O Adonai

Note: This post is the second in a series of posts on the "O Antiphons" that I wrote two years ago. I'm reposting them here this year as we head towards Christmas.

O Adonai, and leader of the House of Israel, 

who appeared to Moses in the fire of the burning bush 

and gave him the law on Sinai: 

Come and redeem us with an outstretched arm. 

I grew up in a tradition that emphasized grace. Sure, there were parts of my evangelical upbringing where the importance of works would sneak in, where preachers would insist that you had to do certain things correct to be saved. However, that's not what shaped me. I was shaped by the idea that we are saved by pure and unadulterated grace, not by works, lest anyone should boast. And that gospel was the sweet milk that nourished my young Christian soul.

And I'm grateful for it.

Later in life, though, while working on my Bachelors degree in Biblical Studies, I took a class on the Minor Prophets. This “grace only” view had begun to break down before that, during the freshman Old Testament survey course taught by David. But that class on the minor prophets... it broke my theological world in two. All of the sudden I saw that grace without justice was cheap and empty.

O come, O come, great Lord of might, 

who to thy tribes on Sinai's height 

in ancient times once gave the law 

in cloud and majesty and awe. 

In the midst of giving the law, God made it clear that the law was a covenant ensuring that the people would truly practice the love of God. Thus the Torah is filled with concern for the poor and weak, those without voice in society. In Deuteronomy's retelling of the Ten Commandments, the commandment for keeping the Sabbath day is given so that the poor, the slaves and workers of society may also have rest.


Later in Deuteronomy, God declares that this law flows from God's very being. And lest you be confused about what that being was, God says, 

For the Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome, who is not partial and takes no bribe, who executes justice for the orphan and the widow, and who loves the strangers, providing them with food and clothing. You shall also love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. — Deuteronomy 10:17–20 

The Torah should make us look like that. Our God is not moved to action or inaction because of financial gain. The key question for universal health-care, thus, isn't how much will it cost. The key question is how does a society care for the least among them. To oppose the idea of providing health-care to every human being because of the cost is to take a bribe, to use financial gain as a reason for action/inaction on a question of justice.

God is not like that.

And our God will execute justice. Our God will look out for those in our society to whom we have given less rights, and will establish equity. Our God loves immigrants—illegal or otherwise—because our God watched the people of Israel struggle as they journeyed in search of a homeland. God has a soft spot for these folk and so cares deeply for them.

The worship I had loved, when I was younger, one that was bathed in a sense of grace, was incomplete. Because I took this class on the Minor Prophets and discovered that the prophet Amos believed the Lord despised such worship, “Take away from me the noise of your songs; I will not listen to the melody of your harps. But let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream” (Amos 5:24). I discovered in Micah that God had no patience for my offering of sacrifice if I neglected the first good, “He has told you, O mortal, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” (Micah 6:8).

We need to recover the importance of the Torah. We need to recover a sense that our actions absolutely have social repercussions—and that God is profoundly interested in them. We need to recover the sense of a society which will structure itself with a sense of justice and equity, not solely concerned with what will keep the markets going up.

We need Adonai to descend once again, to burn this law onto the stones of our hearts, to surround us with the smoke and majesty of a God who is on the side of the weak and helpless. Because we seem to have forgotten. We've bought the bottle of cheap grace and ignored the more costly. But it is the more costly that will save us. It is the more costly that will change us.

O Adonai.

Come.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O Sapientia

Note: Two years ago, around this time, I wrote a series of reflections on the "O Antiphons." They are reflective of my context at the time, as I neared the end of my time at Christ Church and was also near the end of the call process that resulted in my call to my current cure at St. John's. Last year I read them over again to myself each day. This year, I thought I might re-post them. The context has changed, but the Antiphons remain moving. And perhaps something within each of these daily reflections is still worthwhile to hear. Here is the first one, for "O Sapientia." I'll repost the rest each day as we draw closer to the awesome, terrifying, glorious, and grace-filled feast of the Nativity.



O Wisdom, coming forth from the mouth of the Most High, reaching from one end to the other mightily, and sweetly ordering all things:  Come and teach us the way of prudence.
In a day when all most people want to hear is foolishness, when talking heads on radio and television spout partisan half-truths, more concerned with attaining power than with helping the powerless... in this sort of day, I'm longing for Sapientia.

Today the “O Antiphons” enter into Evening Prayer, to be said along with the Magnificat. And the first O Antiphon, the one appointed for today is “O Sapientia.” There is one English translation above, but most of us are more familiar with the paraphrase of the antiphon used in “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,”

O come, thou Wisdom from on high, 

who orderest all things mightily; 

to us the path of knowledge show, 

and teach us in her ways to go. 

And listening to the world today, the cacophony of hatred and dissonance which assaults our souls, I'm longing for Wisdom. I'm longing for Sapientia. I'm listening for sapience. As the author of Proverbs declares,

Wisdom cries out in the street; in the squares she raises her voice. At the busiest corner she cries out; at the entrance of the city gates she speaks: ‘How long, O simple ones, will you love being simple? How long will scoffers delight in their scoffing and fools hate knowledge? Give heed to my reproof; I will pour out my thoughts to you; I will make my words known to you. — Proverbs 1:20–23

Can you hear wisdom calling? Can you listen, can you pick out her strains in the cacophony of our culture?

I don't always feel like I can.

But I'm longing for it.

And in my own life, at this moment in my ministry, I'm listening. As I seek to discern God's will for my family, I'm listening. As I look at my calendar and see the end of June—the time when my tenure at this parish will end... I'm listening. I'm hoping to pick out her voice among the others. I'm longing for Wisdom.

Are you? Are you tired of scoffing? Are you sick of simplicity? Wisdom is kind and gentle, but she is also difficult and complex. She does not find satisfaction in easy answers or neat systems. She seeks to reveal the foundations of the world, she crafted the quantum physics that keep the whole cosmos balanced. She is not simple. She is that which men and women may spend their whole lives seeking, but her depths will go even further.

And yet, as God's Wisdom puts on human flesh, she will not go to the academy nor to the temple (except for the disrupting of their comfort). When God's wisdom puts on human flesh, she enters through a teenage girl giving birth in a barn and she leaves tortured, hanging on a cross near the garbage dump. She wears a beard and will touch those who you and I avoid. And she will heal our broken minds.

O Sapientia. Come.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

God, of your goodness

There are several moments during the liturgy when a moment of silence is called for. Sometimes the rubrics are explicit that silence is kept. Other times, they are more permissive, indicating that silence may be kept. Regardless, there are moments, just a few, when stillness is meant to envelop the assembly.

Most people find the stillness difficult. We are a people always on the move, always going from one thing to the next. There are many parishes that rigorously schedule the allotted length for each moment in the liturgy, lest any one part go longer and the liturgy end at the wrong time. In this super-efficient approach to worship, the idea of spending a moment of a worship service in silence can seem almost indulgent.

One of the ways I ensure that I keep significant silence when I'm serving is to recite small prayers to myself. Not all the time. Sometimes the silence is meant also to involve a stillness of mind. But at other times I've found this a meaningful practice.

For example, after the priest breaks the bread, the rubrics indicate very clearly, "A period of silence is kept." Sadly, I often find this period is rushed. I don't think it is intentional. I think waiting for silence feels like an eternity when you're in charge of ending it. I think in more than a few places there is not an agreement worked out between the priest and the organist about who ends the silence and when. I just know that in my own practice I work very hard to keep that silence real, perhaps even to allow it to become pregnant with the meaning of Eucharist in that moment.

And so, to keep that silence, I say a short prayer to myself,

God, of your goodness give me yourself, for you are enough to me. And I can ask for nothing less that is to your glory. And if I ask for anything less, I shall still be in want, for only in you have I all.

And then I repeat a few times,

All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well. // All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well. // All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

These prayers come from a form of praying the Anglican rosary that I picked up years ago. They are drawn from the writings of Julian of Norwich, a late fourteenth century English mystic. At a period of severe illness when she was 30, she experienced a series of powerful visions of Christ. She later wrote them down and they became the source of her book, Sixteen Revelations of Divine Love. 

The second prayer, the one that begins "All shall be well," is probably one of her most well-known. I've understood the meaning and power of that prayer since I first heard it. But the second prayer, the one that begins, "God of your goodness," is one I don't think I had a clue about until relatively recently. Ever since my spiritual director's impacting statement, I've noticed that the "God of your goodness" prayer has become increasingly meaningful. I've been reflecting for a couple of weeks now on why that may be.

I think part of it is that desire is such a complicating thing. While we all know what it feels like to want, the act of clarifying what it is we are actually wanting is much harder. This is why psychologists and therapists are so succesul, one part of their work is to help people realize what they are actually wanting.

This is why it was so powerful to hear my director articulate that she sensed within me a deep desire for union with God. I had never thought about it like that—intellectually I had, but not in a way that actually connected the theology to the aching of my heart. It remains powerful to remember that so much of my own angst and ache and want is, in the end, part of my heart's restless desire for God.

I've discovered over this past year and a half or so that parish ministry involves an awful lot of wants, several perceived desires from various quarters interacting with one another. This is why, I think, parishes argue over the color of the carpet. Every desire in the church is spiritually caught up in an individual's desire for God. Thus, even the color of the carpet has deep meaning.

And it's helpful, it's so very helpful, to be reminded that what we all are actually wanting is something else: God. It's not that our desire for God needs to be separated from the various mundane things that make up our journey into God—even the aesthetic questions of upholstery and carpeting. It's just that we need to remember why we care so much about them. We must keep the end in mind.

Each Sunday morning, after I break the bread, I rest my hands on the altar, breathe deeply, and remind myself that this is what it's all truly about—our desire for a God who comes near in the sacraments. All the other stuff that swirls through our hearts and minds, it can cloud the reality of our actual desire: God.

And somehow the act of saying this each Sunday, in my own small prayer, is remarkably calming. In the midst of all the activity and movement surrounding Holy Eucharist, saying once again, "You are enough for me," gently challenges me. It asks me to consider whether or not that is actually true. And it reminds me that when I forget this truth, when I focus the desires of my heart on anything less, that I'm still going to be left wanting.

"For only in you have I all."

On Cassocks and Mission

"Wrap yourself up in your cassock and go forth..."

Recently a friend gave me this advice when we were discussing some of the challenges that come with parish leadership. I found it a delightful phrase—particularly, because it shows how very well the person knows my own curiosities and eccentricities. But I also have a hunch there is deep wisdom in it.

One of those beautiful practical pieces of Benedict's rule is "Chapter 55: On the Clothes and Shoes of the Brethren." Though it is tempting to quote it in total, I'll just give a few lines:

Let clothing be given to the brethren according to the nature of the place in which they dwell and its climate; for in cold regions more will be needed, and in warm regions less. This is to be taken into consideration, therefore, by the Abbot...

The monks should not complain about the color or the coarseness of any of these things, but be content with what can be foundin the district where they live and can be purchased cheaply.The Abbot shall see to the size of the garments, that they be not too short for those who wear them, but of the proper fit.

Benedict goes on, indicating the importance of returning old clothes once new ones are received so that the old clothes do not go to waste but can be given to the poor. Two tunics seemed sufficient to Benedict because one could always be worn while the other was being washed. He also writes that when monks go on a journey they should be given cowls and tunics that are "somewhat better that what they usually wear," giving the clothes back upon return.

For a rather short rule this might seem like a lot of writing about something as eminently practical (and seemingly simple to deal with) as clothing. And perhaps it is... but I doubt that's the case.

I've noticed in the Episcopal Church that one of the several ways in which clergy display their maturity and spiritual depth is by eschewing silly things like special clothing and titles. "My baptism is enough for me," they say. Or, when talking about, say, how one cares for and wears standard clerical clothing, they say that these are the concerns of seminarians and new clergy. It is seminarians and new clergy who seem to obsess over whether one should wear clericals to this function or if "non-church" dress would be more appropriate. We more mature clergy don't bother with silly conversations about such trivialities.

In case you can't tell, I find that attitude condescending, at best, and hopelessly gnostic, at worst. After all, one of the first things you are taught in seminary is the great importance of the incarnational nature of our faith. We are not like the gnostics who believed matter was evil and spirit was good. We believe matter matters. Any introduction to Anglicanism that is worth its salt will tell you that our faith historically has never followed other traditions who believe that the earthy things of this world—things like food, drink, and clothing—are wicked or unimportant. Rather, our faith is always a lived faith, one that you can touch and taste and smell and see...

And it's rather clear, to me at least, that clothing does actually matter a great deal. Our society spends billions of dollars convincing us not only of the fact that clothing matters, but also that the wares they are selling are the ones we should buy if we really want to be hip and trendy. What we wear demonstrates whether or not we "get it."

And like it is with most things in society, this worldly idea is not entirely wrong.

What we wear does matter... but for entirely different reasons.

What we wear can reveal the respect we show for others and for ourselves. What we choose to wear conveys a message—that is inevitable. The question is, what sort of message will we convey.

And so this young priest chooses almost always to wear the same thing: a simple black suit and "tonsure" style clergy collar during the week. A cassock on Sundays and anytime I am in the church teaching or working in the Nave. And though I may be a bit biased, I don't believe this is because I'm obsessed with clothes. Rather, it's because I care about what kind of message I'm communicating.

I'm hopeful that I communicate a message of simplicity. I hope that by striving to avoid ill-fitting or thread-bare clothes I also communicate a level of respect for my profession and a level of respect for those with whom I spend time. And when I wrap myself up in my cassock and go forth," it is because I believe that simplicity, reverence, and a sense of tradition are found within that simple black robe.

Benedict believed clothes were important. He believed they should be simple and reflect the way of life to which the person had subscribed. I think he's right on that.

But, if I'm honest, there's another reason for my own style of dress. When I wrap myself in my cassock, I'm doing so with the hope that I'm also wrapping myself in those who have gone before me. I'm hoping I wrap myself with the prayers and identities of the various colleagues and spiritual leaders who I have had throughout my life. When I wrap myself in my cassock, I'm reminding myself that when I walk out the door of this office, when I step into any situation as a priest, I do not do this alone. I do it wrapped in the disciplines and personalities and gifts of all the priests who have been a part of my life.

And so I hope I don't step out as "just Jared." I hope that I step out as a person who is keenly aware that my own gifts, skills, and talents will always be inadequate. But if I step into the tradition, if I fold myself into the life of my colleagues, if I wrap myself with what I've gleaned from those who have inspired me, I might have enough strength for this. I might at least have enough strength for today.

"Wrap yourself up in your cassock and go forth..."

Will do, my friend. Will do. 

Lover

Memory is a strange thing. At least, I've always found that to be the case. It's strange how over the years some memories disappear and others remain sharp, clear, and crisp.

I don't remember a great details of those first couple of years in the Episcopal Church. But there are moments in liturgies, moments of conversations with parishioners, moments here and there that stand out to me as clear as though they happened yesterday.

One of those moments is, strangely enough, the concluding collect at the prayers. Father Scott (now Bishop Scott, but at that time he was still Father Scott to me) used to use almost exclusively one particular concluding collect,

O Lord our God, accept the fervent prayers of your people; in the multitude of your mercies, look with compassion upon us and all who turn to you for help; for you are gracious, O lover of souls, and to you we give glory, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, now and for ever. Amen.

He would, of course, say it with that particular West Texas accent that I so came to love. Indeed, certain phrases in the prayer book probably will always exist in my mind in a slight west Texas accent. For some reason, it seemed so strange to hear that masculine Texan voice say the words, "for you are gracious, O lover of souls."

I was raised knowing that Jesus loved me, that God loved the whole world. But to say someone loves someone or something is rather different than saying that someone is a lover. Lover, in our language, is often erotic language used to describe a person in a sexual relationship. A lover is the person who makes love to the beloved.

And my bright, wide-eyed, fresh Anglican self was amazed each and every time I heard this Texan priest say God is a "lover of souls." To me it meant more than God is one who loves souls. It meant that at God's very being, God was a lover of souls. It connoted a level of passion and intimacy and connection, a level of desire and longing, that was rarely a part of my conception of God.

When I myself, now a priest and rector of a parish, when I use that concluding collect in the liturgy, it always somehow means more to me than any of the other concluding collects. When I say it, it is like receiving a gift, because I still hear Father Scott's voice in my head. He always slowed down a bit when he came to the phrase, he said it with his own particular diction and emphasis, "For you are gracious, O lover of souls.... and to you we give glory."

Chapter 4 of Benedict's rule gives sixty some "Instruments of Good Works." One of them is, "To prefer nothing to the love of Christ." This is hard. There are many things in this world that I prefer, many that I love and like and want. But it's good to be reminded that the most important thing is the love of Christ.

Sometimes the parish can seem like an endless sea of preferences, all rising and falling as the winds blow and as the landscape changes. Sometimes it feels like a significant portion of my work is navigating and helping others adjudicate all of these preferences. And sometimes, every now and then, a wave of preferences seems as though it might come rushing over my head.

It's probably impossible to drain that sea of preferences. It probably wouldn't be a good idea even if it was. But maybe the love of Christ can be a raft, one that is strung together with the very energies, the very being of God. Maybe I can ride upon that raft, resting on those timbers, reminding myself that amidst of a sea of preferences one pure reality floats above: nothing is to be preferred to the love of Christ.

It's very trendy these days in liturgical circles to sort of look down one's nose at much of contemporary worship music, saying that it is all mindless "Jesus is my boyfriend" foolishness. That's always seemed wrong-headed to me. Some of the most ancient and venerable mystics truly did believe Jesus was their boyfriend, in a way. They used passionate language of love to describe their relationship with the divine. They helped (and continue to help) teach the church that God is, at God's very being, a lover.

Your faith cannot exist solely in your intellect. It cannot exist solely in your action. It must penetrate the deepest and most vulnerable place, the place where each of us longs to be loved—though we fear we are not worthy. It is to that place that this prayer speaks to me, it is to that place that Benedict, Theresa of Avila, John of the Cross, all the mystics of the church speak to me.

Because if God really is, at God's being, a lover... And if what God loves most are our poor, broken, struggling souls... Well, if that is true, then maybe it means that God, in God's very being, even loves souls in their particularity. Maybe it means God is the lover of your soul. Maybe it means God looks even at my soul and deep within the heart of God loves that too.

And if that doesn't scare and exhilarate you, I don't know what does.

"For you are gracious, O lover of souls, and to you we give glory..."

This is all deep and heady stuff. Maybe that's why I so like this prayer. It helps me know what to do, what to say, in response to the love of God. Faced with a God who is, in God's deepest being, a lover, a God who exists in the action of loving souls... faced with this kind of pure love in the midst of all the corrupted and broken love that surrounds us... there is one natural response...

To bow one's head, enveloped in ever-present love, and whisper, "To you we give glory, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, now and forever."

Now.

And forever.

Amen.

All That's Left

Since a young age, I’ve always been captivated by Scripture. I’ve had a sense that within it there truly lies deep and profound truth. When I started becoming more active in my local Episcopal parish, I did so as what was then called a “LEM” (Lay Eucharistic Minister). That is, I read Scripture and served the chalice. And though I found deep meaning in both ministries, I absolutely loved the ministry of proclaiming Scripture. From my earliest years I was taught to love the text.

I still do. I still love hearing Scripture proclaimed, particularly when it is clear that the Reader has really taken time preparing. And sometimes the proclamation is so meaningful that it enables me to hear the text in a way I never had.

This past week we celebrated the feast of St. Luke the Evangelist. The epistle reading for the day was from Second Timothy (4:5–13). I’ve heard this text probably hundreds of times during my life. I’d read it before the feast, preparing for my meditation on the day. But for some reason, as it was read during the liturgy, it was almost as though I’d never heard it before.

I could picture in my mind’s eye St. Paul in prison. At this point in life he’s an old man. He’s tired. He’s been imprisoned for a while, writing letters to churches and friends, refusing to accept the possibility that Rome can end his active ministry. He knows that his life is nearing its ending point, that things will not continue as they are. And as he prepares for the death he knows only draws nearer each day, he writes to his long-time student and friend Timothy. Looking back on a life of painful ministry, where he has been lauded by some and attacked by others, he has this simple advice for his friend,

As for you, always be sober, endure suffering, do the work of an evangelist, carry out your ministry fully.

As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will give me on that day, and not only to me but also to all who have longed for his appearing.

(And then, in this last part, the reality that these are the words of an old man, approaching his death, becomes heartbreakingly apparent.)

Do your best to come to me soon, for Demas, in love with this present world, has deserted me and gone to Thessalonica; Crescens has gone to Galatia, Titus to Dalmatia. Only Luke is with me. Get Mark and bring him with you, for he is useful in my ministry. I have sent Tychicus to Ephesus. When you come, bring the cloak that I left with Carpus at Troas, also the books, and above all the parchments.

There is this wonderful blending in the text. After a lifetime of painful ministry, approaching his own death, he has wise words about what it means to serve in ministry. But woven together with those words are a few small requests. He’s lonely, only Luke is now left. He’d like to see Mark, if he can. "Oh," he writes as he shivers in the Roman cold, "When you come, can you bring my cloak?"

Also the books?

And above all the parchments?

Somewhere deep within me, I understand Paul here. At the end of it all, he still has his words, he still has things he wants to teach and preach and say. But he also would like to see his friends, those he loves who have walked alongside of him. And a warm cloak would be nice. And his books. And above all the parchments, so that those remaining words he has to say can be made known.

Chapter 55 of St. Benedict’s rule gives direction for the clothing for the monks. Benedict says clothing should be given “according to the nature of the place in which they dwell and its climate.” He suggests that in general, “the following dress is sufficient for each monk: a tunic, a cowl (thick and wooly for winter, thin or worn for summer), a scapular for work, stockings and shoes to cover the feet.”

The simplicity and practicality of the Rule when it comes to clothing seems so very innocent and yet it also seems so very old and wise. It demonstrates a general ideal that runs throughout the Rule—while everything may be desired by some... that is not to be the case for the member of this spiritual community. There are actually only a few things in this world that are truly laudable, that are truly worth loving and wanting and needing. The Rule seeks to clear out the extraneous so that the community might focus on what is actually necessary for a good life.

It is so very easy to believe the lies of this world that we need many things. I was raised to love the text of Scripture, but society also shaped me to be a consumer, to think that my purpose here is to consume and use, to have and to hoard.

This text from Second Timothy, this reading from the Rule, it all serves as a gentle reminder that, in the end, I don't really need the many things I think I need. As blessed Rich Mullins once sang, “Well his eye’s on the sparrow / and the lilies of the field I’ve heard / And he will watch over you and he will watch over me / so we can dress like flowers and eat like birds.”

I think there is important gospel truth in this for those of us called to serve in ordained ministry. We are called to spend our lives building, creating, growing, that our communities may be vibrant places of faithful Christian ministry. It’s very easy to get off track, to become mistaken in what God is calling you to do. It's very easy to fall into the work of building up of a community that, at its root, merely consumes. This is, however, very different than building up of a community that, at its root, gives.

The faithful building up of a parish community is good. It is a wonderful and humbling gift to step into a long line of workers and do your part adding stones upon the foundation. But even the building up done faithfully is not the end that I'm called to have in sight.

Even good faithful ministry will draw to a close someday. No matter how valiant and faithful your work, it will end. Eventually most of us will wind up at the sunset of our lives, realizing that many of the things we allowed to break our hearts or suck our energy... many of those things probably mattered a lot less than we thought.

I would imagine that in the end, you won’t recall what your ASA was or what sort of change you saw in the average pledge or whether or not the church would be able to do another percentage increase in the budget for outreach. All of those things can be indicators for the growth of a community—but they are not the call.

Indeed, at that point, near the end, even those very important things—things that are absolutely a part of good faithful ministry—those things will cease to matter as much.

Instead, all one wants is the presence of those you love. And a warm cloak. And, of course, your books and something to write on.

After you spend your life being poured out as a libation—sometimes willingly and sometimes through the actions of others—after you’ve been poured out there is very little left.

Love. Warmth. Books. And the ability to still say something small but faithful. 

Maybe that’s all there really was all along.

Hell is Chrome

When the devil came
He was not red
He was chrome and he said

Come with me

Early in my ordained ministry, I took the Myers & Briggs assessment. For those unfamiliar, this assessment works with Jung's theory of personality types, particularly the four dichotomies. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, you can go to the wiki page on it. If you are very familiar with the assessment, you may be interested (and likely unsurprised), to find that the last time I took this my "type" came back as "INFJ." And you can lean heavy on the "J" portion of that.

As what's often called a "strong J," this means that I have a particular love for order and clarity. I would generally rather think and process my way through a situation than sense and intuit. This explains why, contrary to many clergy, I actually have a deep love for administration. I like putting things together and ensuring they run smoothly. I deplore messiness, clumsily orchestrated experiences, or situations where people are focusing on pure creativity, unstructured thinking, or anything that really doesn't have a clear and practical end.

Now, I'm aware enough to know that this is not all good. And anyone who works with Myers & Briggs assessments will tell you that no one is just one type, that we are all a blending of types. Indeed, because of my calling, I've spent a significant part of my ministerial life trying to cultivate those types that don't come naturally to me. And so I do sense. I've learned that messiness can be life-giving, that it can provide the ground for the movement of the Spirit. I know all that and strive to be balanced.

But still, in the end, I like order.

The quote at the beginning of this post is from a song called "Hell is Chrome" by the band Wilco. Since I first heard this song, I've found the opening lines provocative. I think a significant reason is because it rings so very true to me.

We think of the devil as "red." We think of him as an obviously wicked character, clearly identifiable, calling us to sins of a rather obvious nature. And sometimes temptation does indeed function in that way.

For me, however, the devil rarely shows up in his red outfit, complete with horns, cloven feet, and a pitchfork. Instead, he is chrome. And he invites me to come with him.

This means that he is clean. He is efficient. He is a capable administrator. Most importantly, he is orderly and very clear. He is smooth chrome. And like the song says, I can follow him to a place where everything is precise and towering, where I'm welcomed with open arms, where there is nothing to be afraid of... because everything is chrome. Everything is dead.

My personality tendency towards order brings some very real and important gifts to my life as a Christian, as a husband, and as a priest. But it also brings a subtle temptation to turn the world and the church into something clean, something well-oiled, efficient, and chrome. Something dead.

Real life is not chrome. It is a motley mix of colors, textures, and realities, many of them living in constant contradiction to one another. It is messy, slow, and inefficient. And the church is often this way too, not moving as quickly or as slowly or as well as we would like. It is full of people who are a part of it for all sorts of reasons. From priest to parishioner, the church very rarely meets our chrome expectations. And it's very tempting, particularly as a rector, to try to find ways to make the parish "chrome".... instead of looking for where God is incarnate in the messy reality of Christian community.

I suppose some might look at the Rule of St. Benedict as an exercise in control, in seeking to make the monastery chrome. And certainly, an important aspect of the Rule is the bringing of order to the shape of monasticism. However, it is a very Christian sort of order that finds wisdom in weakness and insight in that which is small.

For example, in Chapter 43, the rule says that when important matters are to be considered, it is to be done with the entire community. However, it is not so that the community can put it to some kind of vote. Instead, St. Benedict says, "The reason we have said that all should be called for counsel is that the Lord often reveals to the younger what is best." The preference is for a discernment of God's will—not a clearly stratified process of decision-making.

He does not want the community called together to vote, to craft a vision statement, or to determine what will make the least amount of people angry. The community is to come together to discern the will of God, a discernment that is very rarely chrome and is usually messy, painful, and uncomfortable. They are to listen to the younger voice, not because we need to keep the youth engaged, but because God often speaks to the younger members of the community.

God speaks to the littlest. God speaks to the weaker members, the ones who know they don't have it all together. And we, if we are wise, will stop polishing our chrome statues of faith and will start listening very carefully to what God is saying through those who are young, new, weak, inexperienced, and unsure. Because they are the ones who still remember what it means to listen for God.

I'm trying to do better loving the incarnation. I'm trying to do better recognizing my own limitations and loving them. God, after all, did not create me to be a perfect chrome robo-priest. God breathed love into the messy dirt of the earth and said it was good. God breathed love into me and then called me to love all the other messy dirt people all around me, people who just like me are only held together through the love of God. We are not chrome. But we are alive with love.



Hell is Chrome Video

When the devil came / He was not red / He was chrome and he said  / Come with me 

 You must go / So I went / Where everything was clean / So precise and towering 

I was welcomed / With open arms / I received so much help in every way  / I felt no fear / I felt no fear 

The air was crisp / Like sunny late winter days / A springtime yawning high in the haze

And I felt like I belonged 

Come with me / Come with me / Come with me / Come with me / Come with me / Come with me / Come with me / Come with me