Christian Spirituality in Surprising Sources

The Rt. Rev. Michael Curry, presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church in the U.S., recently spoke at a global missions conference in Puerto Rico (May 18).

Through a video of the bishop's presentation--brought to my attention in a blog by my former vicar and friend while I lived in Massachusetts, the Rev. Titus Pressler (see https://titusonmission.wordpress.com posted on May 16, 2016)--I was re-introduced to a powerful book that speaks loudly and pertinently to the phenomenon of Christian spirituality: Clarence Jordan's Cotton Patch Gospel, originally published in separate parts between 1963 and 1969 and compiled and re-issued in 2012 by Smyth&Helwys in Macon, GA.

Jordan was the agriculturalist-farmer-translator who in 1941 co-founded Koinonia Farm in Americus, Georgia, shortly after earning a Ph.D. from Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky. In 1976, he was instrumental in the founding of Habitat for Humanity, but it is his vernacular translation of the New Testament, the Cotton Patch Gospel that clearly spelled-out Jordan's spirituality, and Bishop Curry uses Jordan's writing to underscore what he sees as a new "Jesus Movement" in the Episcopal Church and its mission.

This is not the hippie-inspired Jesus People Movement of the 1960s, Curry notes, but rather a renewal of the "Movement" that arose from the disciples of the New Testament. He relates this phenomenon to his audience at the University of Puerto Rico at Ponce gathered for the 21st Global Episcopal Mission Network Conference through a synopsis of Jordan's Cotton Patch Gospel. 

That version relocates the story of the gospels and the early church to rural Georgia, in particular, to Gainesville, a city northeast of Atlanta near Lake Lanier. In Jordan's translation, Bethlehem becomes Gainesville, Atlanta becomes Jerusalem, Joseph and Mary flee to Mexico, the disciples are Rock and John and Bart and Phil and Jud, to name several, and Jesus--known as Jesus Davidson--is not crucified, he is lynched!

Cotton Patch Gospel is a powerful and compelling challenge to 21st-century Christians living in a racially diverse and divided America. The re-issued version contains an introduction by former President Jimmy Carter  (who grew up within a few miles of the Koinonia Farm); a foreward by the late Baptist minister turned writer Will D. Campbell, who left an academic post in Mississippi to become a 1950s civil rights activist; and an afterword by Tony Campolo, the Baptist sociologist and evangelist recently retired from Pennsylvania's Eastern University, who has consistently challenged evangelical Christianity's spirituality in areas of social justice. The brief essays by the three C's (Carter, Campbell, Campolo) are worth reading on their own.

In re-reading (honestly, my previous exposure was a cursory sampling) the Cotton Patch Gospel, I discovered a powerful spirituality in Jordan's translation (Jordan did the work using the Nestle-Alland twenty-third edition of the Greek text--the latest edition available in 1957), perhaps best exemplified by his rendition of the Sermon on the Mount:

"The spiritually humble are God's people, . . .;

"They who are deeply concerned are God's people, . . .'

"They who are gentle are his people, . . .;

"They who have an unsatisfied appetite for the right are God's people, . . .;

“Men of peace and good will are God’s people, . . .;

and so on. (Matthew, Chapter 5).

[In addition, the Cotton Patch Gospel inspired a powerful musical in 1981 by Tom Key and Russell Treyz. The music and lyrics for the oft-performed play were written by the popular folk-singer, the late Harry Chapin. Playlists of Chapin's songs and some scenes from a variety of productions of the musical are available on YouTube.]

---------------------------------------

On a similar front:

Last month I discovered in my father-in-law's library another book probing Christian spirituality in an area that few expect to find it: Reformed Spirituality: An Introduction for Believers (Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1990), by Presbyterian Howard L. Rice, the late chaplain and professor of ministry at San Francisco Theological Seminary.

Rice spent most of his academic career at SFTS on crutches or in a wheelchair after being stricken by multiple sclerosis, a diagnosis that was changed to spinal cord damage when he retired. He was a pioneer in bringing to popular attention the writings of John Calvin on Christian spirituality and, as a follower and colleague of Morton T. Kelsey, helping to develop seminary programs in spiritual direction and Christian spirituality.

Rice also was an ardent reader and appreciator of the fiction of C.S. Lewis, and argued, counter to the heavy rationalism associated with Calvinism, for more attention to and appreciation of imagination, emotion, and mystery in theology and Christian reflection.

From Rice I've lifted this tiny list of important Reformed (and Puritan) writers and declarations on spirituality:

John Calvin;

Lewis Bayly;

Francis Rous;

Richard Baxter;

Samuel Rutherford;

John Owen;

John Bunyan;

Henry Scougal;

Elizabeth Singer Rowe;

Gerhard Tersteegen;

Jonathan Edwards;

Charles Hodge;

Emily Herman;

Howard Thurman;

John Knox and the Scots Confession;

Caspar Olevianus and Zacharias Ursinus and the Heidelberg Catechism;

Heinrich Bullinger and Huldrych Zwingli and the Second Helvetic Confession; and

The Westminster Confession and Catechisms, best known among English-speaking Presbyterians and members of other Reformed denominations.

I’m working my way backward through this list and confess to a humbling and eye-opening (and heart-bowing) experience.

Almost all of the names on this list were largely ignored by students of Christian spirituality in the 20th century; although, that ignorance has been undercut by the 2001 publication of Calvin's Writings on Pastoral Piety (admit it, we cringe at the word piety!) edited by Princeton scholar Elsie Anne McKee in the Classics of Western Spirituality series published by Paulist Press.

I’m just grateful for Howard L. Rice and fathers-in-law.

Let the Lower Lights Be Burning

Mother's Day--
Let the Lower Lights Be Burning

It is no wonder that one of my mother's favorite songs was the hymn, "Let the lower lights be burning," composed by Philip Paul Bliss, a nineteenth-century musician and evangelist.

Living and growing in Wesleyville, one of Newfoundland's poor but hearty outports on the island’s northeastern Bonavista Bay, and with a father who captained a fishing schooner, my mother was well educated (formally, she finished the equivalent of eighth grade) about the importance of the "lower lights."

The history of Bliss's 1871 hymn suggests he wrote it after hearing a sermon by the evangelist Dwight L. Moody that included a story of a ship running aground while entering Cleveland harbor (on Lake Erie) because the lighthouse had failed.

Moody made the distinction of the upper lights, God's starry heaven, the navigation aid to mariners worldwide, and the "lower lights" provided by coastal lighthouses that warn ships of danger as they approach shallow rockbound coasts. These lower lights--the strong beams from the lighthouse--were critical beacons of warning and guides to safety for ships approaching their berths. The lower lights provide sailors their way to safe harbor.

Moody's story noted that God takes care of the upper lights, but it is the Christian's duty to "let the lower lights be burning" as a means of guidance and rescue—and for Moody and his evangelist friend, Bliss, for the saving of souls.

Here are the inspired verses Bliss wrote after hearing Moody:

     "Brightly beams our Father's mercy
     From his lighthouse evermore,
     But to us he gives the keeping
     Of the lights along the shore.

     "Let the lower lights be burning,
     Send a gleam across the wave.
     Some poor fainting, struggling seaman
     You may rescue, you may save.

     "Dark the night of sin has settled,
     Loud the angry billows roar.
     Eager eyes are watching, longing,
     For the lights along the shore.

     "Trim your feeble lamp, my brother,
     Some poor sailor, tempest-tossed,
     Trying now to make the harbor
     In the darkness may be lost."

I never really appreciated how much that hymn awakened the lived experience of my mother, though I often noted she sang it lustily and mostly from memory during the frequent church “singspirations” at our Baptist church in Brooklyn. As a young girl, my mother had worked at a waterfront department store—the only job for which she drew pay during her 93 years--and became familiar with the ways and wares of a life dependent on the sea.

Bliss’s words are meant to inspire us to serve others, especially those in peril. I believe my mother, who later in life, when her four children were grown and gone on their own voyages, became a Red Cross volunteer, and who, as she aged became a devoted reader of the Book of Psalms, was inspired to be a keeper of the “lower lights.”

I recall as a young man being inspired along similar lines after reading J. D. Salinger’s classic novel, Catcher in the Rye. I was particularly impressed with Holden Caulfield’s dream story of him serving as a guard for children playing in a field of rye close to a dangerous precipice. It was the protagonist’s job to watch over the children and catch any who wandered too close to the perilous edge. He was the “catcher” in the rye. I recall telling a church study group focusing on “ministry” that I’d determined I too wanted to become a “catcher in the rye.”

I’ve learned that sentiment has been inspired as much by my mother as by Salinger.

And here's a rendition that inspires and reminds me of "singspirations" at the church of my youth.

Judy, Henry, and Jack (Judy Boitnott, bass; Henry Boitnott, 
mandolin; and Jack Zell, guitar and lead singer), stalwarts 
of the Roanoke Valley Fiddle and Banjo Club,
performing at the Copper Hill Church of the Brethren, 
Copper Hill, Virginia, in the rural Blue Ridge Mountains, 
circa January 2008. This video is posted at 
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tO_7Y0slxNU

A Faith Floss post:
February 10, 2016: Ash Wednesday

Does God require a login and password?

I returned today after a long absence to the meditational prayer Website of the Irish Jesuits known as Sacred Space http://www.sacredspace.ie, where I was surprised to learn that  there was a problem with my username or password.

Then a spiritual quandary confronted me: Does God require a login and password when we come to pray? I suspect not. The sacrifices of God are a broken and contrite spirit, the scriptures say (Psalm 51:17).

So I  guess the universal login for signing on with God is: brokenspirit; and the universal password must be: havemercy. And if the password must be unique or encrypted or something like that, we could make it haveJohn3:16mercy.

Not a bad password anywhere, I think; although, I've never particularly understood that verse's popularity on placards at sporting events. Perhaps those placards should read "Jesus Saves," a bit of graffiti that was a favorite of a  young woman I knew growing up and one of the frequent signs in the Baptist church we attended.

But such public displays came to be a joke around New England when I was in college. The joke went like this: "Jesus saves--and Esposito slaps in the rebound!" Of course, it helped to appreciate the quip if one were a Boston Bruins fan--or at least a fan of ice hockey--and knew that Phil Esposito had a habit of hanging around in front of the goal and exploiting rebounds to become one of the game's premier scorers.

The point of my whimsical meditation, of course, assures me that God's Website encourages free access. And by the way, it's Jesus who slaps in life's rebounds.

Breakfast

I have always favored breakfast. And, I love to eat breakfast food for lunch and dinner, too.

I think this has been true since childhood when my mother served me scrambled eggs and then later taught me how to scramble my own. One of her little tricks was to add a quarter teaspoon of sugar, pancake syrup, or vanilla extract to the scrambled batter. Or, as my wife and her parents later insisted: add a dollop of mayonnaise.

One of the great surprises of nutrition research as far as I'm concerned is the conclusion that eggs are good for us. This ranks second or third only to those nutritionists' assertions that coffee is beneficial in restricted amounts as is dark chocolate.

As a younger writer I often ate breakfast at a restaurant counter and finished my coffee and toast while writing in my journal. In college, my dormitory mates and I often drove across the river to the next city for all-night breakfast served at a local diner. I can remember at that time thinking my avocation in life might be to become a short-order cook at a diner.

Restaurants such as Ihop, Dennys (which was a favorite when my family lived in Tokyo), Waffle House (despite the jokes it engenders, it makes the best home fries--and there are three of them within a mile of our house in Georgia**), Perkins, Sonic, Bob Evans (which much too late in life I learned was my late older brother's favorite eating place--well, after all, Mom probably taught him to scramble eggs, too) and Cracker Barrel all specialize in serving breakfast all day.

A development in the restaurant world is the growing popularity of gourmet breakfast shops. A recent article by list-maker Malika Harricharan* rates the ten best breakfast shops in Atlanta; I'm certain there's a similar list provided for a major city near you.

I'm told that sometime before the end of this year (2015) McDonald's will be serving breakfast all day in many locations. About time, is all I can say.

Whether eggs are served with ham, bacon, sausage, grits, fries, or even fish, they always comfort and enrich me.

And, be at ease, my friends. Breakfast was apparently important in the life of Jesus.

The gospel of John tells us that the resurrected Jesus instructed the disciples who were fishing offshore to heave their nets to the other side, and moments later as his followers with their new huge catch moved ashore toward the fire he had built on the beach, Jesus invites them with the words: "Come and have breakfast."***


*http://www.10best.com/destinations/georgia/atlanta/restaurants/breakfast/

**After his victory in the 2014 Masters Golf Tournament, golfer and big-tipper Bubba Watson apparently treated his family and staff to a meal at Waffle House (as per waitress at restaurant).

*** (John 21:12).

Planting Spiritual Sequoias

Planting Spiritual Sequoias

            A friend and colleague, who retired from his school superintendent’s job just a few years before I left the same school, was killed last month in a three-car pile-up on an Interstate highway in southern Wisconsin.

          Larry Dean Kooi and his wife Gail were en-route to family celebrations with their children and grandchildren in Minnesota, having driven from their retirement home in northern Georgia. Larry slowed for a construction delay on the highway and his vehicle was rammed from behind and pushed into the car in front of him, according to press reports. Larry died instantly apparently, and his wife was hospitalized for several days after the crash.

          From every place Larry had ever led or advised a school, messages of sympathy came to his family underscoring his reputation as a wise, thoughtful, fair, caring, listening and loving man of Christ.

          Larry, a native Iowan, as far as I know had never lived in the vicinity of big Sequoia trees, which are native to the western slopes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California and among the largest and oldest known trees on the earth. He and Gail did travel quite a bit and may have visited the national park that is home to the gigantic trees.

          However, Larry told me once in our casual conversations that he had a favorite poem, and it was about Sequoias, but he couldn’t remember who had written the verses. I researched a little bit and came up with the poem “Planting a Sequoia” by Dana Gioia. Larry was thrilled to have rediscovered the text.

          It is well worth reading Gioia’s poem so I have copied it below:

                              Planting a Sequoia / by Dana Gioia

All afternoon my brothers and I have worked in the orchard,
Digging this hole, laying you into it, carefully packing the soil.
Rain blackened the horizon, but cold winds kept it over the Pacific,
And the sky above us stayed the dull gray
Of an old year coming to an end.

In Sicily a father plants a tree to celebrate his first son's birth—
An olive or a fig tree -- a sign that the earth has one more life to bear.
I would have done the same, proudly laying new stock into my            father's
orchard,
A green sapling rising among the twisted apple boughs, 
A promise of new fruit in other autumns.

But today we kneel in the cold planting you, our native giant,
Defying the practical custom of our fathers,
Wrapping in your roots a lock of hair, a piece of an infant's birth cord,
All that remains above earth of a first-born son,
A few stray atoms brought back to the elements.

We will give you what we can — our labor and our soil,
Water drawn from the earth when the skies fail,
Nights scented with the ocean fog, days softened by the circuit of
    bees.
We plant you in the corner of the grove, bathed in western light,
A slender shoot against the sunset.

And when our family is no more, all of his unborn brothers dead,
Every niece and nephew scattered, the house torn down,
His mother's beauty ashes in the air,
I want you to stand among strangers, all young and ephemeral to 
     you,
Silently keeping the secret of your birth.

               (“Planting a Sequoia” by Dana Gioia from The Gods of Winter, Graywolf Press, 1991.)

Dana Gioia’s website is at:  http://www.danagioia.net/poems/sequoia.htm

Even if Larry never visited the Sequoias, they held a place of admiration in his consciousness. And I had the privilege of knowing and working with this poetry appreciating educator who planted spiritual Sequoias everywhere he lived and worked.

It seems humorously poetic to me also that Larry, with three successive vowels in his four-letter last name, admired a poem by a poet with four successive vowels in his five-letter surname writing about a tree with four successive vowels in its name.

I chant those vowels as a prayer for Larry: ooi-ioia-uoia!