By Dr. Jeff Arthurs, PhD
Professor of Preaching & Communication and Dean of the Chapel
Have you seen the film called March of the Penguins? It is a marvelous documentary about the breeding cycle of the penguins of Antarctica. Every year they march 60 or 100 miles into the interior of that continental ice box to mate. You may have noticed that penguins are not built for marching; they waddle and squirm for all those miles. After mating, the male returns to the sea to feed, while the female produces an egg. Then the male returns to care for the egg while the female makes a dash for the coast. Daddy penguin has to hold the egg on his feet, an inch above the deadly frozen ground, and shield it with a flap of belly skin covered with warm feathers. The poor father eats nothing for months, moves no more than a few inches a day because he’s got an egg on his feet, and stands exposed to the worst weather on our planet. Then the egg hatches and the father has to care for the mindless, rambunctious, fragile chick. The weather can kill baby penguin in hours. Finally, momma comes back with a crop full of fish, and the happy family march-waddles to the sea.
So . . . if penguin fathers can be this patient and selfless, can’t I? Here’s a sonnet I wrote, a prayer, asking God to give me the patience of a penguin:
Prayer for Patience in Fathering
Lord of all, if penguins can, can’t I?—
The plodding march, the hunger, pain, and trials.
They shuffle, stand, and shield their juveniles
With only instinct, hope, and feathers dry.
If they can nurture chicks in wind and trackless
Ice with predators, besides the wild
And mindless straying of the hatchlings beguiled
By shape and sound, can’t I? Do I have less
Instinct? Less hope? And surely human brain
Can compensate for flightless feathers. Yet,
I lack the penguin’s patience, just to let
Him molt, mature, and muddle in his vein.
Help me to wait, the penguin emulate;
He knows his role, his place, Your time, time’s state.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
This Is the Day the Lord Has Made: Reflections on Palm Saturday Children’s Program at Christ Church
Dr. John Jefferson Davis, PhD
Professor of Systematic Theology and Christian Ethics
“This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” That’s the familiar text from the psalm that I often use as a sentence-prayer and focus for meditation when I am driving in the car, waiting in line, or early in the morning just after waking up. Before this morning, I had customarily used the prayer as a way of thanking God for the new day even if, as is typically the case in New England in early spring, the “day” is a dreary, overcast, cold, and rainy one – This is the day the Lord has chosen to make; might as well rejoice and be glad in it – anyway.
But this Saturday morning a new layer of meaning emerged: about 7:20 am, as I went to the kitchen to make my morning cup of coffee, looking forward to quiet hour or so of undisturbed time reading my Bible and prayer and meditation, I heard the bump-bump-bump sound of my grandchildren’s footsteps coming down the stairways from the upstairs bedroom – looking for grandpa. (They were here for a three-week visit from their home in Sonoma Valley, California.) It suddenly dawned on me that this was the day and the type of morning the Lord had planned for me; I was to have an opportunity to have “morning devotions” and “practicing the presence of God” not through reading biblical texts, but by spending time with my grandchildren Hadley and Lincoln.
My wife Robin asked me, “How would you like to take the kids this morning over to the church for the Palm Saturday children’s program that runs from 9 to 1 – games, crafts, Bible stories, and lunch?” My initial reaction was honestly a bit mixed, as I saw God rearranging my typical expectation of morning “quiet time” devotions. I said, “Sure,” and soon we had arrived at the church for a very busy and more meaningful morning than I could have planned for myself.
Gifts Differing:
We went into the beautiful Christ Church chapel with its lovely stained-glass windows and English country church architecture, and the 35 or so kids – aged 2 to about 7, I suppose – sat more or less quietly on the floor while Betsy Retallack charmed them with songs and choruses on her guitar and bongo drum, after which Andrea Kelly held their attention for an amazing ten minutes with a flannel-graph story about the events of Holy Week. As I saw this I said to myself, “I could never do this – I am so glad that God has gifted these women so clearly for the children’s ministry they are doing.” Jesus had said, “Let the little children come to me, and forbid them not” – but how often do we (male) “ministers” not give serious attention and thought to such ministries aimed at the very young. “How important it is,” I mused, “to give the kids a positive impression of church and the faith when ‘the brick is still soft.’”
Low Tech, High Tech:
By the way, don’t let the reference to “flannel graph” put you off – this “low tech” approach to Bible teaching was more effective than any Powerpoint or video presentation I could imagine. The simple but artistically well-done figures appealed to the children’s imagination in a way that the more “literal” character of other media could not. In the media-saturated and over-stimulated environment in which our children are growing up, sometimes “less is more” and “low tech” can be better than “high tech.” It was a good reminder to be more attentive to the types of technology that we use in the church.
Fly on the Wall:
The program continued in the church hall: craft tables with Palm Sunday “icons” painted on wood; crosses weaved from palm branches; decorated candles for Holy Week; Bible stories from Holy Week acted out – real foot-washing by the kids, for example – snacks, games, and finally lunch. I enjoyed being a “fly on the wall” and grandparent and helper, rather than “seminary professor”. “Jack,” said Jennifer, who was doing the story, could you get me a pan of warm water for the foot washing? This one is a bit too cold for the kids.” “Sure,” I said, and Jack ran off to the kitchen to fetch a pan of water.
So my alternative “morning devotions” continued, but in a different and really more meaningful way that morning. Even as Jennifer retold the familiar story of Jesus’s cry of dereliction from the cross – “My God, my God – Why have you forsaken me” – and said, “For the first time in his life Jesus felt separated from his Father” – that profound statement struck me with new force. “Morning devotions” had “happened” again.
It occurred to me as the morning went on that every seminarian and pastor should take the time to be a “fly on the wall” in his or her own church, observing as a helper or parent every aspect of the life of the church, from the crib nursery to youth group to children’s ministries – from “A to Z”, so to speak. It just might turn out to be more valuable spiritually and professionally in the long run than that morning cup of coffee and “quiet time” that you had planned.
“This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice in it.”
Palm Saturday, April 4, 2009
Professor of Systematic Theology and Christian Ethics
“This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” That’s the familiar text from the psalm that I often use as a sentence-prayer and focus for meditation when I am driving in the car, waiting in line, or early in the morning just after waking up. Before this morning, I had customarily used the prayer as a way of thanking God for the new day even if, as is typically the case in New England in early spring, the “day” is a dreary, overcast, cold, and rainy one – This is the day the Lord has chosen to make; might as well rejoice and be glad in it – anyway.
But this Saturday morning a new layer of meaning emerged: about 7:20 am, as I went to the kitchen to make my morning cup of coffee, looking forward to quiet hour or so of undisturbed time reading my Bible and prayer and meditation, I heard the bump-bump-bump sound of my grandchildren’s footsteps coming down the stairways from the upstairs bedroom – looking for grandpa. (They were here for a three-week visit from their home in Sonoma Valley, California.) It suddenly dawned on me that this was the day and the type of morning the Lord had planned for me; I was to have an opportunity to have “morning devotions” and “practicing the presence of God” not through reading biblical texts, but by spending time with my grandchildren Hadley and Lincoln.
My wife Robin asked me, “How would you like to take the kids this morning over to the church for the Palm Saturday children’s program that runs from 9 to 1 – games, crafts, Bible stories, and lunch?” My initial reaction was honestly a bit mixed, as I saw God rearranging my typical expectation of morning “quiet time” devotions. I said, “Sure,” and soon we had arrived at the church for a very busy and more meaningful morning than I could have planned for myself.
Gifts Differing:
We went into the beautiful Christ Church chapel with its lovely stained-glass windows and English country church architecture, and the 35 or so kids – aged 2 to about 7, I suppose – sat more or less quietly on the floor while Betsy Retallack charmed them with songs and choruses on her guitar and bongo drum, after which Andrea Kelly held their attention for an amazing ten minutes with a flannel-graph story about the events of Holy Week. As I saw this I said to myself, “I could never do this – I am so glad that God has gifted these women so clearly for the children’s ministry they are doing.” Jesus had said, “Let the little children come to me, and forbid them not” – but how often do we (male) “ministers” not give serious attention and thought to such ministries aimed at the very young. “How important it is,” I mused, “to give the kids a positive impression of church and the faith when ‘the brick is still soft.’”
Low Tech, High Tech:
By the way, don’t let the reference to “flannel graph” put you off – this “low tech” approach to Bible teaching was more effective than any Powerpoint or video presentation I could imagine. The simple but artistically well-done figures appealed to the children’s imagination in a way that the more “literal” character of other media could not. In the media-saturated and over-stimulated environment in which our children are growing up, sometimes “less is more” and “low tech” can be better than “high tech.” It was a good reminder to be more attentive to the types of technology that we use in the church.
Fly on the Wall:
The program continued in the church hall: craft tables with Palm Sunday “icons” painted on wood; crosses weaved from palm branches; decorated candles for Holy Week; Bible stories from Holy Week acted out – real foot-washing by the kids, for example – snacks, games, and finally lunch. I enjoyed being a “fly on the wall” and grandparent and helper, rather than “seminary professor”. “Jack,” said Jennifer, who was doing the story, could you get me a pan of warm water for the foot washing? This one is a bit too cold for the kids.” “Sure,” I said, and Jack ran off to the kitchen to fetch a pan of water.
So my alternative “morning devotions” continued, but in a different and really more meaningful way that morning. Even as Jennifer retold the familiar story of Jesus’s cry of dereliction from the cross – “My God, my God – Why have you forsaken me” – and said, “For the first time in his life Jesus felt separated from his Father” – that profound statement struck me with new force. “Morning devotions” had “happened” again.
It occurred to me as the morning went on that every seminarian and pastor should take the time to be a “fly on the wall” in his or her own church, observing as a helper or parent every aspect of the life of the church, from the crib nursery to youth group to children’s ministries – from “A to Z”, so to speak. It just might turn out to be more valuable spiritually and professionally in the long run than that morning cup of coffee and “quiet time” that you had planned.
“This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice in it.”
Palm Saturday, April 4, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Thetis and the Dishes
By Sean McDonough, PhD
Associate Professor of New Testament
Oft of an evening, as I am cleaning up after dinner, my mind turns to Thetis. She was, you may recall, the mother of Achilles who famously dipped her baby into the river Styx in the hopes of rendering him invulnerable to any weapon. She was mostly successful; but, alas, she forgot to re-dip the boy to account for the still dry heel by which she had dunked him. Achilles went on to become the most formidable warrior of the ancient world, but today we remember him more for his heel than his heroism. He was ultimately done in by the ladies’ man Paris, who hid in a bush and shot a poisoned arrow at Achilles’… Achilles Heel.
Which brings us back to the dishes. Whenever I am holding a particularly impure item – say a cutting board with raw chicken or pork on it -- I always remind myself of Thetis: I may scrub my fingers to the bone on 99 percent of the surface area, but if I don’t attend to the bit currently under my thumb, the whole enterprise will be for naught. Our family will be just as vulnerable as poor Achilles: you slice some salami, and salmonella may well come along for the ride. Indeed, at times I wonder whether the whole Thetis-Achilles story first arose in the daydreaming of some mythically-inclined dishwater working away on a Grecian urn.
Now the point of all this is…that there is no point (at least not yet). Thetis and Achilles don’t really have anything to do with my doing the dishes. Now, dishwashing can be a pretty tedious business, so I don’t think anyone will call me to account for mentally riffing on themes in Greek mythology (which would include, now that I think of it, rosy-fingered Dawn – though our Dawn is blue). But neither am I about to walk into a classroom and try to argue that my plate scraping and bowl rinsing holds the key to a central motif in ancient literature.
The real problem – and the real point here – is that we often read the Bible with more or less the same hermeneutical strategy I employ with Thetis and the dishes. The contours of a story, the rhythms of a psalm, the historical exigencies of an epistle – all are quickly tossed aside in the pursuit of “what this means to me”. Scripture reading can degenerate into a spiritual Rorschach test: what matters is not the apparently random blots of ink on the page in front of me, but rather how those blots speak to my all important personal story.
Now, I am hardly against a deeply personal application of the biblical text – provided it an application of the biblical text. When Jesus says we should love our neighbor, I need to go and love my neighbor. Even an ancient story of a bitter prophet complaining that God hasn’t wiped out his enemies according to plan (post-whale Jonah) is meant to inform my understanding of how God regards the world and how I should do so in turn. But we need to respect the people to whom God first made the revelation.
One final image: God in providing us with the Scriptural witness has, as it were, sent us off to explore the rich biology of a vernal pool. But we become so enraptured by our own image reflecting off the surface of the pond that we completely forget about probing the depths beneath.
Wake up, Narcissus.
Associate Professor of New Testament
Oft of an evening, as I am cleaning up after dinner, my mind turns to Thetis. She was, you may recall, the mother of Achilles who famously dipped her baby into the river Styx in the hopes of rendering him invulnerable to any weapon. She was mostly successful; but, alas, she forgot to re-dip the boy to account for the still dry heel by which she had dunked him. Achilles went on to become the most formidable warrior of the ancient world, but today we remember him more for his heel than his heroism. He was ultimately done in by the ladies’ man Paris, who hid in a bush and shot a poisoned arrow at Achilles’… Achilles Heel.
Which brings us back to the dishes. Whenever I am holding a particularly impure item – say a cutting board with raw chicken or pork on it -- I always remind myself of Thetis: I may scrub my fingers to the bone on 99 percent of the surface area, but if I don’t attend to the bit currently under my thumb, the whole enterprise will be for naught. Our family will be just as vulnerable as poor Achilles: you slice some salami, and salmonella may well come along for the ride. Indeed, at times I wonder whether the whole Thetis-Achilles story first arose in the daydreaming of some mythically-inclined dishwater working away on a Grecian urn.
Now the point of all this is…that there is no point (at least not yet). Thetis and Achilles don’t really have anything to do with my doing the dishes. Now, dishwashing can be a pretty tedious business, so I don’t think anyone will call me to account for mentally riffing on themes in Greek mythology (which would include, now that I think of it, rosy-fingered Dawn – though our Dawn is blue). But neither am I about to walk into a classroom and try to argue that my plate scraping and bowl rinsing holds the key to a central motif in ancient literature.
The real problem – and the real point here – is that we often read the Bible with more or less the same hermeneutical strategy I employ with Thetis and the dishes. The contours of a story, the rhythms of a psalm, the historical exigencies of an epistle – all are quickly tossed aside in the pursuit of “what this means to me”. Scripture reading can degenerate into a spiritual Rorschach test: what matters is not the apparently random blots of ink on the page in front of me, but rather how those blots speak to my all important personal story.
Now, I am hardly against a deeply personal application of the biblical text – provided it an application of the biblical text. When Jesus says we should love our neighbor, I need to go and love my neighbor. Even an ancient story of a bitter prophet complaining that God hasn’t wiped out his enemies according to plan (post-whale Jonah) is meant to inform my understanding of how God regards the world and how I should do so in turn. But we need to respect the people to whom God first made the revelation.
One final image: God in providing us with the Scriptural witness has, as it were, sent us off to explore the rich biology of a vernal pool. But we become so enraptured by our own image reflecting off the surface of the pond that we completely forget about probing the depths beneath.
Wake up, Narcissus.
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