"He died for your sins!"

Though scholars continually try to do it, it is notoriously difficult to trace the Reformation to one event or even to a set of events. The most common is that day in 1517 when Martin Luther pinned his 95 theses to the door of a church blasting many common churchly practices, the sale of indulgences first among them. But I don't think anyone of important stature took notice for quite some time. In any event, what was it in Luther's life that urged him to do this? He relates one story that I think is quite edifying for us today.

As Luther tells it, he was guilt ridden with his sins and would consistently go before his confessor Father Johann von Staupitz crying: "My sins are killing me." He would describe the picture of Christ he had to continually pass on his walks, one which pictured Christ the judge with two swords coming out of his mouth and how it left him hopeless. Staupitz, at this point much more keenly aware of the grace of God than Luther himself, used to say: "Luther, why do you bother me with these puppet sins. If you raped or murdered, then I would have something to absolve you of."

When he saw that this was not working, he took Luther into the sanctuary before the big cross, effectively turning his eyes from the picture of the judging Christ to the picture of the crucified Christ. "What do you see?" he asked Luther. "Oh its horrible. Its my judgment." Staupitz, growing somewhat impatient asked, "Why did he die?" And Luther in his obedient manner gave the answer he had likely given all his life: "For the sins of the world." Here Staupitz turned him and looked into his eyes crying: "Luther, he died for your sins! If you lack assurance, then you mistrust this man. What more can he do to show you his love? It's not that God is angry with you. It's that you are angry with God."

Luther later said that this turned his whole thinking upside down. And though, as many of you know, I am less a fan of the Reformation than many of my Protestant brothers and sisters because of the great schism he created in the church to this day, I can certainly recognize that reform was needed, particularly a greater understanding of the magnificent, overwhelming grace of Christ.

Review: The City of Falling Angels

For Christmas this year, my overly-generous brother-in-law gave me an IPod Nano. Among other amenities, this handy device has allowed me to indulge my craving for good literature without cutting into the dwindling freetime I have. Using the IPod, I have taken to listening to books on CD while I am driving to school, walking around campus or doing any number of mundane things throughout the day. So while I might fit in with the undergrads, given that I now have plastic appendages coming out of my ears as I walk, I retain my intense "nerdiness" by the fact that I am listening to books. C'est la vie. The following is a review of the a recent book I listened to, namely, The City of Falling Angels by John Berendt. As with previous reviews on this sight, I will refrain from too much analysis as I find that this can tend to persuade a reader to not pick the book up for him or herself, and my goal in these reviews is always to encourage reading.

Berendt is the best selling author of the critically acclaimed Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. Though his latest book falls short of his first classic in every sense, he does manage to do for Venice, Italy what he did for Savannah, Georgia in the former work. The city comes alive in Berendt's artful hands and is a character in its own right. Through his artful descriptions, incredible detail and witty anecdotes, the reader finds himself placed in the middle of the city, tasting its foods, smelling its air, and walking its streets (or in this case, traversing its canals). And other than Savannah, Georgia, there is perhaps no other city, Berendt shows, quite as unique as Venice.

Berendt arrived in Venice in January 1996, just a few days after the fire of the city's historic (and last standing) opera house the Fenice. This event, then, serves as the unifying event through which he weaves his tale about the city of Venice as seen through the eyes of its marvelous, real life characters. As in his first novel, every character is real. We meet Venice's plant man, who has dressed as a large plant on the streets of Venice for twenty years selling his exotic shrubbery. We meet the Rat Man of Venice, the man who has given his life to developing the perfect potion for killing rats. We meet master glass blowers, famous poets, artists, and architects. We learn about the Italian family, the haunts of the likes of Henry James and Ezra Pound, and the fate of the American sponsored "Save Venice" program. We experience, through Berendt's eyes, Carnival, the centuries old Venetian tradition of taking to the streets in wild, masked celebration, the likes of which are not rivaled on New Orleans hallowed streets.

Through it all, we learn more and more about the mysterious night the Fenice burns as Berendt skillfully unravels a tale of arson and madness. The reader comes to see the Fenice as a metaphor for Venice herself, a once marvelous and towering city that in its latter years has become tired and old. The canals are dirtying, the history withering, and the architecture literally falling to the streets. Yet Berendt shows its beauty and the reader is left feeling as if he or she has been there.

Berendt, unfortunately, does not bring all of the characters he has introduced to the reader back together around the event of the Fenice burning. This is the fascinating triumph of Midnight, that all of the characters we came to know through the book were ultimately somehow involved in the murder mystery that unified that book. Such is not the case with The City of Falling Angels. Yet Berendt nowhere claims that he meant it to be so. He wanted to tell the story of Venice through the eyes of the people who lived there. And this he did with the same skill his fans have come to expect.

And now for something totally different, Part II

In an effort to break up the monotony of these theological posts, I thought that I would give yet another installment from that brilliant, biting, beautiful poet Dorothy Parker.

"In youth, it was a way I had
To do my best to please,
And change, with every passing lad,
To suit his theories.

"But now I know the things I know,
And do the things I do;
And if you do not like me so,
To hell, my love, with you!"

Eyefuls of Planks

Let me be really clear at the outset of this post. I am no fan of Sean Hannity. I do not agree with his politics and I do not agree with his tactics. However, in the following clip he and Alan Combs are interviewing Shirley Phelps Roper of infamous Westboro Baptist Church fame. And what is it they say about odd bedfellows?

What I find compelling about this clip is Hannity's final question and Roper's stunned response. There is no better example that I have seen of Jesus' saying that it's much easier to see the speck in another's eye than the plank in one's own.

Beautiful and Frightening

Some of the best blog pieces I have read are at the same time beautiful in regards to style and frightening in regards to content. Such is the case with the following post from my good friend Omar Alrikabi over at First Born Son. He is currently doing college ministry at the Wesley Foundation in Fayetteville, Arkansas. I envy the kids who are privileged to sit under his teaching. Check out his post here. And say a prayer for peace on earth.

Sacramental Cinematography

In 2004 on the Tuesday night preceding Ash Wednesday and the start of the Lenten season, Mel Gibson released his much anticipated "The Passion of the Christ" that was both hailed and criticized. There are some theological difficulties with the movie. I have heard it said, for instance, that the Christ shed so much blood in this movie that he died three times over. While the amount of blood shed was meaningful to an understanding that it was by His blood that we are saved, the notion that no human being could have lived through that blood loss and made it to the cross gave the impression that Christ was some sort of super human. We might like to think this at times, but let us remember that the truth of the incarnation is just this fact - that Christ became a man like you and like me. There was nothing supernatural about the beating he received, save the faith he had to keep him on that cross. Physically speaking, he died as any other man in his condition would have died under the same set of circumstances. We have to remember this because his true humanity is crucial to our salvation.

Having said that, I think that Gibson's sacramental theology is "spot on," as the English are fond of saying. If you remember, during the crucifixion scene, the picture cut back and forth between the events on Golgotha and the scene the night before in the upper room when Jesus was breaking bread with his disciples. As Jesus' hands were nailed to the cross, the scene cut to Jesus taking the bread. As the cross was raised up, the scene cut to Jesus raising the bread. As the blood dripped from his hands, the scene cut to show the wine. "This is my body," Jesus said, "given for you."

This scene brilliantly showed the beautiful truth that the Fathers wrote about, namely that the actions of Jesus in the upper room cannot be understood apart from his actions on Golgotha. In other words, Jesus is doing the same thing on Friday that he did on Thursday night. And this understanding further undergirds the understanding that Christ is somehow truly and mystically present in our celebration of the Eucharist. Not that he is crucified again, somehow transported to each of our churches, but rather that we are transported back 2000 years to that rock in the shape of a skull. That seeing the bread raised and the cup of wine, we are seeing our savior, "the Lamb standing as though slain," as John puts it. And that by partaking of the bread and wine, we are made one with him, one with his death, and one with his life.

Mystagogy

In the fourth century, in the years following the Edict of Milan - the pronouncement by Emperor Constantine that Christianity was now an officially recognized religion and could therefore no longer be legally persecuted - a new genre of Christian literature began to emerge called Mystagogy. These were a series of lectures which were given to catechumens to explain to them the significance of sacramental acts like baptism, eucharist, chrism, etc. These lectures, in other words, introduced the neophytes into the mysteries of the Church, heretofore unknown to them.

In the process of catechesis, a candidate for baptism would learn all about the story of Scripture, he or she would learn the meaning of the different beliefs, the expectations of the Church - that one would engage in works of charity, etc. - perhaps the history and story of some of the saints, and other meaningful and important information. However, the catechumens would never learn about the sacraments for these were mysteries and were saved for baptized persons only.

Thus, the beginning of the Eucharistic liturgy, 'The Liturgy of the Faithful' as it was formerly called, was marked when the president of the congregation would shout: "The doors! The doors!" All the unbaptized would be escorted outside the Church to the porch and the doors would quickly be shut before the blessed host was brought out. No one in the outside world knew what went on inside those doors. As a result, nasty rumors began to circulate that the Christians were cannabals, eating on the flesh of babies. The first person to reveal what went on was the second century apologist Justin Martyr, who revealed some of the secrets so that the rumors would be shown to be false. But many Christians, I am told, were non plussed with his actions. These mysteries were sacred. Pearls that were not to be thrown to swine.

Still not until the Mystagogies do we get a glimpse into the deep, significant meaning that the early Christians placed on these mysterious acts. For in these sacramental acts, their salvation - and salvation history and the salvation of the world - was enacted. To be baptized is to cross the Red Sea into the promised land and to enter into the courts of the heavenly king. To put on the new white robe after baptism is to put on the garments of the new man, the wedding garments that would make one fit to attend the wedding feast of heaven. To feast on the Eucharist is to take the body of Christ into yourself, to become one with God.

Significantly, the catechumens were not instructed on the meaning of the sacramental acts until after they had gone through them. The ancients, unlike us, did not believe that one had to understand something cognitively before he or she could experience it. By the time they understood that baptism was the holy act of passing into the promised land, those catechumens were already sitting at the wedding feast and were becoming one with their God. For only such a one as this was worthy to know the mysteries.

Truism

"I should not like my writing to spare other people the trouble of thinking. But, if possible, to stimulate someone to thoughts of his own."

-Ludwig Wittgenstein