December Faculty Forum

By Sean McDonough, PhD
Associate Professor of New Testament

It’s always a dangerous thing to think when you are preaching. You start wondering why the guy in the fourth pew is staring out the window, or whether you have sufficient time to include the illustration about illuminated medieval manuscript, and suddenly you have no idea what you are actually saying at that moment. What’s even worse is the ensuing awareness of your dissociation: how is it that I’m talking and at the same time I’m aware I’m talking? How many “I”’s can there be?

I was reminded of this as I looked out my window at the bare branches of the winter trees outside my office. A few years ago I was preaching in a hall with large windows in the back, looking out on the same bleak tree-scape that greets me this morning. And as I was (at least supposed to be) teaching, I was struck by how human those particular trees were looking that day.

I had been set up for such arboreal anthropomorphizing for a long while. If the Wizard of Oz’ witch and winged monkeys set the standard for childhood terror, the malicious apple-flinging trees of the same film weren’t far behind. On the positive side of the ledger, I have always thought Tolkien’s Ents are just about the best thing Middle-Earth has to offer, hoom, hoom. I am one of the few people who thought the Two Towers film could have been vastly improved with a few more hours of Entmoot-musings from Treebead and his companions. I grew up on an acre of land that was almost entirely covered with tall pines, and spent much of my youth wandering through the woods down the road.

But what I saw that day, and this, was not simply the generic human-ness of trunks and boughs. These trees, it seemed, were doing something quite specific – stretching out their bare branches to the grey skies, crying out to God for the renewal of Spring, calling out for their own annual resurrection.

In the bleak mid-winter, on the cusp of Christmas, in the bareness and brokenness of our own lives, may we go and do likewise.

Something about the Sea

By Sean McDonough, PhD
Associate Professor of New Testament

I have never lived far from the ocean. Even if the busyness of life keeps me from heading to the sea, it is a comfort to know that it is out there close in its grey infinitude. You don’t need to press your ear against a sea shell to hear its voice beckoning. The sound of the waves goes well beyond earshot.

What is the ocean’s allure? Personal history of course plays a part. If half my childhood summers were wasted in the slough of despond that is 1970’s television (“Joker, joker…and a triple!”; “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!”), the rest were spent on the beaches of Duxbury, MA. There was plenty of opportunity to think as you walked to Duxbury Beach from the mainland, across what was said to be the longest wooden bridge in America; or as you walked down its six miles of sand. From the prospect of high waves to ride in youth to the reality of broken romances in adolescence, the ocean was the backdrop for much of my life. All of this clings to your mind as determinedly as the sea salt once stuck to your skin.

On a more philosophical level, the sea side incarnates the tension of land and liquidity, changelessness and change. The shore may erode through the slow decades, the sea may explode in hurricane force, but the shore is still the shore and the sea is still the sea. The marriage endures through the storms. Yet the sea is always shifting: changing color, changing shape, changing depth. A friend of mine admitted that he was reluctant to move to St. Andrews in Scotland because living by the sea would be so monotonous. He happily discovered how wrong he had been. The Greeks said you can’t step into the same river twice; the same could be said of seeing the sea. For the land-loving Israelite, such shape-shifting made the sea a ready image of the chaos that always threaten to engulf the world (Daniel 7, Revelation 21:1). But even they knew that down deep it was the magnificent handiwork of the living God, and even the dread Leviathan was just a (Ps. 104:24-26).

The sea is also the great repository of memory, a magnet for musings. Dylan Thomas writes in the beginning of “A Child’s Christmas in Wales”, “All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves.” It is a great gray slate waiting for you to scratch your thoughts on its surface. There is no therapy quite so satisfying as simply spinning your shredded soul into the forgetfulness of the deep. Not for nothing did God promise that he would cast our sins into the depth of the sea (Micah 7:19); there they can be drowned as dead as Pharaoh.

And so the sea’s highest call is to remind us of God: beautiful in his simplicity, ferocious in his wrath, unfathomable in the depths of his sin-swallowing grace.

The Graced Wenham Swamp

By Sean McDonough, PhD
Associate Professor of New Testament

A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of canoeing on (and briefly in) the Ipswich River. I have caught glimpses of the river as I have driven about the North Shore, but that is a very different thing from snaking through its length – it is a bit like looking at faucets and sinks with no sense of the pipes behind the walls.

The highlight of the trip was spending the night in the midst of the Great Wenham Swamp, an entity I had known up to this point only as a Great White Space with intermittent green brushstrokes on the town map. Here, just a few miles from GCTS, I felt I was in the New England equivalent of the Atchafalaya Basin or the Everglades – no alligators or poisonous snakes (though the mosquitoes did their level best to fill the “threatening animals” category), but plenty of water, plenty of wildness…and most importantly, plenty of birds.

I had been a low-level birdwatcher in the days before the flood of work and family commitments swallowed up the discretionary time necessary for standing around in the woods and waiting for things to turn up. My sightings were mostly happenstansical. I sat by the pond at the end of the road of our house in Duxbury and looked up to see inches away a Cedar Waxwing, with its sublime coloring and its punk-rock-sunglasses eyeband. I almost literally stumbled upon a brilliant blue Indigo Bunting on a path just off Route 20 in Waltham. I was astounded by the size of the wings and the bright red head of a Pileated Woodpecker I spotted while wandering in the woods at a church picnic in Townsend. A friend at work gave me a copy of Birds of North America and I was hooked, (or netted, as the case may be).

But that was long ago. I am now restricted to what flutters into our suburban neighborhood – the usual assortment of sparrows and crows, with the occasional cardinal or goldfinch to brighten things up. Even here, of course, strange and wonderful things can pop up – a pair of wood ducks alighted on our neighbors’ tree one morning a few weeks ago. I didn’t know they were wood ducks right away, but a google search of “ducks in trees white bands on head” kept turning up “wood duck” in response, and I had the diagnosis confirmed by Rick, a friend of mine who actually knows what he is doing in the ornithological realm.

He was in fact there with me in the Great Wenham Swamp. He showed me a few of the wood ducks flying past our little island hideaway, along with a Baltimore Oriole; my delight at the brilliance of its plumage (viewed through high quality binoculars) was matched only by my delight at the fact that it looked exactly like the picture of the oriole that adorns the Hamilton- Wenham Little Leaguers’ caps. While Rick describes himself as only a moderate birder, he was able to identify birds by calls and flight with remarkable ease.

It struck me then, as it has struck me before, how the experience of birdwatching reflects so closely the experience of God’s grace .(It also is an experience of grace, of course, if you appreciate birds). You can put yourself in a position to see certain birds if you choose the right time of day and the right setting, and if you keep your eyes and ears open…but you can’t make them come. They come when they want. In the same way, the gift of God’s grace will come and go as he pleases. But by patient attendance on his Word and consistent fellowship with his people, we can be in a position where the likelihood of finding his grace increases exponentially. But it is never under our control -- which is just as well. Wood ducks will very occasionally pop up on suburban streets; and the grace of God will sometimes appear where you least expect it.