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January 3, 2007

The New Year begins with prayer. One of the forms of prayer which the church has used over time is called a “collect,” or more simply, “prayer for the day.” Such a prayer is usually a short acknowledgement of God’s grace combined with a direct and specific appeal for God’s help. One of the collects suggested for New Year’s Day reads as follows: “Eternal God, who has brought thy servants to the beginning of another year: Pardon, we humbly beseech thee, our transgressions in the past, and graciously abide with us all the days of our life; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”1

We notice right away the “thees” and “thous,” the fact that we haven’t “beseeched” anyone for some time or used the word “abide” except in a hymn. Still, I invite you to look again at this prayer and what it is asking. It begins by remembering that it is the Lord God who has brought us to this day. We are not here by accident, and certainly not by virtue of our own achievements. No, we are here because the gracious Lord God “has brought thy servants to the beginning of another year.” And like most collects, this little prayer contains a blunt and direct demand, basing such not on the urgency or virtues of those praying but on the acknowledged character of that One who graciously invites such claims. “Pardon,” the prayer asks. At the beginning of the new year, “pardon us.” The new year can only begin with God’s grace, and because of that, we are bold and right to pray, at the beginning, “pardon.” It is out of God’s own gracious forgiveness that we are enabled to begin at all. And the aim of this little prayer is very clear: that God would “graciously abide with us all the days of our life.” This is not a prayer for riches or straight “A’s” or an untroubled semester but simply a prayer that God “would graciously abide with us”—than which there is no greater gift, no higher delight—“all the days of our life.”

The prayer concludes with the simple acknowledgement that as the beginning of this new year belongs to God, so are our endings entrusted to him. A helpful word to begin a new year and a new term together.

September 4, 2007

Recently I was asked to lead a Bible study on the book of Acts. Theologians are sometimes accused of straying rather far from the biblical text so this was a good opportunity for me to dig deeply into scripture itself. One of the treasures I dug up was the discovery of the difference between “they” and “them” and “we” and “us.”

The main character in the book of Acts is the Holy Spirit, who, empowers the early church to flourish and grow in faith through the witness of various apostles, martyrs, saints, and heroes of the faith. Mostly it is a story about “them”: Peter, Stephen, Phillip, and Paul. But at Acts 16:10 the story shifts. In describing one of the Apostle Paul’s journeys, Luke writes: “When he had seen the vision, we immediately tried to cross over to Macedonia, being convinced that God had called us to proclaim the good news to them.” A big change. Up until this point, the narrative had been a story about “they” and “them.” But somewhere along the way, that story became a story about “we” and “us”.

I think that this kind of shift is true for every seminarian. For some time our faith has been a story about “them”: our parents, teachers, pastors, friends, heroes and heroines, near and more distant neighbors whose witness has been as compelling as it has been somewhat detached. But at some point in following “their” story, even when we have followed it only from afar or with more or less growing interest, at some point we have come to see “their” story as including “us.” Not that the story is about “us” anymore than it is about “them,” but that their story engages “us” in its narrative, sweeping “us” along a river from whose bank we had formerly been only spectators.

I am thinking particularly of our first-year students, who may have thought about seminary for a long time or may be only just now dipping their toes into the water, but who are sensing that the pronouns have begun to change, the winds have shifted, the direction has become less general and more vocational, even specific. The strange thing about all of this is that when the story becomes “our” story, the landscape becomes more interesting, the path, even in all its difficulty, more clear, the questions more compelling, sharp, and even possessing a curious delight. I don’t know about Luke, but I do know that beginning seminary, as scary as such a prospect may seem to some, may also provide an occasion for joy, a rejoicing that is happy to be getting underway, leaving the handwringing and self-analysis behind, and hitting the road. It is a long road with its own challenges, but on this road are “good companions” with whom to walk, and best of all, the good companion, who, in breaking bread with us, puts an end to our being a “they” or “them” and enables us to become, in his company, a “we” and an “us.”

January 2, 2008

When my wife and I lived in Scotland, we discovered that the Scots reserved most of their winter holiday partying for New Year’s, not Christmas. Which is not to say that they did not celebrate Christmas (and even more these days) but only to note that by culture and formation they marked the passing of the old year and the coming of the new with special enthusiasm. It was a Scot (Robert Burns), after all, who gave us the song, “Auld Lang Syne.” In any case, “Hogmanay” is what they called the new year celebration, an occasion for much whooping and hollering, imbibing and celebrating that can last most of the night. One of the traditions connected with this event was called, “first-footing,” which consisted of being the first to visit friends and neighbors in their homes in the early hours of New Year’s Day, that is, any time after 12 midnight. I don’t think I could do “first-footing” now but I was younger then and could stay up later. I enjoyed the tradition of being welcomed into a home as one of the first visitors of the “year.”

The new year (and the new term!) ought to be welcomed with such generosity, even when the future seems at best uncertain. And the reason for this really has nothing to do with hospitality per se, but everything to do with hope.

There are plenty of reasons not to welcome the new year: wars, terrorism, economic dislocations, racial and ethnic conflict, failing health and the ravages of disease, just to name a few. In addition, for a student beginning yet another school term, the mountain to be climbed can look especially daunting. It is tempting to view the beginning of the term as a kind of chore to be completed, a task that can be done, but hardly a gift from God’s own hand. Some may even call this kind of resignation “a mature outlook” or even “wisdom.”

I have a friend who is dying of ALS, who recently sent me an email. He will not likely see the beginning of 2009. In his note to me he quoted some poetry and asked me some questions dealing with the doctrine of the Trinity and worship, a theme that has occupied his D.Min. studies. Now, I wonder about all of that. What right does he have to be so focused? He did not whine or complain, nor did he seek to appear noble or long-suffering. Rather, he was never more himself, and in the face of his own daily weakening and dying, he was passionately engaged in the praise and service of God. What gives one such blessed “un-self-consciousness,” such robust hope? After all, what does my friend have to hope for? He will be dead within the year. Yet he wants to know what faithful worship of the triune God looks like.

The gift of the new year and the new term is that the “first-footing” belongs not to us, but to the God who enters our lives and takes up residence there even in the darkest times. That is why we can welcome the future so gladly, because it too belongs to the God who comes to meet us in our time and who is drawing us into his life “each newborn day.” Simply to praise, to offer doxology, strikes me more and more as what both theology and ministry are about. I do not mean that having faith is to lose judgment or to ignore the pain and suffering that are so near. My friend can see all of that quite clearly. But it takes hope and even joy to embrace such judgment and pain and suffering, and not despair of such things or write the world off as a bad job, or worse, become “wise” in our resignation. My friend with his questions was not seeking the wisdom of resignation. Rather, he reminded me of nothing more than a lily. Jesus said something about lilies of the field that neither toil nor spin, and which, like grass, are quite vulnerable to the vicissitudes of time. Yet they simply praise and are beautiful in their praising. We could do worse as we begin this term and new year together.

September 3, 2008

As I write this note a group of entering students is being oriented by our faculty and staff, with the help of some “veteran” students. Getting oriented to seminary is the first of many steps these new students will take together. But in truth, getting oriented is a daily struggle and much larger than any seminary. Augustine described the plight of fallen human beings as one of being “disoriented,” that is, of living disordered lives. Our tendency, he maintained, was to love things and use God, when in fact, we are called to love God and use things. To be oriented, or rather, to become re-oriented, is to find our loves rightly ordered in their true orientation toward God. As the Shaker song asserts: “When true simplicity is gained, to bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed, to turn, turn, will be our delight, till by turning, turning we come round right.” That is the aim, the hope of all our orientations, that we will be oriented toward our true center so that in all our various turnings, we come round right.

January 7, 2009

In late December, 1944, Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote a note to his mother in which he thanked her for being “there for me and the whole family” during such a difficult time. At the end of the letter, he expressed the hope that in the coming year, “we may have the joy of being together.”2 It would be beyond presumptuous to compare the troubles of 2008–09 with Bonhoeffer’s situation, but as we begin this new year, I believe his words and his life continue to give strength to our own witness in our own day and time.

As we enter 2009, a year full of expectation and hope, but also a year not without its clouds and fears, we do well to hear again Bonhoeffer’s words of gratitude, not as words of optimism about the future—after all, scarcely four months after he wrote these words, he was executed—but as words of hope.

Hope is not a carefully calculated assessment of our future prospects but an anchor rooted in the reality of Christ’s resurrection. That anchor holds amidst the storms that assail us, even the scary ones that seem dark and frightening. And it is that anchor that makes each new day, even the ones we fear as we begin a new term, a gift.

September 8, 2009

In one of his poems, John Donne writes these words about the nature of ministry:

What function is so noble, as to be

Ambassador to God and destiny?

To open life, to give kingdoms to more

Than kings give dignities; to keep heaven’s door?

Mary’s prerogative was to bear Christ, so

’Tis preachers to convey him, for they do

As angels out of clouds, from pulpits speak . . .

How brave are those, who with their engines, can

Bring man to heaven, and heaven again to man.3

Well, you say, that is just so much metaphysical poetry, and perhaps not all that theologically perceptive. After all, in the Reformed tradition, ministers are hardly thought of as “angels,” nor do they, of themselves, lift up anyone to heaven or bring heaven down to anyone. True. But, like Mary and all faithful disciples, they do “convey” Christ in bearing their own witness, and to that extent, their function is not to be despised. Donne is right that ministry is a noble task, and one whose work should be praised and celebrated, not for the angelic virtues of the minister, but for the beauty and importance of the task.

Karl Barth, in talking about students of theology, writes: “[No] one should study merely in order to pass an examination, to become a pastor, or in order to gain an academic degree. When properly understood, an examination is a friendly conversation of older students of theology with younger ones, concerning certain themes in which they share a common interest . . . . Only by his qualification as a learner can [a person] show himself to become a teacher. Whoever studies theology does so because to study it is (quite apart from any personal aims of the student) necessary, good, and beautiful in relationship to the service to which he has been called.”4

So we begin, not just with the study of various disciplines, but with the journey of a lifetime, bravely, perhaps also foolishly, entering into a conversation that has been going on long before we dare to enter it. This conversation, I think you will find, can be both daunting and delightful, and will, in any case, stretch us and strengthen us to “convey” a gift more precious than gold. I look forward to beginning with you.

September 7, 2011

In those same lectures which he delivered in America, Barth noted that theological study is not a passing phase of life. The “theologian, if he [or she] was in fact a studiosus theologiae, remains so even to his death. (Schleiermacher, it is reported, even in his old age, prefixed his signature at times with the usual German designation ‘stud.theol.’)”5 That is how Barth viewed his own vocation, I believe, and represents, he thought, the most that can be said of anyone who sets out on this course of study. At the end of our life’s work, though we may be in a very different place than where we were at the beginning, we will still be students of theology, disciples seeking to follow their Teacher.

Barth was not a particularly modest man or theologian but he knew that in following Jesus Christ one never ceases to be a learner. One always has to ask. And one must never be ashamed of asking or of being a student. Indeed, as Barth’s statement implies, one matures and grows in this course of study, precisely to the extent that one learns to ask, struggling with answers that question us and our questions more deeply. To become a student of theology is to learn not to be embarrassed by one’s poverty. We are all beggars here.

My favorite time of the day is about 6 a.m. when I set out for my morning run. Really it is more like a jog or a run-walk. I am not a runner and have never been enthusiastic about exercise, but I do like to wake up early and go for a 2.5 mile jog through my neighborhood. The hard part is getting started. Especially, since in our neighborhood there is a steep hill at the very beginning. On cold or inclement days, I find it very hard to get going. But once I do, the going is good and when it’s over, I enjoy so much walking back through my neighborhood, “cooling down” while seeing the sun streaming through the trees. The world in that moment seems a beautiful place. It’s the getting started that is hard. Like learning to ask questions that may reveal how little I know. Being ashamed of our poverty is something we need to get over. It’s time to start running, to start asking, to rejoice in being invited to a great conversation.

1. Proposed Book of Common Prayer, 1928, Church of England, Collect for the New Year.

2. Bonhoeffer, Letters and Papers from Prison, 548–550.

3. Donne, “To Mr. Tillman After He Had Taken Orders” The Complete Poems of John Donne, 115.

4. Barth, Evangelical Theology, 172.

5. Ibid., 172.