While the rest of the North American world is today enamored with a “holiday” (and that word may be the biggest misnomer ever) that I’m doing my absolute best to avoid, the history geek in me is reminding me that 491 years ago today, Martin Luther nailed his 95 theses to a church door in Wittenberg, Germany, and reshaped the face of the Western, Christian church.
I think I write a post like this every year, but it’s such a beautiful concept. No, not the resulting centuries of bloodshed, the bitter divide between Catholic and Protestant over who holds “exclusive rights to truth”. Not the proliferation of denominations, because once the splintering began, it was difficult to stop. (And, if you’re history geek enough to have actually studied Luther, keep in mind that he never really wanted a split from the Catholic church in the first place, but that it was something ultimately forced upon him.)
But the idea of reformation, of reform, of being re-formed – that is one that is beautiful to me.
It’s one that I need.
Re. Form. To remake. To be made new again.
To be formed speaks to me of hands of a creator. Hands gently twisting and tugging and manipulating until the result is beauty. And, when the creation becomes marred, dirtied, a re-forming. Hands again gently twisting and tugging and manipulating, repairing, until the result is beauty.
And, reforming didn’t start 491 years ago. That’s the beauty of it. Sure, for nearly 500 years we’ve been acknowledging this process of change and reformation within the church, but it’s been going on since the world began. The hands of a creator shaping and forming and re-forming. Creating beauty. Restoring marred beauty. Bringing hope and redemption.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Another Church Thought
Another thought from Henri Nouwen on church...
Focusing on the Poor
Like every human organization the Church is constantly in danger of corruption. As soon as power and wealth come to the Church, manipulation, exploitation, misuse of influence, and outright corruption are not far away.
How do we prevent corruption in the Church? The answer is clear: by focusing on the poor. The poor make the Church faithful to its vocation. When the Church is no longer a church for the poor, it loses its spiritual identity. It gets caught up in disagreements, jealousy, power games, and pettiness. Paul says, "God has composed the body so that greater dignity is given to the parts which were without it, and so that there may not be disagreements inside the body but each part may be equally concerned for all the others" (1 Corinthians 12:24-25). This is the true vision. The poor are given to the Church so that the Church as the body of Christ can be and remain a place of mutual concern, love, and peace.
Focusing on the Poor
Like every human organization the Church is constantly in danger of corruption. As soon as power and wealth come to the Church, manipulation, exploitation, misuse of influence, and outright corruption are not far away.
How do we prevent corruption in the Church? The answer is clear: by focusing on the poor. The poor make the Church faithful to its vocation. When the Church is no longer a church for the poor, it loses its spiritual identity. It gets caught up in disagreements, jealousy, power games, and pettiness. Paul says, "God has composed the body so that greater dignity is given to the parts which were without it, and so that there may not be disagreements inside the body but each part may be equally concerned for all the others" (1 Corinthians 12:24-25). This is the true vision. The poor are given to the Church so that the Church as the body of Christ can be and remain a place of mutual concern, love, and peace.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Oldest Hebrew Script Found
As a follow-up on my post earlier, this headline caught my attention:
Oldest Hebrew Script is Found
Oldest Hebrew Script is Found
Ancient City Found
This article fascinated me:
Find of Ancient City Could Alter Notions of Biblical David
Find of Ancient City Could Alter Notions of Biblical David
Speaking Silently
I’m sitting here at my desk, eating a mandarin orange, and staring at a blinking cursor, trying to find words for you. Words to share the thoughts and prayers shaping my heart this week. Words to share the deep concerns, and those things that are making me come alive with anticipation.
For someone who has shaped a life around a love of words, they’ve been hard to form lately. Hard to shape and manipulate and cause to reflect the meanings of my heart. As the places and spaces I’m occupying grow increasingly deeper, more and more I find myself unable to use the language and conventions of grammar that I’ve always known to describe these things. And I find myself wondering if perhaps a whole new language, a whole new set of words and thoughts and conventions will be formed, to again give voice to my heart.
And so, I sit here, at my desk, eating a mandarin orange.
Or I sit in my candlelit bedroom, the smell of incense or rose oil drifting through the air, and I nibble on chocolate.
Or I finger the tiny crucifix from the rosary I bought at the Vatican. Or let my fingers caress the face of Jesus – one of many charms filled with the saints, on a bracelet that is a much cherished gift from a much cherished friend.
And I find my fingers reaching for the tiny silver medallion that hangs on a delicate chain around my neck most days. The medallion with the face of St. Claire of Assisi on it. My fingers reach for it and my thoughts are drawn back to a moment of dreaming. To oil and tears mingled as the sign of the cross was traced upon my cheeks, and followed by a long and loving embrace.
It would seem, these days, that my hands, my clothing, my jewelry, my choices of food, the items on my shelves and counters and walls, and the scents I use to fill the air around me do much of my speaking. They give voice to the things that remain, for now, too deep for words. And I am seeking to rest in that. To let them speak of the peace and joy and hope I’m finding. To let them declare to the world that I am falling in love with a God who hung bleeding and broken before the world. And a God who lives and speaks and breathes life. I let these things declare that I am being wooed, that vows have been made. I let them declare a struggle to trust, and a commitment to push through. And I pray that they will speak loudly when I cannot form words, but that, one day, the words will again begin to form on my tongue and pour out of my fingertips – not in a stumbling, clumsy, child-like way, but in a deep and flowing and eloquent way that speaks of the awe I feel at being swept into this journey that encompasses thousands of years, millions of people, and ultimately brings life, hope, joy, peace and redemption.
For someone who has shaped a life around a love of words, they’ve been hard to form lately. Hard to shape and manipulate and cause to reflect the meanings of my heart. As the places and spaces I’m occupying grow increasingly deeper, more and more I find myself unable to use the language and conventions of grammar that I’ve always known to describe these things. And I find myself wondering if perhaps a whole new language, a whole new set of words and thoughts and conventions will be formed, to again give voice to my heart.
And so, I sit here, at my desk, eating a mandarin orange.
Or I sit in my candlelit bedroom, the smell of incense or rose oil drifting through the air, and I nibble on chocolate.
Or I finger the tiny crucifix from the rosary I bought at the Vatican. Or let my fingers caress the face of Jesus – one of many charms filled with the saints, on a bracelet that is a much cherished gift from a much cherished friend.
And I find my fingers reaching for the tiny silver medallion that hangs on a delicate chain around my neck most days. The medallion with the face of St. Claire of Assisi on it. My fingers reach for it and my thoughts are drawn back to a moment of dreaming. To oil and tears mingled as the sign of the cross was traced upon my cheeks, and followed by a long and loving embrace.
It would seem, these days, that my hands, my clothing, my jewelry, my choices of food, the items on my shelves and counters and walls, and the scents I use to fill the air around me do much of my speaking. They give voice to the things that remain, for now, too deep for words. And I am seeking to rest in that. To let them speak of the peace and joy and hope I’m finding. To let them declare to the world that I am falling in love with a God who hung bleeding and broken before the world. And a God who lives and speaks and breathes life. I let these things declare that I am being wooed, that vows have been made. I let them declare a struggle to trust, and a commitment to push through. And I pray that they will speak loudly when I cannot form words, but that, one day, the words will again begin to form on my tongue and pour out of my fingertips – not in a stumbling, clumsy, child-like way, but in a deep and flowing and eloquent way that speaks of the awe I feel at being swept into this journey that encompasses thousands of years, millions of people, and ultimately brings life, hope, joy, peace and redemption.
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