Up the Creek

However else one understands a doctrine of original sin (even to reject the notion), evidence abounds that humans left to themselves (“self-regulating” is the mantra) manage to muck things up rather badly. Alan Greenspan, long the undisputed oracle of all things monetary, displayed incredible naivete in his recent testimony before the House Oversight Committee. Responding to the Committee’s inquiry into the why and the wherefore of the horrendous banking meltdown, he said, “Those of us who have looked to the self-interest of lending institutions to protect shareholder’s equity (myself especially) are in a state of shocked disbelief.â�� Another bubble burst.

Well, duh. Is he really that clueless about human nature? Has he never heard of the foxes keeping watch over the henhouse? Did he learn nothing about human nature from the downfall of Enron and good Baptist deacons like Ken Lay or Bernie Ebbers? How did all these “goodness of greed” guys come out? Continue reading →

Jesus’ question to his disciples at Caesarea Philippi (“Who do you say that I am?” Matthew 16:13ff and parallels in Mark 8 and Luke 9) forms the basis of countless evangelistic sermons meant to elicit the correct response. Peter’s perception that Jesus is the awaited Messiah, God’s anointed one, drew the Teacher’s approval and blessing (only in Matthew). “Blessed are you Simon bar-Jonah. It wasn’t just good guesswork on your part. God himself revealed it to you. And there will be special honor for you in the Church I will build.”

The usual sermon on the text leads inexorably to asking the folks in the pew, “Who do YOU say that I am?” The preacher seeks agreement to the obvious answer, the confession that “Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the living God.”

Once asked and once answered, the matter seems settled, at least in the common practice in many churches. Another Christian is enrolled. Continue reading →

Mitt Romney would have us believe that he marched with Martin Luther King, Jr. Or was it his father George who marched? Maybe it happened in some virtual reality, but evidence is lacking for the real event.

I, however, can truthfully claim to have marched with the celebrated civil rights leader. It happened more than 45 years ago.
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For most of a week we have been at the Crystal Downs cottage on Lake Michigan with daughter Anne and her children Roma and Sasha. Over the weekend we entertained Anne�s friend Irina from Moscow and her teenage daughter Anya as well.

Left to ourselves we would not have done as many things or gone so many places. But Anne likes to keep moving, to say nothing of Roma. So we�ve fished, canoed, hiked, climbed Sleeping Bear Dune, visited the Cherry Republic (visas not required but VISA useful), gone swimming, eaten at A&W International Headquarters, and so on.

While weâ��ve been here, carpenters have installed new picture windows on both levels of the cottage. The original ones had served well beyond their useful life — some of the wood had rotted. The cottage is up for sale at what seems an outrageous price, in spite of which there have already been lookers. Compared to the asking price on the house next door (not the new one, but the one on the north side), it seems like a bargain.
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Today was D-Day, a time of invasion. At day’s end it is not entirely clear who or what has invaded whom or what.

My wife’s mother, my dear mother-in-law Betsy, disembarked from the house she’s lived in for more than 50 years to land at Bickford Cottage. Which is no cottage in the Up North in Michigan sense. Bickford, an assisted living facility, is as nice as one might hope, with a plenitude of amenities. The one in Midland opened a few months ago and already has a waiting list.

Preparations for invasion began yesterday when Two Men and a Truck came to the house to move bed and mattress, recliner, rocker, end tables, lamps, TV and stand, exercise bike, and a few other things. Later in the day and this morning came the moving of linens, bedding, and clothes. My wife and her sister spent an evening putting up shower curtain, stowing supplies in the cupboards and food for the dog in the closet, and finding a spot for the dog’s bed. Yes, this facility allows dogs. Lacking this liberty, there would have been no invasion.
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A newspaper columnist struggled to find something to his liking on the menu. He had waved off the waitress twice while trying to decide. On her third trip back he finally said, “What would you order?” She said, “I bring my own lunch. I’ve seen too much.”

Having lived within the church scene for my whole life, I have seen a lot, maybe too much. It’s been up close and personal. I saw pettiness and petulance in church affairs as long ago as my childhood when a bunch of folks — some of them family friends — left “our” church to form another. I’ve dealt with outright dishonesty and theft on the part of a church treasurer. Pastors, professors, denominational leaders whom I admired turned out to have moral compasses that pointed elsewhere than true north. I felt betrayed. I know what churches sometimes do to good people for the “sake of the institution.” There is no need to elaborate further. I’ve seen a lot, maybe too much. And I have not dared touch on my own long list of sins.
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Reflections on Psalm 19, the Psalter for Sunday, January 21, 2006

This Psalm speaks of sounds, voices, and words, subconscious, conscious, and conscientious. The silent thunder of the heavens proclaims God’s glory. The sky bears mute testimony to God’s works. In a peculiarly ironic, contradictory way, the Psalm struggles to find words to describe these words beyond words:

There is no speech, nor are there words; their voice is not heard; yet their voice goes out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world. (19:4,5 NRSV)

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The Gospel reading for the Second Sunday of Epiphany (January 14) is John 2:1-11, the wedding at Cana, in which Jesus spurns his mother’s appeal to rescue the situation and nevertheless saves the day anyway.

Jesus says to Mary, “Gynai, ti emoi kai soi?” — a cryptic question, literally “Woman, what to me and to you?” (rendered clumsily but probably accurately in NRSV as “Woman, what concern is that to you and to me?”). What follows immediately — “My hour has not yet come” — may shed some light on what’s going on. This encounter between son and mother could well be an adult version of the 12 year old Jesus in the temple at Jerusalem saying, “I must be about my father’s business, but you are not the one who keeps my appointment book.”

Mary, however, seems to have at least some clue about her son’s calling when, undeterred by Jesus’ offputting and maybe driven by a mother’s wish to enhance his reputation, she says to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.”
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