vitalwholeness

Biblical Scholar Jennifer Wright (Boston) has put together the guiding work for everything sexual and Biblical. In her Unprotected Texts: The Bible’s Surprising Contradictions about Sex and Desire (HarperOne, 2011) Wright assembles a comprehensive portrait of sexual theologies, mores and practices spanning an enormous chunk of Biblical time. It is absolutely solid from a scholarly point of view. She is plain spoken. And she brings to the foreground ancient ways of understanding that lead to many surprising prescriptions.

Bottom line: It’s not that simple. The Bible is not that simple. And sex in the Bible is not that simple.

Second bottom line: There is no Biblical sexuality. There are sexualities.

Third bottom line: What passes for absolute pronouncements on sexuality from the Bible are very often neither absolute nor Biblical.

Back to angels. One fascinating chapter deals with a common theme that is found throughout the Hebrew scriptures, one that makes a few cameo appearances among the New Testament writers: Angels, humans and sex. This is, by the way, the source of many of those “they weren’t really angels but rather aliens” fanciful documentaries.

The most famous passages are found in Genesis, before the flood, when the sons of God (angels) became intimate with the daughters of men (humans). The angels impregnated the human women who bore hybrids called the “nephalim.” These mythical creatures were found in the land, great heroes and eventually ones repugnant to God. This, it was thought, introduced evil and sin into the world.

This also shows up in the character of Enoch (I Enoch)  and the source book upon which it was based, the Book of Watchers. The Watchers were the fallen angels who were leering at mortal beauties.  You are to beware of them, these stalkers, and covering the head and other concealment would be a good starting place. Nothing good ever comes of this divine/human commerce, so avoid it.

So the fallen angels improperly cross barriers, but so do humans. The case in point are the residents of Sodom who, when angels visit Lot and ask for hospitality, demand that the angels be given to them to “know them,” i.e., have sex with them. The sin of Sodom has nothing to do with homosexuality (as the word sodomy developed in popular usage) but rather crossing the line with angels. And Sodom goes up in a blaze of sulfuric smoke because raping angels is a bad idea, and humans and angels are just supposed to stay in their respective places.

There are several subtexts that help make sense of all this, even if you interpret all this mythologically.

The first is that ancient Semites believed that it was dangerous to mix things that are meant to stay differentiated. That would include angels and humans, but also Jews and Gentiles, humans and animals, etc. The second has to do with holiness; the divine presence is dangerous, like high voltage electricity. You can turn on a light bulb, but best not stick your finger directly into the socket.

So what would be a way for moderns to interpret all this today? Angels, sex with angels, children by angels, Watchers, boundary issues with angels? Hmm. Maybe “ancient aliens” would be the easier route! But something does come to mind.

One of the markers of psychic/spiritual/emotional health is the balance that is maintained between one’s conscious life – the ego, deciding, sensory perception – and subconscious/mystical/noetic experience. In many forms of psychosis the perceiving self is drowning in the subconscious contents, overwhelmed by the flood of it all. Reality becomes blurred. They interpret the external world through the lens of these irrational contents, they are “out of touch” with external reality. A balanced personality maintains a connection to both – the perceiving ego and the subconscious depths. One chooses to swim in those depths, to wade in, but knows there is a difference.

If we might compare “angels” to the divine aspects of the depth of every soul or heart, and “humans” to the perceiving conscious ego, one must not have “sex” with angels and lose awareness of that boundary between the two. I have an unconscious, I have a spiritual life, but I know that I am finite, mortal and limited. I know that I have a body. I know I’m dying some day, not immortal.

It could be, in a modern sense, that this is the source of the warning about getting too close; to not lose yourself in something way too big. On the other hand, we long for that divine holiness. It is mediated in different ways to us and we participate in it. But we are not one and the same with it. Grandiose people cross that line and don’t know the difference.

So, next time you meet an angel, have a conversation, by all means. But don’t have sex. It’s just a bad idea.

Comment of one soul flowing into one of our several Christmas eve services: “Just doesn’t seem like Christmas.” And then just before finding his seat, a followup comment. “Maybe too much football; must be missing the spirit of the day.”  Mmmm.

Then, the mentally challenged middle-aged adult who had never been to a Christmas eve service before: “I came to the first service, but I’m coming to the next one. I can’t get enough of this. What is it?” When he held his candle high during Silent Night, his shining eyes scanned the room of light as a child. Becoming what you need to become to enter that kingdom.

Paradise lost … and found.

On a side track: KFUO out of St. Louis, the only fully classic station in that city, was sold. Praised be the technology gods, it is now live streaming. So just go to http://www.classic99.com and click on to listen. And there is an app for your iPhone, too: KFUO. It’s free, too.

And finally, a meditation for Christmas Day:

The late Quaker mystic, Howard Thurman, penned one of my very favorite poems and it is called, The Work of Christmas:

When the song of the angels is stilled
When the kings and the princes are home
When the shepherds are back with their flocks
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost
To feed the hungry
To release the prisoner
To rebuild the nations
To bring peace among the family
To make music in the heart

What I love about this poem is the way it portrays us as left with the aftermath of a party; the last person has put on their coat, waved goodbye and pulled out of the driveway. Then the door latches and we scan the living room to see what has to be done:

There are dishes to be cleared, trash taken out, and folding chairs to put back in the garage. There are thank you notes to send. We need to clean up the spill in the kitchen. And then lock the doors, turn off the lights and make sure the cat has food and water. We make a mental note of what we need to do tomorrow because it will be here before we know it.

So often the real work begins after the party, life takes place after the celebration.

So in a very real sense, the work of Christmas begins after everyone has gone home – angels, shepherds, and wise men. And what to do? Now that’s very interesting.

Birthdays take place because there is a life to celebrate in the first place, and the only reason to have Christmas at all is because of what the life and words of Jesus signaled, came to represent. It’s his life that makes his birth worth singing about. Absent that understanding Christmas is a charmed day, Winter Solstice. Most people who rush the malls to fuel our ailing economy aren’t thinking about the way of Jesus. In fact, I think it perfectly fair and honest to say that the majority of those going through the motions of Christmas absolutely hate a preponderance of what Jesus actually has to say, if they knew what that was in the first place. Happy Birthday, whoever you are, whatever you did and thought and said and why, you abstract concept, you!

So when we talk about the work of Christmas what we’re really talking about is the work of Jesus and how our lives fit with that, if they do. Baby Jesus grows up, after all. And, as faith goes, we have to as well.

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, said Jesus, quoting Isaiah, to bring good news to the poor, the recovery of sight to the blind … (Lk 4) …to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord. He’s proclaiming Jubilee, the grand start over of God, the forgiveness of debts, the canceling of the impossible yoke.

So one day, after we take down the tree, put away the ornaments, and finish off the last bit of Christmas candy we walk through the living room and Jesus is sitting there. This isn’t the baby Jesus or even the grown up one. This is the resurrected one, the one who lives at the right hand of God, in the world, through the faith of those who hold him. And this Jesus says,

“Thought you put me away for another year, didn’t you?”

“I kind of did.”

“It doesn’t really work that way.”

“No?”

“No, you put away the party but I stick around.”

“Well, what do we do with you?”

“You can’t put me away like the nativity set. I’m not one of those little figurines.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Of course, it’s just a symbol.”

“Out of sight, out of mind…”

“Ok, what’s your point?”

“You like to take me out at Christmas because you like to think you can control me, establish some healthy boundaries with me, take me out and then put me away.”

“Moderation in all things. I don’t want to get too extreme.”

“Oh, believe me, you’re not.”

“So if I keep you out all year what can I expect?”

“You can expect that Christmas isn’t a day, it’s a state of mind and heart. The day just reminds you of what I am and what you could be all the time.”

“Ok, I’ll try.”

“Good for you. If you don’t mind I’ll just hang out in your living room. Nice flat screen.”

“Suit yourself.”

So Jesus made himself at home. And from the next room he called, “Hey, where do you keep the remote?”

Matthew  1:18-25

The Gospel of Luke gets top billing at Christmas time. And no wonder, it has all the cool stuff; everything leading up to Jesus’ birth, the angels singing their lungs out, Mary and Elizabeth having lots of girlfriend time with their pregnancies. Most of the Advent and Christmas carol texts we have come out of the Lukan tradition. It’s one long lullaby, Luke’s story is, and sung in the feminine voice.

Matthew is a different story. The Lion of Judah has a lot of testosterone. If Joseph was ignored and given a bit part in Luke, he’s pushed into a leading role in Matthew. In fact the way Matthew gets to Jesus is through his father’s angst about the condition of his young pregnant wife, for which he could boast no responsibility. The gospel dances all around this issue, even liberally borrowing a text from Isaiah and changing what was simply “young woman” into “virgin.” A young woman shall conceive is changed into a virgin shall conceive and be called Emmanuel.

All of this is tough stuff and messy. And Matthew lets us on the inside of young Joseph’s troubled head, his worry and confusion, his troubled dreams. He’s dealing with personal and social disgrace and doesn’t know what to do. According to Mozaic law he can quietly divorce her and send her back home, which might be the simplest and most compassionate thing; no public shaming, just cutting our losses and moving on.

You and I think that dreams are interesting, perhaps disclosing the repressed aspects of the subconscious. Let’s have a dream interpretation group. But the ancients had a more exalted understanding of dreams: They were the province of the divine communication. Through the Biblical narratives you find one dream after another, always revealing important information to the dreamer. And there is no firm line of demarcation between dreams and visions, waking or sleeping. Angel visitants can come to both. We might say, “I don’t know whether I was awake or asleep.” To the ancients it didn’t matter. God showed up either way.

All of this is a great comfort to preachers as they look out and see some of the flock dozing during the sermon. Ah, God is coming to them in a dream!

Joseph has descended into the darkness of his own dreams, a sweaty, fitful, troubled sleep. And there in the midst of his consternation something from the other side of the veil of consciousness appears. And the murky, holy presence tells him things that would be impossible in the daylight: Don’t be afraid. God is using what looks like an impossible mess for good. Stay the course with her and it will turn out as it should.

Can you believe it? Well, that was enough for Joseph who did stay with Mary, protecting her and the new baby from the craziness of King Herod by sporting them off to Egypt, returning to Nazareth only later after crazy king had died.

It occurs to me that most of life comes at us in the form of an impossible mess. Oh, we try to tend it with our own machinations, improvising as we go. But sometimes the mess is just too messy. We descend into troubled sleep, tossing and turning, waiting for dawn, fearing dawn to come because we might awaken to something just like yesterday, and the day before it. Messy, with no clear solution in sight.

My experience and maybe yours as well, is that the most important things in life often come to us when we are most vulnerable, on the edge, tossing and turning in our sleep. When all the balls are in the air a mysterious presence may knock them to the ground or insert another unexpected one that changes everything. It isn’t that things get un-messy; they usually don’t. What happens is what happened to Joseph, the word from beyond us snatches away our fear and reassures us that, in the end, good will come out of what appears to be hopeless: Do not be afraid, Joseph. Out of the mess will come a future that needs to be.

And maybe that’s where you are in your life, not exactly in the same place as Joseph, but close enough. There is so much unresolved. You’re not exactly sure what way to turn. It’s messy.

If so, or if you’ve been there or will be there, do not be afraid. And why? Because God creates, brings forth the future out of that mess. It may not be what you expected, or desired, or planned, but that is beside the point. Life pays a visit on us like the delivery guy tossing the television over the fence onto our front porch. It’s here so now what?

What I want to share with you tonight is that the mystery of life is so much more than we imagined it to be. Our story line is thicker, messier, harder and richer than expected. And out of it comes what needs to come. For Joseph and his untenable situation it was a Jesus. For you and me it will be other things, and maybe even, in small measure, a tiny role in God’s purposes in this tiny little breath of time walking around on this planet.

I think one of the reasons we are often left speechless on Christmas eve, and other times when light shines in the winter darkness, is that we are awe struck with the beauty and power that springs upon us at unlikely moments.

Who cannot be struck to silence at the simple but profound thought that the sacred fabric of the cosmos is focused like a laser ray in one time and place, in one baby and family, among one family and people, so that, beyond every wildest imagination the curtain could be pulled back in one dramatic tug? And against every resistance of ego or pride we get a glimpse of that mystery, see ourselves for who we really are and drop to the knees of the heart and mutter prayers of thanksgiving?

One time Helmut Thielicke told about a photograph that stands on a bookshelf facing his desk. It is plain, has no value as a work of art, yet year after year it comes out at Christmas. It is simply a picture of a Christmas play. It is obvious that it is not a professional group. The most elaborate costuming consists of several terry cloth bathrobes. One sees a large group of mostly younger men of various races walking with candles to an altar. Other men cower at the altar with great fright. The intention is clear: a white robed figure is an angel and the cowering men at the altar have just received its message.

People come in, pick up the picture, and ask about it. Usually they are struck by the gripping expressions on their faces. Each one of the performers is totally involved. Some people guess that these people come from a drama group from a church or maybe from a nearby college.

“The people,” Thielicke tells his inquirers, “are indeed caught up in the Christmas mystery. As you can see, they have taken it to heart. But this is no Christian men’s group or college drama troupe. It is a photograph of the Christmas celebration at a prison. See the young man? He killed a friend in a fight over a wristwatch. Year after year he is given the same part. He kneels before the manger and says, ‘I lay in fetters groaning … you come to set me free.’”

Whatever fetters hold you, or me, or this planet in a troubled sleep, whatever messiness surrounds you or those you love or care about, whatever confounding circumstances surround your life, be not afraid.

Bow before the Christmas mystery and listen to the echoes within your dreams. For all is well and all shall be well. And the flash in the sky you see against a pallet of a billion stars is called Emmanuel, which means God with us. And surely, most surely, he is.

Kathy and I just returned from the annual Christmas concert of the Bach Society in St. Louis. The event is always at Powell Hall and the spectacular chorus is joined by members of the St. Louis Symphony. To hear the SLS is to know why they are a world class symphony, rubbing shoulders with the likes of Boston, Los angeles, Philadelphia, Dallas and Chicago. Some years ago I had the pleasure of singing a season with the Bach Society of St. Louis. You can hardly beat it.

One of the special treats of the evening was the singing of guest soprano soloist and friend, Mary Wilson. When I served the Webster Groves Christian Church in St. Louis Mary’s husband, Todd, was our choirmaster. It was a pleasure to have a pro like Mary among the humble ranks of our choir when she was not on the road, concertizing somewhere. Eventually Todd and Mary moved to Memphis where Todd is the Music director of a large Methodist church. All Mary needs is  to be close to an airport.

The morning after the concert we had coffee and bagels with Todd and Mary and talked about life. Like the rest of us Todd is facing Christmas Eve on Saturday night, immediately followed by Christmas Day on Sunday(!). In addition to future tours, Mary is looking forward to an exciting forthcoming project – recording a CD with the renowned American Bach Soloists ensemble and chamber orchestra. They do the Messiah like nobody I’ve ever heard, live or recorded.

I left Powell Hall that night satisfied with my Christmas fix and more than a little nostalgic for that particular charmed place. We bumped into old friends who were there for the same reason. But I also observed something interesting in myself.

I like good concerts. I like concerts presented by fine groups in special places. When the sacred repertoire, even holiday fare, is presented flawlessly I applaud with genuine appreciation. When performed in the concert hall it is a good presentation, a production, a show. But when the same thing is offered in a different place, in the cathedral, the church, or sanctuary, not as a performance but as an act of worship, then the sound is different, as are the hearts that receive it. Sacred music offered for sacred purposes lifts the heart in adoration and praise, fills us with glimpses of eternity, and bathes our time-crusted hearts with glory. And the reason it is different is because musicians and listeners alike come with different intentions.

That is really the best argument against applause following music in public worship. It’s not that I abhor the expression of thanksgiving in that or any other way. Rather, it is because in our performance driven culture the things we offer to God all too easily lapse into entertainment. It’s a fine line, I know. But it’s a precarious one. And to know the difference between the stage and the chancel is the beginning of wisdom.

At Powell Hall we had a big candle lit procession, with choirs and instruments. We sang Silent Night. It was moving and I appreciated it. With everyone else I applauded at the end. But my heart did not draw nearer to God, except in an abstract way, knowing this cultural celebration is about the birth of Christ.

This Christmas Eve, however, I will gather as I have for decades now, surrounded by hundreds of souls who have dragged in for a variety of motives. Some will be there because they have to, because they are expected to join the family. Others will be searching for something they can’t even name. And still others will somehow be transfixed by the Christmas mystery. We will creep in out of the cold into creaky pews, surrounded by candlelight that glows differently than in the concert hall. We will sing Silent Night, but it will sound different than the stage version. And as a grace the strains of music and prayer and liturgy will draw us upward, like sparks flying to the winter sky.

In the calendar of the Christian year this Sunday of Advent, the third of four, is given to the theme of love. As there is always more to be said than time allows, love leaves a goodly number of leftovers in its wake. One of these is from the 17th century English metaphysical poet, George Herbert. It takes a while to hear the cadence of English verse gone by, but worth the wait. Besides, who cannot give full attention to any soul that addresses Lady Love as ‘my dear?’

Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack
from my first entrance in,
drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
if I lack’d anything.

‘A guest,’ I answere’d, ‘worthy to be here’;
Love said, ‘You shall be he.’
‘I, the unkind, the ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on Thee.’
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
‘Who made the eyes but I?’

‘Truth, Lord, but I have marr’d them;
Let my shame go where it doth deserve.’
‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘who bore the blame?’
‘My dear, then I will serve.’
‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’
So I did sit and eat.

God

of the tiniest and most expansive
of the most simple and most complex
of our confusions and fleeting strains of peace:

Give us what is needed for this day
but not more than that
lest we forget our ultimate dependence
fooling ourselves

Let us offer our lives entirely
not less than that
lest we forget the reason for our birth
imagining we’ve already done our bit

If it be your will
bless us that we might abide
in a satisfied corner of life
when our work is complete
though yours never is