Faith Journey

Isn't it something that these stories matter? That my story and his story and your story intertwine and meet, and that God makes something lovely and beautiful and meaningful out of our wretched, halting words? (Renee Altson)

It does amaze me that my story matters. But maybe it's not so amazing after all, when we consider that our existences themselves are miraculous, and that by speaking to them and of them, we speak of and to the life and person God is renewing/making within us. For those of you who don't know me, my name is Olivia Butz. I'm a senior humanities major and theology minor. I'm a bit afraid, I confess, that my story may be too rough around the edges; that I haven't allowed enough space in it for the grace of God, and the love that God offers and hopes His children will accept. But I hope that in some way, my sharing this story will enable you to experience the grace and peace of the Risen Christ in the power of the Holy Spirit.

Here is the basic chronology of my story: I was born on April 26, 1989, to JoAnne Adams and Karl Butz, and became the younger sister to Vanessa Butz (Now Janes) (Cue Slide #4). I was raised in a tiny coastal california town, Half Moon Bay, a place of unusual beauty and unique tradition. I was dedicated, with my sister, to the Lord, in 1995, when I was 6, and my sister 9, in a non-denomational community church. I asked Jesus 'into my heart' in 1997, at the exhortation of my Sunday School teacher, and was eventually baptized, after a form of catechesis, in 1999/2000 (Cue Slide #5). In 2001, at the age of twelve and following my sixth grade year, my life changed drastically. After a year of separation from my father, my mother, sister, and I made the cross-country trek from California to Pennsylvania, and settled in the hamlet of State College, home to Penn State University. This radical re-shifting of relationships and locations taught me to cry out to God and to know the comfort of the Holy Spirit in a way I hadn't ever before. A member of the nazarene church I attended At this time, Patricia Lloyd, took me and a close friend under her wing, committing to eat and pray and study with us. To this day, we remain close; she is an ever faithful supporter and advocate in prayer, and constantly encourages me to probe the Scriptures and the riches of the mind, and most specifically, the knowledge of the Holy. In 2003 I Joined a ministry team, and participated on it until 2006. Along with my experience on this team, playing games and sharing faith with the youth of our nazarene district and ministering to congregations in song and skit and scripture, I excitedly explored Scripture and sought out communion with the God I was learning to trust ever more. However, Church conflict, the stress of moving locations and schools on a frequent basis, a strained relationship with my father, continued academic pressures, my typically brooding and pensive personality, and my stubborn irrational insistence that caused me to fall into a deep depression, a depression I continue to wrestle with on a day to day basis. This is such a pervasive part of my journey that I cannot help but mention it and probe its relation to my journey of faith. It is certainly not the whole of my story, but it has very much influenced the way I have interacted with our God in Christ, with fellow believers, friends, family members, and, of course, myself.

In 2007, I was accepted into Houghton and began my collegiate life that fall. What made this transition all the more terrifying and exciting was the fact that I was chosen to go to London in the spring semester of my freshman year to participate in the First Year Honors Program (Cue Slide #6). While in the program, I was challenged, really, for the first time--to love the Lord our God with all of my mind. I was pulled beyond what I thought was my academic potential and excitedly explored the bounty of art and religious history that England had to offer and that my professors so excitedly illumined for us. In the 2009-2010 academic year, as a junior, I began attending Holy Communion (in the Episcopal tradition) and mass (in the catholic tradition) on a regular Basis. This was following a challenging semester of Systematic Theology in which my theological and philosophical and biblical concerns and presuppositions were shaken, and caused me to re-evaluate what I believed the Church to be and who I believed God to be. I've remained anchored in the Christian life by participation in these traditional liturgies, and in the cries of the Psalms, and in the words of skilled poets. I've also learned, ever more and perhaps most importantly, of my fundamental inability to make myself worthy before the Lord, particularly by and because of regular participation in the Lord's Supper.

Love (III)
Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,/Guilty of dust and sin./But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack/From my first entrance in,/Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning/If I lacked anything./"A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here":/Love said, "You shall be he."/"I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,/I cannot look on thee."/"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."/So I did sit and eat.
(George Herbert)

Perhaps this is an helpful overview of my journey until now? It would be extremely challenging (and most likely tedious!) to pick apart and elucidate all of the aspects of my story. I confess, also, my fear of my ability to tell stories, themselves. My mind rapidly jumps to abstractions.

It has been, for several years now, a season of merry and desperate drought in my journey of faith (to paraphrase Singer/songwriter Vienna Teng). I have found it challenging to pray, difficult to spend any sustained length of time with and studying the word of God, and hard to move towards the Lord as much as I may be able, to reclaim my identity as that which has been buried with Christ in His death (that is, the sinful nature) and united with Him in His resurrection. But, perhaps, there is a very real sense in which I have been praying furiously all along. A blogger I follow, Sarah Clarkson (www.thoroughlyalive.com), writes that "there are times in life when fear becomes your breath, when need is an ache in your stomach, and suddenly, there are no extra words to be had for a prayer. Your whole body, the strain of mind, the ache of heart, becomes its own prayer."

Perhaps what is at the root of all of this is my inability to receive reality in all of its fullness and messiness, especially the reality of pain. As much as I have treasured my years of learning and friendship at Houghton, these years have not been easy. It is difficult in itself to be a college student, but it is especially difficult when you're not even sure, some days, that you want to get up and face the world. Jane Kenyon, a 20th century American poet, has accurately probed the experience of depression in her portrayal of the individual as: "A piece of burned meat/ [who] wears my clothes, speaks in my voice, dispatches obligations haltingly, or not at all./ It is tired of trying to be stouthearted, tired beyond measure."

It is perhaps my love for the things of the mind that has kept me here in good academic standing; it is certainly also due to the un-ending encouragements and reassurances and affirmations and prayers my friends have offered to me, and offered on my behalf. (Cue slide #7) My friends and mentors have held out faith for me; they have lived lives imbued with the grace of of the Lord Jesus Christ. Dietrich Bonhoeffer puts it like this in his 'Life Together' (I've modified a few pronouns here to better illustrate the point):[I] need [my] brother man [and sister woman] as a bearer and proclaimer of the divine word of salvation[...] The Christ in my own heart is weaker than the Christ in the word of [my] brother [or sister]; [my] own heart is uncertain; [my] brother's is sure. I would be remiss not to mention the patience with which my friends and family and Lord have had with me and to thank them for it, as I have struggled, often times slowly and awkwardly to live a life fully alive to the glory of God, one that honors the love that God offers. I hope that my experience grants me the grace to, in the words of Emily Dickinson, " measure every Grief I meet/With narrow, probing, Eyes – [to] wonder if It weighs like Mine – Or has an Easier size. (to) wonder if it hurts to live " Jane Kenyon writes that "seeking God is the first thing and the last, and in between, such trouble, and such pain."

Yet, in the midst of such trouble and such pain, I find myself ever more grateful for the beauty and strange wonder of the earth and the way in which God, in the Holy Spirit, uses His creation to bring delight and to remind those who trust in Him already, of his faithfulness, and of our great and most ultimate hope--the kind of hope that we have in Jesus, that all things shall be well in Him, and that He has promised to raise our sin-sick persons to life again. Perhaps what I'm trying to refer to is a readiness to receive reality, a reality that is laced with mystery, pain, the ordinary (in the words of Mary Oliver). Yet, as real as our sensory experience of creation is, and how it can remind us of the Lord. The most real activity and presence in our lives is that of the God in Three Persons: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. In words much more eloquent than I can seem to put together, blogger Sarah Clarkson describes this phenomenon: "His beauty reaches down to me and His love in my heart helps me to reach up and grasp it. It is that that keeps me trudging after Him every day of my life. With such a hope, I will never stop."

Sometimes I am surprised by the Holy Spirit. I have been, in so many ways, offered space and time to voice my fears and distorted (and sometimes sinful) ways of thinking and acting, and becoming assured that despite all this, I am loved; I am redeemed by the blood of Christ. This sin in my life is primarily that of an inverted, and awkward pride, a pride that discounts my fundamental dignity as made in the image of God, broken yet in the process of being transformed.

Sloth is both a part of and separate from my experience with depression. It is a challenging relationship to tease out, and one that lies somewhere between choice and paralysis. As author Kathleen Norris puts it: "The boundaries between depression and acedia (another word for sloth) are notoriously fluid; at the risk of oversimplifying, I would suggest that while depression is an illness treatable by counseling and medication, acedia is a vice that is best countered by spiritual practice and the disciplineof prayer." (Acedia and Me 3)

Sloth is a term that is probably unfamiliar with you; in any case, it's definition goes far beyond that of mere laziness. If you'll allow, I'd like to share a couple of short definitions of the term, that will hopefully illuminate this term and consider its relation to my and your journeys of faith (Continued quotation from Kathleen Norris' Acedia and Me): "It may spring from physical weariness, but ultimately it is the spiritual phenomenon of 'aversion of the appetite from its own good,' specifically an 'aversion against God himself...It is the opposite of the joy in the divine good that [we] should experience." This 'refusal of joy' is well reflected in the poetry of author Madeleine L'Engle, most well known, perhaps for her 'Wrinkle in time' series: Has joy been frozen, too?/I blow upon my hands/Stiff from the biting wind./My heart beats slow, beats slow./What has become of joy?/If joy’s gone from my heart/Then it is closed to You/Who made it, gave it life./If I protect myself/I’m hiding, Lord, from you.

"The person afflicted with acedia, even if she knows what is spiritually good for her, is tempted to deny that her inner beauty and spiritual strength are at her disposal, as gifts from God." Thomas Merton describes sloth/acedia as, "rather the sadness, the disgust with life, which comes from a much deeper source--our inability to get along with ourselves, and our disunion with God." Sloth is symptomatic of and also a cause of despair.

Robert Jenson has defined sin as despair; sin as believing God's right hand is incapable of reaching down and saving us, of lifting us up into Him and uniting us with him and bringing us into His joy. Isaiah, in chapter 61, juxtaposes praise and despair: To all who mourn in Israel, he will give beauty for ashes, joy instead of mourning, praise instead of despair. For the Lord has planted them like strong and graceful oaks for his own glory. Yes! The Lord has planted all of us, myself included, if we can accept this, as a strong and graceful oak for His glory, made strong, granted grace, made able to praise by the lord who is the help of our countenance and our primary source of hope and joy. Let us trust in this God's unfailing love, shall we?

There are many other earthly and very present sources of hope and joy in our lives, that I want to affirm as coming from God, the giver of all good things, the one who has given His self completely to us to bring us back to relationship with the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. This hope I've been speaking of is specifically rooted in the risen Christ, and is not a mere abstract future wish, though it does involve the sense and knowledge that the redemptive work of God is not yet complete.

A uthor Renee Altson believes that 'Hope is love and grace and light even in the middle of the shadow of death. ' Hope is clinging to the resurrection of Christ Jesus our Lord, and a trust that this God-Man is really good, beyond all measure, and that He will complete and heal all when He comes again. The poet T.S. Eliot does well to remind us that "there is yet faith but the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. A poem that has stayed rooted in my heart through these past several years, and that has communicated the truth of Scripture to me, are these verses penned by Emily Dickinson. Hope is the thing with feathers/that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words/ and never stops at all/. This hope really hasn't ever ceased perching in my soul, though it's chirping has grown faint, often.

The often obvious culprit of fear is what often keeps us in despair: "I am afraid : to believe that you are good though I long for it even in this land of the living and in the dead places in my own soul. I am afraid: to rip open my heart to offer the contents to you to believe that you will be gentle with them and with me." (Renee Altson, Stumbling toward Faith)

Yet, "I see the ways in which something divine and sacred is squirming itself into my soul, and it frightens me but it exhilarates me at the same time, and I think: Yes! I might be loved. Yes! I might matter. Yes! There is something bigger than me, wiser than me, and yes! I am caught in its grip."(Renee Altson, Stumbling toward Faith)

And now please receive the words and truth of this benediction, that these words root themselves in your heart and give you hope.

Romans 15:13
May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.

This captures, so well, the Lake of the Tahoes. My father took this picture.

How humble You are! How powerful You are!
O Infant, Your judgment is powerful!
Your love is sweet! Who is able to stand against You?
Your Father [is] in heaven and Your mother on earth.
Who is able to speak about You?

After we have scorned we bow before You, the Hidden Power!
How bold You are, Babe, who bestows Himself upon all.
At everyone who meets You You smile. To meet
everyone who sees You You eagerly eait. It is as if Your
love hungers for human beings. You distinguish not Your parents
from strangers, not the one who bore You from maidservants, nor
the one who nursed You from harlots. Is this Your boldness or Your
love, all-merciful One?

What moves You to bestow Yourself upon each who has seen You--
upon the rich and upon the poor? With them You take shelter without
their invoking You. From where did it come to You so to hunger for human beings?

From Hymn 13 on the Nativity, Ephrem the Syrian

A wonder is Your mother: The Lord entered her and became a servant;
He entered able to speak and He became silent in her; He entered her thundering and
His voice grew silent; He entered Shepherd of all; a lamb he became in her; He emerged bleating. The womb of Your mother overthrew the orders: The Establisher of all entered a Rich One; He emerged poor. He entered her a Lofty One; He emerged humble. He entered her a Radiant One, and He put on a despised hue and emerged. He entered, a mighty warrior, and put on fear inside her womb. He entered, Nourisher of all, and He acquired hunger. He entered, the One who gives drink to all, and He acquired thirst. Stripped and laid bare, He emerged from [her womb], the One who clothes all.

From Hymn 11 on the Nativity, Ephrem the Syrian

A theologian is not one who grasps the truth but who has been grasped by the truth and transformed.

--Frederica Mathewes-Green

The well-intentioned idea of presenting the appealing, useful side of faith fails, I think, because it doesn't question deeply enough the basic consumer ethos. The transaction that takes place between a shopper-seeker and the goods acquired (groceries, furniture, the key to the meaning of life) is one that leaves the seeker in control, in a position of judging, evaluating, and rejecting the parts he doesn't like. But entering faith is more like making a promise or beginning a marriage. It involves being grafted into a community and requires a willingness to grow and change. If it didn't, if it merely confirmed us in our comfortable places, how could it free us to be more than we are?

--Frederica Mathewes-Green

A theologian is not made by 'understand, reading, or speculating,' but by 'living, no rather by dying and being damned.'

--Doctor Luther

I'm currently much appreciating his bluntness.

Young Amish girls sitting atop round hay bales and playing with a cat.

Daffodils bursting up.

Green. The grass is so vividly green!

The warmth.

Holding an impromptu Good Friday service with my mother, candlelit and directed by the Book of Common Prayer's order.

The tilling of garden beds and corn fields.

My mother's new hand-made rocking chair.

New barn kittens and rambunctious kittens of our own!

Buds and blooms.

The running of creeks.

Birds, their songs, their flight, their scurrying away.

...home.

Have a blessed Holy Saturday.

I can't stomach the glory of it all. I just can't. It's too good. Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

This week we can identify with the Lord each step of the way from the Mount of Olives to Calvary. When it comes to the resurrection, the imagination boggles, yet it is the centre of our faith. Lord, teach me to love my face and body, my temple of the Holy Spirit. It will grow old and die with me, but that is not the end. My body is sacred, and Easter opens a window for it and me onto a mysterious but endless vista.
--Sacred Space

I'm so thankful for friendships: most specifically, the friendships I've made in such short spaces of time in a tiny corner of the state of New York and, on the other hand, in the ultra-cosmopolitan London. My friends are beautiful. Created in the image of God, this image redeemed and being redeemed in them, reflections of His glory, as fragments of a grand stained glass window all together bring in Light. It's really quite astonishing.

How do we humans, as relational beings, make connections? And why are they so fragile?

So, CHOOSE today and each day. CHOOSE to embrace life, CHOOSE to believe there is purpose in everything, CHOOSE with passionate determination to hold to TRUTH ~ God is GOOD and He is working for your best, CHOOSE to step out of your comfort zone and bless someone else, CHOOSE to continue to give your best and CHOOSE to rest & be satisfied in that.

(a very dear friend)

The great mystery of God's love is that we are not asked to live as if we are not hurting, as if we are not broken. In fact, we are invited to recognize our brokenness as a brokenness in which we can come in touch with the unique way that God loves us. The great invitation is to live your brokenness under the blessing. I cannot take people's brokenness away and people cannot take my brokenness away. But how do you live in your brokenness? Do you live your brokenness under the blessing or under the curse? The great call of Jesus is to put your brokenness under the blessing.

--Henri JM Nouwen

Today in chapel I was challenged with a message of humility. Later on, I was told, when tempted to judge that I should ask myself, "What can I learn from you? What is it about your beautiful self that can teach me grace?"

Prayer for the Second Week of Lent

Father of light,
in You is found no shadow of change but only the fullness of life and limitless truth.
Open our hearts to the voice of Your Word
and free us from the original darkness
that shadows our vision.
Restore our sight that we may look upon Your Son
who calls us to repentance and a change of heart,
for he lives and reigns with You and the Holy Spirit,
one God, for ever and ever.
International Committee on English in the Liturgy (ICEL)

Purple glasses frames. :-) Pictures maybe to follow.

I've been thinking a lot about death lately. Perhaps mortality is the right word. And I'm not convinced that this is a morbid way of thinking. I don't know what precipated this, other than the fact that the season of Lent is a reminder of our mortality and limitations and sinfulness and of how Jesus lived with and through these constraints and has redeemed them. The other night, I read through the Book of Common Prayer liturgy regarding death, and today I came across an article regarding Walter Wangerin, a Lutheran pastor, on hopeful dying. This is all very interesting in lieu of what we've been reading in Christianity and Postmodernism about the idea of transhuman--that is, a person who transcends one's created materiality with the use of one's reason, creating ever more 'perfect' forms of technology, forms that will enable us to achieve immortality and paradise all by our own ingenuity.

I've never realized before how fearful I actually am of death. The fact that my life is but a puff of smoke or wildflower fading after a summer-bloom. And in all this, what of our lives matters? I've never had to deal with the death of a close friend or family member, but in the experiences of death one or two connections from me, I've mourned for the tearing nature of the death of the person. There is something so potent about the fact that we are embodied beings.

One of the things that bothered me most about this transhuman business was that it denies the goodness of creation and denies that the Divine became Man and will Himself redeem this creation. (And here, gnosticism rears its ugly head in a hyper-technological form!)

Why do we rage against the physical act of dying? Obviously, yes, we want to rage against the destructive somewhat abstract category of death that sin encapsulates, and of course, physical death is an indictment of the fallenness, yet also exhibits the finite creaturehood of humanity.

Wangerin writes, "By declining this change with great passion, or receiving it with a huge natural fear, we accuse the divine providence of tyranny, and exclaim against our natural constitution, and are discontent that we are human."

Wangerin sees the process of dying as one in which one is made especially aware of one's weakness, but of Christ's Light shining remarkably brightly all the same.

"And then—recognizing the consequences of the Old Adam's liberation—I must, I must, I absolutely must believe in the mercy of God, which makes merciful the people whose mercy I do dearly need."

------
From Oberman's Luther: Man Between God and the Devil,

For the just shall live by faith, and 'life' does not begin in Heaven. According to the medieval memento mori, in the midst of life we are surrounded by death. Luther's faith enabled him to vigorously turn this on its head: 'In the midst of death we are surrounded by life.'

Today was an encouraging day, even though I'm entirely too tired (from having a cold). I like these kinds of days. I like simple conversation over coffee and biscotti, and prayer of two vastly different forms within the day (book of common prayer and extemporaneous, charismatic prayer). I like thoughtful discussions and disagreeing well. I like found cameras. I am blessed to be reminded that I somehow reflect the Lord's glory. I like conversations over lunch about graduate school and church background and other such things. I like whirlwind tours of the thought of Freud, Lacan, Cixous (with background on Descartes and Kant) and second half of class movie watching. I'm learning to appreciate, perhaps. Dr. Pearse's teasing brand of humor, and am fascinated by the Catholic Reformation. I'm also really enjoying what I've read so far of Letters to a Young Catholic, especially its discussions of G.K. Chesterton and Flannery O'Connor. And I have far too much to do, that I'm ceaselessly putting off, but I feel some kind of joy--for friendship (what an impossibly wonderful gift!), and the binding nature of the Church's (or Christian holy people's) identification and reception of the Holy Spirit, and how this binds us together in such deep, unsearchable richness and compassion. I like these graspings of the hope and joy of the Lord.

Sometimes I'm afraid I will be forgotten. That I myself am forgettable. But I think we're all worth remembering; i.e. not even a single sparrow falls to the ground without the Father's knowing. But what kind of remembering will people have of me? I suppose I'd rather they remember my feeble attempts at friendship than those parts of me I wish would rather not exist. But I'm sure that I will be remembered, if at all, as myself as a bundle of paradoxes, as a very imperfect yet grace imbued girl. And this grace not of myself.

I just harvested a crop of InterLibrary Loan books, including:
Wendell Berry, Sex, Economy, Freedom, and Community
George Weigel, Letters to a Young Catholic
James Smith, Introducing Radical Orthodoxy
R.S. Thomas, Selected Poems
I'm very excited about these: poetry helps keep me sane and quenches my thirst for beauty, Berry helps me to think more deeply about culture and education and community, I'm ever interested in Catholicism and I'm young, and I just read a book of James Smith's for Christianity and Postmodernism, and liked it a whole lot, and it will help me think about the church in contemporary society and the necessity for liturgical proclamation. All in all, I'm rather happy with these acquisitions. I know I shan't have time to give them the proper reading they deserve, but I love at least leafing through these treasures, and savoring what I can.
In sum, I love to read. ;-P

My mother shared with me some humorous stories regarding my childhood today.

First, when I was a new baby, and attempting to nurse, my sister (then 3) grabbed tightly ahold of my arm and began squeezing. She squeezed so hard, in fact, that my mother was concerned that the circulation of blood to my hand was being cut off. My mom had to threaten to take away a privilege before my sister would ease up.

Second, when I was in grade school, coming home from sunday school and church, I told my mom what we had been learning about 'cults'. I had a friend who was Mormon (and the Mormons were included in the lesson), and apparently I said something like 'I must tell Kami she is a part of a cult; I must tell her the truth'. Apparently I grew very serious and furrowed my brow. My mother proceeded to tell me that she didn't think that would be such a good idea.

Sometimes I'm just flabbergasted by the speed of thoughts, of tears, of laughter, of words, of images, of affection. And then I grow melancholy. I grow melancholy because I fear my lack of love; I grow melancholy as I realize what treasures await us each gracious moment, and how just as quickly as they are revealed they are buried again. I grow melancholy when I think of things I wanted to say, or should have said, or shared, or prayed, or written.
But, there is joy in all of these things, and ever new delights are given to us: in the people we are given to love and honor, in the merciful hum of each new day dawning, in the dance of light and white dots of night, in the feeding of birds and of the throwing of snow, in cards and calls of 'this is the good I see in you, that God is drawing out of you', in the 'knowing' that is made possible among close friends, of how and why one is feeling.
Oh, to live in gratitude for these things, and not to mourn unduly the loss of what we were given for just a short time. But to celebrate it, and to celebrate the legacies we leave each other.

Lenten thoughts

From Robert Webber's Ancient-Future Time:

Luther captured the meaning of Lenten spirituality when he called upon his followers to 'live in your baptism'.

Today in baptism we may be asked:

Do you renounce Satan and all the spiritual forces of wickedness that rebel against God?

Do you renounce the evil powers of the world, which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God?

Do you renounce all sinful desires that draw you from the love of God?

This last question has been reverberating throughout my mind. How does sin draw us so far away from the God that loves us so lavishly? The sin that weigh our souls down with guilt (both real and false)--the sin our Lord will absolve if we claim our forgiveness and repent? Another prayer Webber cites is a prayer for the Lord to take from me the spirit of sloth--(a laziness that prevents us from choosing a spiritual pilgrimage aimed at overcoming the powers of evil working against us) and faintheartedness (despondency, a negative and pessimistic attitude toward life).

We need to renounce these things with an emphatic Yes! Amen. (Truly.) Somehow, we choose to fight. Fighting to take hold of this love and mercy.

Images in the Church?

Hmm. I'm in the middle of doing some research for a paper of mine on the lesser-known reformer Huldrych Zwingli. I am frustrated by his position on the presence and use of images in the Church. In a book I'm currently wading through, it describes the Catholic view of images, which I tend to agree with (it's also in accord with the Orthodox position), that images in the Church have pedagogical value, and that, if Christ has in fact become human, then in a sense, producing images of Him affirms His incarnation, and what His incarnation (leading up to his crucifixion) was able to effect. Zwingli's Christology was what a systematic theologican may call Nestorian, the ways in which the divinity and human-ness of Jesus are sharply divided from each other. Zwingli's objections to images are also understandable, in consequence of His view of the radical distinction between the creature and the Creator, and the worship then owed the Creator. And the fact that any of these images are idols. And it's true: these images don't possess any real soteriological significance, and don't themselves possess the power to change the human heart. Anything physical (?) is an idol. I think perhaps he may have gone too far. He also conceived of the hearing of the Word as the most significant part of the service, over and above the Mass. I tend to think that the Mass, the Lord's Supper, the celebration of the Eucharist, is, in fact, one of the most significant times in the service of the church. It recalls to us the theological significance of Christ's broken body and shed blood, in reminds us that the church is a relational body (i.e. injunctions to make reparations before taking the elements), it evokes gratitude for the gift we have received in the event of the crucifixion -- this decisive moment in time in which we are able to be redeemed, it rehearses in us the life and death of Christ, it feeds us these things we need to hear and appropriate in our heart, these things necessary for salvation. But I also certainly want to affirm the power and use of the preaching of the Word; its exhortatory purpose, its power to divide our very soul and spirit, to test the things of our hearts, to hear the narratives of the Bible, to heed the advice of Paul in His epistles, to sorrow in the Psalms, to read of the healings Jesus performed in the power of the Holy Spirit, and on and on and on. I've certainly gotten carried away, but these thoughts often provoke me, and reading what Zwingli had to say on the matter distresses me. I do not doubt that he was recommending what he believed to be best in his social, etc. circumstances, and that his faith was genuine, but that he leapt a little too far on this particular issue (and it also evidences the slight unsoundness of his theology--although my theology is a bit unsound, I suppose, as well).

My mind is abuzz, distracted, fuzzy. I'm thinking of nothing and everything, mostly, but one consistent question, albeit a self-reflective/probing question that was put to me today? Why is it so difficult for me to look people in the eye? To give my full respect and attention, or to feel a sense of connection, or to just get a good clear look at what it is that's in front of me?
The answers to this question, I am realizing, are complex, frightening, and, to a certain degree hidden. It's so very strange (or, perhaps not so much) that my trouble looking people in the eye has to do with the trouble I have in looking truthfully at the reality of my relationships, soul, mind. It just all seems like too much. It exhausts me to think of paying full and alert attention to everything going on in front of or in me. And, of course, there will always be things I don't know. Perhaps I'm so afraid, in part, because doing so would acknowledge that I matter, not in some egocentric way, but that I am a child of God, and that's pretty incredible! And also in doing this, I would have to acknowledge how I matter to you and how you matter to me, getting to the heart of things, risking, again. It challenges me to be fully live, to be seeking the Lord with all I have, and loving and praying continually. Perhaps it also frightens me because it would show me the extent of my sinfulness, and force me to name my sins. To name the ways I hurt others, and how others have hurt me. And how I am compelled by the love of Christ to forgive. To restore relationships. I'm almost afraid to mention the first thing that came to mind when I thought of an answer to this question: I am hideous. I can't stand looking at myself, dealing with myself, why or how should anybody else? I am afraid to reveal the full extent of my hideousness.
Lord, give me eyes. Your eyes. Somehow.

and the new year commences...

281) encountering an actual sleigh today!

282) snow blown cornfields (barring the roads)

283) a jack frosted door

284) pomegranete juice and champagne on new year's day

285) a macademia nut mocha

286) c.s. lewis' that hideous strength

287) crackling fires in woodstoves

288) merlot cheese

289) looking at ice sculptures with my mom

290) spilling earl grey tea up my sleeve

291) earl grey with dissolved whipped cream

292) psalm 90:12 repeatedly coming up (three times, just today!)

293) a small garden-y teapot with a slight chip

294) attempting to waltz with my dog

295) tea and dates

296) my new moccasin slippers

297) crocheted things

298) libraries, and my never-ending compulsion to check out stacks and stacks of books

299) the ending of a beautiful chopin piece on the radio today

300) the points and angles and velocity of ballet