Monthly Archives: April 2007

Thoughts on "Secrets of the Dead"

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I’m always hopeful that TV programs will get at least some of the story right. I watched PBS’s “Secrets of the Dead” tonight, which told a story of the English Bible from the 14th century to the present. There was a great deal of oversimplification and some occasional howlers. I grant that it is exceedingly difficult to tell a complex story in an hour of television, but one would hope that the overarching narrative would be accurate. The film mentioned the importance of a Greek edition and new Latin translation of the New Testament that was published in 1516, but neglected to mention the name of the man responsible for that work, which became the foundation of every translation of the Bible into vernacular languages in the sixteenth century, and also the foundation of modern textual criticism. He was Erasmus of Rotterdam. The other grave error was the implication in the film that the English translations of the Bible in the 1530s empowered the laity to reject the Catholic Church and press for reform. In fact, the opposite was true. The English Reformation, we now know, was largely a product of a fairly small number of reformers and supporters, who for a time provided Henry VIII with cover to promote his own interests (the divorce from Catherine of Aragon, consolidation of power, and economic gain). Reform was largely unpopular and indeed there was violent resistance in the 1530s. England became a “Protestant” nation only midway through Elizabeth’s reign, say the 1580s.

The documentary also whitewashed Thomas Cranmer’s story. It made him with Henry, largely responsible for the Reformation in England (that’s an overstatement). As Archbishop of Canterbury he played an important role. His most important legacy is the Book of Common Prayer. But he ended his life in ignominy. After Mary came to the throne in 1553 and reversed religious policy, he was arrested and forced to recant. He clearly wrote and signed the papers of his recantation, but partially redeemed himself the next day, when he publicly renounced his recantation. The recantation was a public relations coup for the Catholics, and it was only through the Protestant propaganda machine (John Foxe’s Book of Martyrs) that Cranmer came to be seen as a martyr for Protestantism. I won’t say anything about him serving as an example of waffling for later Archbishops of Canterbury.

More on Thomas and the Resurrection

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As I mentioned in my sermon yesterday, the story of Thomas is one of my favorite gospel stories. There is enough in it for several sermons. One theme on which I have been reflecting for several years is the importance of the body of the Risen Christ bearing the marks of his wounds.

The resurrection of Christ and the resurrection of the dead are both tenets of our faith; we proclaim them every time we recite the creed. But I doubt whether very many people seriously consider the theological significance of the resurrection. It is something to be believed or doubted, but not reflected on systematically. I was surprised during our discussion of the Divine Comedy of Dante this Lent when a parishioner mentioned that she had never thought about the resurrection of the body. Common beliefs tend to emphasize that when we die, our souls live on, but our bodies decompose.

Yet the resurrection of the body has been central to the Christian faith from the very beginning, and it is not just because Jesus Christ was raised from the dead. The resurrection matters because it attempts to say something crucial about what we are as human beings–not just disembodied souls, but souls and bodies united. The doctrine of the Incarnation insists that Jesus became human, he didn’t only seem to be human. Likewise, our bodies are integral parts of who we are. That’s why the resurrection matters. It proclaims that our whole selves, body and soul, make us who we are and are redeemed by Christ.

But the bodies that are (or will be) resurrected are very much our bodies. That’s why the marks of the wounds are so important. Jesus was not raised to some ideal state but showed on his resurrected body the suffering he had gone through in life. The Christian tradition has insisted that the same is true of us. Whatever makes us unique as individuals will continue to show forth in our resurrected bodies. There are significant implications to this idea. For many of us, it may be a disappointment, given the dissatisfaction we have with our bodies–our weight, our aging, our baldness. But it might also be of great comfort or great spiritual significance for some people. To see on themselves the marks of their suffering, the marks of their pain, now transfigured and glorified, might include a recognition that such suffering and pain made them who they are.

Reflections on Holy Week

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This was my first Holy Week as a priest, but my sixth since I’ve been in the ordination process and working in churches. I noticed in the days and weeks leading up to it that I was approaching Holy Week with a different frame of mind than in the past. On the liturgical side of things there was an intense bustle of activity as we tried to make sure in advance that all of the services went off without a hitch. On the personal side, I sensed a new burden. One part of being a priest is that we are partly responsible for shaping the spiritual lives of our parishioners.

I suspect that the reason I felt that burden so strongly this year was because of the role Holy Week played in my becoming an Episcopalian. I remember the awe that I experienced the first time I participated in the Triduum: the spectacle of Maundy Thursday with the stripping of the altar, the solemnity of Good Friday, and the wondrous drama of the Easter Vigil. That first experience proved to me the power of liturgical worship and exposed depths of my soul I hardly knew existed.

To participate in creating such experiences for others is humbling and challenging. At the end of Easter Sunday, I felt little more than exhaustion and relief that it was all over. Thankfully, Monday was a holiday at Furman so I could have an extra day to recover.

On pulling dandelions in Holy Week

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Nearly two years after purchasing our new home, we have finally turned our attention this spring to the lawn. Last year, we did an incredible amount of work in the yard. I made raised beds for our vegetable garden; we put in a dry creek bed to deal with drainage issues; we planted trees and lots of shrubs. But the lawn was, and remains, a mess. We weren’t even sure what kind (or kinds) of grass were planted. In any case, there was as much crabgrass and dandelions in spots as there was grass. Corrie did lots of research online and talked to people all over the country. We finally decided that we would plant some more fescue but mix it with clover. Clover stays green during drought and it also is beneficial for the soil. But what to do with the dandelions?

We didn’t act early enough to use a pre-emergent herbicide and we are trying to be as close to organic as possible, so we decided the only option was to pull them. So, for the last few days, I’ve been pulling dandelions in my free time. There is something wonderfully therapeutic for me about mindless manual labor. It gives me the opportunity to get away from the computer and from books and to think, even meditate.

We are in the midst of Holy Week, my first as an ordained priest. I have been surprised by how deeply moving it is to celebrate the Eucharist in the context of this holy time. Celebration is always awesome for me, but there is something even more significant about the words and gestures as we move toward Good Friday. I find myself caught up in the experience, caught up in the language and emotions of this week. The hymns on Sunday took me even further. First we sang “Were You there” a capella, which always evokes the Mennonite Church services of my childhood and youth. Then, as our concluding hymn, we sang Johann Herrmann’s beautiful, “Ah, Holy Jesus.”

Those hymns were in my mind as I pulled weeds yesterday afternoon. It is a mundane, homey, gesture in the midst of these deeply meaningful days, but a gesture that has its own significance. One of the puzzles as a person deeply involved in the ritual life of the Church is the odd juxtaposition of the sacred and the ordinary. It can be amusing when we continue celebrating the twelve days of Christmas long after most people have taken down their decorations. It can also be jarring, even offensive. I remember once in Sewanee returning home after the Good Friday procession to hear the frat boys next door playing rock music. We live in between the sacred and the ordinary and we do well to practice those disciplines that allow us to see the sacred in the ordinary. Like pulling dandelions, I suppose.