mention I played a Messiah in Buffalo? It's great, but I miss J and the baby, not to mention the other people (mostly brothers and sisters) who I'm not seeing as much as I'd like.
...continued after gigging...
There was finally a break! Yesterday we took James out to meet Uncle Lux for the first time (also meeting his Great-Grandparents Dudley) and had dinner with the Blessed Mother and Father. Here are some of the scatteratti going on in the Smith household:
-M Laine is becoming a more and more polished artist. I watched her yesterday add watercolor to exquisitely drawn greeting cards (done freehand, no less!) and marveled at her skill.
-I'm in the mood, at a very unlikely time, for a Great Clean. I want to clean my desk at school, my choir room, our whole house (except maybe the bathroom) and both of our cars. Whence comes this impulse? I ought to act on it before it passes, but I don't know when I'll have the time.
-This is the most interesting political idea I've heard in quite some time. Perhaps some credit to Neil Postman is order, for pointing out the discrepancy?
-I'm under constant temptation to provoke my coworkers at LCS by using the term X-Mas instead of Christmas, just to see what they'll do. It really is convenient shorthand.
-I read Hofstadter's The American Political Tradition, which is probably the first American political book I've read since the Education of Henry Adams. It was excellent, especially the essays on the Founding Fathers, William Jennings Bryan, and Herbert Hoover.
-This site and this site have become daily pleasures.
-Many thanks to Pax, who filled in for me at CPC so I could play a Rutter Gloria with the RPO brass at a church in Greece.
-I gave a short devotional at LCS last Wednesday, to be published shortly...
It's gig season! I'm out the door in a few minutes to an RPO Phils rehearsal, followed by wrap-ups of our run-out shows later this week, and then a week of Holiday Pops, shows for two different brass quintets, Christmas Eve services, school concerts, and did I mention I played a Messiah in Buffalo? It's great, but I miss J and the baby, not to mention the other people (mostly brothers and sisters) who I'm not seeing as much as I'd like.
...continued after gigging...
There was finally a break! Yesterday we took James out to meet Uncle Lux for the first time (also meeting his Great-Grandparents Dudley) and had dinner with the Blessed Mother and Father. Here are some of the scatteratti going on in the Smith household:
-M Laine is becoming a more and more polished artist. I watched her yesterday add watercolor to exquisitely drawn greeting cards (done freehand, no less!) and marveled at her skill.
-I'm in the mood, at a very unlikely time, for a Great Clean. I want to clean my desk at school, my choir room, our whole house (except maybe the bathroom) and both of our cars. Whence comes this impulse? I ought to act on it before it passes, but I don't know when I'll have the time.
-This is the most interesting political idea I've heard in quite some time. Perhaps some credit to Neil Postman is order, for pointing out the discrepancy?
-I'm under constant temptation to provoke my coworkers at LCS by using the term X-Mas instead of Christmas, just to see what they'll do. It really is convenient shorthand.
-I read Hofstadter's The American Political Tradition, which is probably the first American political book I've read since the Education of Henry Adams. It was excellent, especially the essays on the Founding Fathers, William Jennings Bryan, and Herbert Hoover.
-This site and this site have become daily pleasures.
-Many thanks to Pax, who filled in for me at CPC so I could play a Rutter Gloria with the RPO brass at a church in Greece.
-I gave a short devotional at LCS last Wednesday, to be published shortly...
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