A Poem and a Prize

In 2006 I enrolled in a poetry class as part of graduate studies in English.  One night, while seeking some inspiration for my weekly poem, I noticed my brother's textbook on cosmology sitting on my bookshelf.  I typed the title: "The Foundations of Modern Cosmology" onto the top of the page.  What followed was a poem about two siblings.  One was an astrophysicist.  The other was not.  The essence of the poem was the disconnect in communication between the siblings as to the state of their mother who was failing in a nursing home.  The metaphor of the poem--or the irony I suppose--was that the astrophysicist brother had won some kind of prize relating to black holes.  How do we know the existence of a black hole?  By the impact it makes on things around it.  And yet, so the poem suggests, the scientist seems as oblivious to his mother's plight as the non-scientist is to the prize winning discovery.

The reason I am bringing this up today is that my astrophysicist brother has won a prize.  (read about it here).  When I wrote the poem I was concerned that maybe it would be thought of as autobiographical in some way.  This would be unfair to my brother, who is a sensitive and attentive son to his mother.  So I put in a reference to a prize.  At the time my brother had been recognized in a variety of ways, but he had never won a prize such as the one implied in the poem.  Now he has.

.... so here is the poem, six years later, now more autobiographical than before.

(I suppose the part about my not understanding the science of what my brother does is pretty autobiographical.)


-->

Black Hole

I wanted to talk about mother,

how she can’t see anymore, of nurses

who bruise her arms and legs

when they bathe her.  You fold your paper

butter rye toast while you read

Maureen Dowd, Thomas Friedman.

I read your horoscope out loud.

You’re talking about quasars, pulsars

or some goddamn thing while I remember

the zoo when we were small, how we walked

for hours in heat while I squinted

through thick lenses to see tiny animals,

pictures on wooden signs,

Look, there it is you would say

I would search logs, long grass

but nothing moved.

Even now I cannot see.

I told you mom was proud of your prize,

your discovery, black holes

how light, gravity swallows

I asked how we could know about something

we can’t see, without looking up

you answer by observing its effect on things around it

I told you mom was forgetting our names

but you do not hear

at home with your numbers

geometric shapes which prove to you

the universe continues to expand

until one day it collapses in on itself.

The Initimate Spirit

The following is a sermon prepared at the invitation of the Oak Hill Presbyterian Church for Pentecost Sunday, 2013

Acts 2:1-11
John 20:13-23


 

            Happy Pentecost!  It is wonderful to be with you today as we celebrate one of the three major feast days of the Christian year.  Pentecost Sunday is the day set aside to celebrate the gift of the Holy Spirit.  The timing of Pentecost coincides with the 50^th day after Easter Sunday.  In Biblical times Pentecost was a Jewish festival known as the Feast of Booths and it occurred fifty days after Passover.   As the Jewish people came more and more under the influence of Greek ways, the name was changed to Pentecost.

            The most well known version of the events of Pentecost appears in the Book of the Acts of the Apostles.    This account is full of awe and wonder. Because the Spirit appears on the feast day, Jerusalem is crowded with many Jews from various geographical areas.  When the Spirit comes it does so with tremendous pomp: A great and mighty wind and tongues of flame.  The crowd is caught up in the frenzy.  The mighty deeds of God are extolled in the languages of the world.  All in all it is quite a dramatic spectacle.  

            And it should be, for without the coming of the Holy Spirit there would be no Church and therefore no Book of Acts to chronicle the Church.  The Book of Acts is the account of the Church after the coming of the Spirit.  Acts is the story of Saul who is converted on the Damascus road into Paul, the early Church’s greatest evangelist.  The coming of the Holy Spirit is the necessary bridge over which Peter and Paul can walk as representatives of the community of the risen Christ.  The Spirit under girds the difficult and challenging job facing Peter and Paul as they confront the tensions between old and new, law and gospel. It is the Spirit that converts Peter in chapter 10 and leads him to offer baptism to the Gentiles for the first time—the first occasion of the Holy Spirit being received by “outsiders”.  The book of Acts ebbs and flows through trial and conflict and finally to triumph, and the Spirit is always there—moving and flowing in and through the Church as it spreads out into the world.

            This is a compelling and dramatic story played out on a big stage.  But it is not the only account of the gift of the Holy Spirit that appears in the New Testament.  There is another, more intimate portrayal.  This is the second of our two readings, the one from the Gospel of John.

            As John relates it, Jesus breathes the Spirit upon the disciples on the eve of his 

resurrection day.  This gift is the fulfillment of a promise Jesus makes in chapter 14, when he promises to give the disciples not only peace but also the “the advocate, the Holy Spirit”.  This Holy Spirit will “teach you everything and remind you of what I have told you.” This is a private moment, seemingly intentionally so.  No one else knows.  There is no public display, no wind and fire, no amazed bystanders.  Only Jesus, his disciples, and the Holy Spirit.

            In Greek, the language of the New Testament, the sentence containing the phrase “then he breathed on them” contains a unique expression.  It appears only here.  Although it is not repeated anywhere else in the Greek New Testament, it does appear in the Greek translation of the Old Testament: at the time of creation in the book of Genesis.   The Spirit of God swept over the face of the waters.  The spirit “breathed” over the waters…and God spoke creation into being.

            Clearly the author of the Gospel wants his readers—who would have had access to both the Old and New Testament in Greek—to make this connection.  Jesus is not only breathing the Holy Spirit onto the disciples, he is performing an act of Creation.  This is entirely consistent with John’s understanding of who Jesus is.  We might recall the words with which John begins his gospel, words we often hear associated with Jesus at Christmas time.  “In the beginning was the Word.  And the Word was with God and the Word was God.  And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth.”  John understands Jesus to be the incarnate word of creation.  The words “In the beginning” are an intentional echo of Genesis.  So as Jesus is the New Creation, so now his disciples are the New Creation, as Jesus breathes upon them in the same manner that the Spirit of God moved and breathed across the unformed vastness of the earth.  The implications of John’s story are immense.  It means no less than the truth that the community Jesus’ empowered is the community now responsible for the mission and ministry begun by Jesus.  As Jesus tells his disciples, “As the Father sent me, now I am sending you.”  The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.  The Word is still with us, for we are the Word.

            This same message is communicated in the Book of Acts as well.  Clearly the coming of the Holy Spirit was intended to get the Church up and moving.  In the power of the Spirit the gospel is proclaimed, the lame are healed, and even the dead are raised.  It is understandable to see these two stories as being distinct in detail but the same in overall message.  And this is essentially true.  But it is important to keep the two stories distinguished as well, especially in these days.  For the majority of churches known in casual language as “mainline”, there is a reassurance and a peace that comes with John’s version of events, the peace that Jesus promises throughout the gospel.  

            The vast majority of Reformed churches across America have less than 100 members.  The vast majority of the churches in our Presbytery have fewer than 100 members.  These churches are contemplating the future, wondering how much longer they can remain viable congregations.  Pastoral leadership in these churches is becoming harder to come by.  

            Understandably, members of such churches, many of whom have been members for much if not all of their lives, struggle to remain optimistic.   Churches with declining and aging membership might well be compared with those disciples of Jesus who sit alone in a locked room, afraid.  It is into this locked room—it is into this fear—that the risen Christ comes with his peace and his life giving breath.  Pentecost is so named because the story in the Book of Acts takes place on a Jewish festival day known as Pentecost.  But it does not exhaust the reality of the Holy Spirit at work in the world.  Equally compelling is John’s small market version; intimate, tender, peaceful.  John’s version of events does more than provide hope for small churches everywhere.  It validates the essential integrity of such churches.  John’s story of the Holy Spirit reminds us that the power of the Spirit and the responsibility to be bearers of the Word is not defined by size or location—only by the existence of a community in personal relationship to Christ the risen Lord.  This awareness does not wipe away the practical difficulties of being a small church in the world.  But it should provide spiritual confidence that a church, no matter how big or little, is infused with the Holy Spirit and empowered to be a witness to the ways of God in and for the world.  It is not our primary job to “keep the doors open”.  It is our job to trust, through faith, that God is working his purpose out, that the Spirit of God is in this place, and that we are called—not to earthly success—but to faithfulness.  

            We have this sacrament to remind us of this as well.  Like the gift of the Holy Spirit, this meal is played out on big and little stages.  Jesus fed the five thousand and he fed the four thousand.  But he also gathered around an intimate small table and said to those close to him “this is my body, broken for you.  This is the cup of the New Covenant sealed in my blood.  Do this in memory of me.”  For whenever we eat this bread and drink this cup we proclaim the saving death of our risen Lord.  We proclaim it to two, four, twelve, twenty, twenty thousand.  It matters not.  What matters is that we proclaim it, we live it, we believe it, and we witness it in and through the Holy Spirit which is with us now and always.  Amen.

           

           

             

           

The Great Gatsby--One View

Baz Lurhman's fleshy and flashy adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald's classic 1925 novel is in theaters everywhere.  The same book was also featured in a classroom of 26 bright high school seniors I had the pleasure of leading through a semester of college level English composition.  The themes of the novel are tried and true: the failing American Dream, the folly of challenging the passage of time, the hopeless romantic.   One of the more remarkable aspects of the novel is Fitzgerald's  eerily prescient portrayal of a decade sliding toward ruin.  The book consists of nine chapters--nearly one for each year of the twenties.  The story arc follows flawlessly the growth of optimism into chapter five (the chapter Gatsby and Daisy reunite) and then the spiral down toward both the death and dissolution--or the collapse of the stock market.

But the point I want to offer for consideration is this: in a novel that is propelled by duets--Gatsby and Daisy, Tom and Daisy, Jordan and Nick, Gatsby and Wolfshien--the most compelling may be the one seldom observed, that of Gatsby and Tom.

Certainly Gatsby and Tom are rivals for the attention of Daisy.  But they are more than that.  They are two sides of the same coin.  They represent two distinct ways of relating to the past, to what was, to what cannot be again.  And, consequently, how one lives into the future.

In the first chapter of the novel, our narrator Nick Carraway, describes Tom as "a sturdy, straw haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner.  Two shining, arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward."  This description prepares us for understanding Tom as a forward looking individual, looking forward principally to his own best interests.  His two eyes (in contrast to the neutral all knowing eyes of T.J. Eckleburg) are arrogant and consuming.

But what is truly the important insight into Tom's character--and what offers both a kinship and an opposition to Gatsby--is a throw away line that comes in the paragraph before this description.  While reflecting upon the news that Daisy believes this move to East Egg is permanent, Nick offers this insight into Tom, a former Yale football player.  "I had no sight into Daisy's heart but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game."

Irrecoverable.

There is little question that Gatsby's quest for the irrecoverable Daisy is the heart of the novel.  Although Gatsby can accomplish the feat of once again being in Daisy's presence--even of receiving Daisy's love--he cannot make time vanish.  It is not enough for Gatsby to regain Daisy.  He must have her pure and unchanged by the five years that have interceded between when Gatsby left for the war and Daisy married Tom.

As Nick famously observes, "you cannot repeat the past."  Gatsby's retort is equally famous.  "Can't repeat the past?  Of course you can!"  But Nick is right.  You cannot repeat the past.  You might have Daisy in the here and now, but you cannot have her as if five years, Tom, and a daughter has not happened.  You might play another football game, but you will never play again as you did at Yale.  Some things might be wistfully sought, but they will never be found.  Tom understands this.  Gatsby is unwilling to.

Tom and Gatsby represents two ways of orienting oneself to thispassage of time.  Tom is aggressively leaning forward, into tomorrow.  Tom is willing to let the past go in order to insure his future.  He lives, apparently, with little regret or moral compass.  He loves Daisy and yet has multiple affairs.  After Gatsby's death he carries on with Daisy as if nothing has happened.  He protests bootlegging while offering his liquor.  The only time that matters to Tom is time present and what it offers to him.  He lives insulated from consequence or character.

Gatsby is a romantic.  What captivated Nick was Gatsby's seemingly endless capacity for hope.  As blind as Tom is to the past, Gatsby is to the future.  Gatsby's future is the product of the hopeless dreaming of the past.  Both Tom and Gatsby are presented as characters in the grips of elusive past glory; Tom's football career and Gatsby's relation to Daisy.  Where they differ is how they will orient themselves to that which is irrecoverable.  Tom is full speed ahead wrecking everything in his path.  Gatsby is a hopeful romantic who believes it can and will be as it once was.

The cynic might observe that the novel ends practically.  The pragmatic Tom has the girl, the wealth, and the trip to Europe before settling in the new house.  The hopeful romantic lies dead and mourned by only Nick, his father, and Owl Eyes-- the living incarnation of the eyes of T.J. Eckleburg.

But there is a more uplifting way of understanding the Tom-Gatsby duet.  And this is where, as a theologian, I might apply an idea Fitzgerald would not have intended.  With the exception of George Wilson, there is really only one character who embodies the essence of love and that is Gatsby.  He loves Daisy-truly loves her for all of her flaws, idiocies and betrayals.  It is Gatsby who is willing to take the blame for the death for which Daisy is truly responsible.  Gatsby waits outside of her house in the rain to make certain she is alright.  Gatsby is not faultless to be sure, but his love is real and genuine and it is one of the tragedies of the novel that Daisy is, in the end, so indifferent to it.

But if we judged the efficacy of a virtue by its popular success there would be few virtues to celebrate.  Gatsby is great--not for wealth or fame--but for love and fidelity.  Gatsby's impracticable hope is rooted in a deep love that has survived separation, trial, rejection, and death.  It is this understanding of love that makes Christianity both powerful and vexing.  How can love matter, even God's love, if it ends up dead and buried?  That Tom and Daisy ride off triumphant while Gatsby lies dead is not a repudiation of love.  It is the affirmation of the biblical truth of the cross.

Within the narrative Gatsby does not rise.  But  his story continues to be the best selling novel year to year for its publisher, Scribner.  There is always a new movie, a new interpretation.  The story is read in high schools and colleges every year all over the country.  Gatsby's hope, his love, his commitment, his combination of man and child, saint and sinner, lives on.  If that isn't resurrection I don't know what is.