Does Ordination Matter?

In my Intro to Christian Ministry class we’ve often discussed the special status, if any, an ordained Christian experiences against a member of the laity. Does a minister experience a special call, or is it just a different call? Does the call to be a minister require one to be a ‘super-apostle,’ like those for whom Paul warns the Corinthians? Do ministers receive a special grace? Do ministers possess a special sacramental authority for churches that uphold apostolic succession and the consecration of the Eucharist? All these questions are important and must be answered, but those answers will likely vary from tradition to tradition.

Two nights ago I attended an event for the AEHS (Anglican-Episcopal House of Studies) here at Duke Divinity School. The Assistant Bishop for the diocese of North Carolina administered communion, we had dinner, and held a forum concerning the Lambeth Conference held once every ten years by the Anglican Communion in England. After a lengthy discussion concerning the hopes and fears of the Church, I discovered that the Anglican Church, represented by a faith in apostolic succession and a strong ecclesiology, had very little power to address the current problems assailing the Church. What does this say of ecclesiastical authority? What good, if any, is such nominal leadership?

With the erosion of authority in our nation, this problem is one the Church must address. We are so used to having opinions, feeling entitled to what we believe, and enforcing those beliefs on others that we no longer question our own authority. There is no humility in the laity, at least pertaining to submission to Church authority. We critique Sunday sermons and ignore our own Scriptures. We explain away textual difficulties we feel demand too much of us, while we belligerently hurl other portions of Scripture against those we believe deserving of judgment. Can ordained ministers even participate in a community such as this one? We spend our lives submitting to the specialists in our culture, from doctors to lawyers. Yet when it comes to theology, we feel like we know it all, or at least know it well enough to ignore anything we find threatening or unsettling. I do not believe pastors should view themselves as specialists, but what good are three years of seminary training and subsequent years of Church experience if no one respects the education?

All of this I find discouraging and somewhat frightening. As the Church spirals into relativistic Unitarianism, in practice if not in name, and individual members elevate their own doctrine and theology, what will be left of the Orthodox Church? The tradition of the Church will persevere with or without contemporary recognition. Perhaps the question of pastoral authority can only be answered by encountering the secularized world of American religion. Regardless, the Church must act with authority whether or not the culture accepts it; otherwise, the secularization of the Church will only result in heterodoxy.

Feeding the Birds

Walking across campus today I looked up and the familiar tower of Duke Chapel stood up tall against the skyline. This view in itself was nothing new; more often than not I’m scared I’ll just get used to seeing that Gothic masterpiece. This time, however, I saw a small group of birds fluttering near the pinnacle of the tower. All the time I never stopped walking; I just watched them fly a short distance before disappearing into one of the shadowed alcoves. Nothing about the birds stood out to me; they were not colorful, they did not sing, and I certainly couldn’t tell what species they were. In that moment, however, none of that mattered. I witnessed something older than the stones of Duke Chapel, older than its foundation, and more ancient than the concept of higher education and university life. I saw birds flying.

Every day we walk past the mundane, ignoring it all out of repetitious habit. Squirrels bark from trees while those same trees sway in a breeze. Bells in a church tower ring off in the distance; your baby makes those same indefinable sounds; clouds block out the Sun giving you an instant of shade; that same Sun beams down in perfect harmony with an atmosphere that allows for perfect, 75 degree comfort while you rest on soft grass. You take a step to perform action; you sleep, eat, taste, swallow, blink, sweat, shiver, burp, hiccough, and laugh. You hug, touch, brush, kiss, sigh, cry, and smile. You work, build, think, write, copy, cut, paste, ponder, get bored, have a drink, and do it all over again. We pass our lives in an infinitude of moments that make up the mundane, each moment giving way to the one before while we sit trapped in the process, missing each moment as we wish for the next and never seeing the miracles of every, fleeting second.

We go to school for the job we’ll one day have; we date for the spouse we’ll one day win; we try to have children for the family we’ll one day see; we build schools for the education the future can share; we earn money for the retirement we hope to earn; we work ourselves into the dirt for a dream that doesn’t exist and a reality we’re never meant to witness. Sometimes it is good to look to the future; not all the above examples are necessarily negative. In each instance, however, there is something to be missed while we want what we don’t yet have. I walk to school worrying about tests, papers, grades, acceptance, worth, value, jobs, and degrees, forgetting all about the fact that I’m here, at Duke University, receiving an education I don’t deserve for a future I can’t begin to imagine.

I know we all do this; we look to tomorrow while we worry about today. I believe somewhere in this human tendency lies the hope of heaven, when all these things will truly pass from our memories. In the meantime we must continue to hope. In the meantime we must strive to fill every second with meaning and intent. Worrying and plotting or just constantly wishing for tomorrow will only make us miss it when it becomes today. Just stop and notice the mundane. While we go about our works, earning money and stressing ourselves into the grave, the birds still fly like they always have. And their heavenly Father feeds them. Are we not much more than they?

And the Two Shall Be One

My wife left for her job training last Wednesday. I flew down to Atlanta to her for the weekend and to attend the wedding. I’ve been back since Sunday; she won’t be back until Friday. In the period of about thirty six hours I’ve already realized how helpless I am without her. I do not mean to imply helpless like I can’t feed myself, but more like I don’t care if I feed myself. Life just seems to be crawling, and everything that made sense a week ago no longer does. My mind keeps reeling over new subjects and topics. I can’t seem to just enjoy being here, enjoy class, or enjoy Duke. I’ve been married for fifteen months today (as corny as that is) but I’ve only just now realized how much marriage completes the purpose of humanity (or at least my humanity).

In this experience I attempted to interpret the second chapter of Genesis and the creation of woman in a different light. “So the Lord God caused the man to fall into a deep sleep; and while he was sleeping, he took one of the man’s ribs and closed up the place with flesh.” First, it is peculiar that God put Adam to sleep in order to remove the rib for the woman-to-be. For the pre-Fall state of humanity one can only speculate, but it seems logical to assume pain and death had no claim or effect on Adam’s life. Even so, God puts Adam to sleep. Is it possible this sundering of the singular ‘man’ into the plural ‘humans’ would have inflicted much pain if not for God’s anesthetic act? What can we draw from a symbolic and/or literal reading of this verse?

When my wife was at home there was harmony. Now that harmony is absent. Not only am I alone and without someone with which to share such harmony, but the atmosphere of my home feels discordant. Adam lost a part of himself through which his wife became formed. After this occurs, the narrator establishes the role of marriage; it is an act of reconciliation and rejoining. “For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh.” As I read this today, I asked, ‘What is the reason?’ Why must they be reunited in marriage as a result of a creative act of God?

This led me to consider the difficult passage of I Corinthians 11:7, “A man ought not to cover his head, since he is the image and glory of God; but the woman is the glory of man. For man did not come from woman, but woman from man; neither was man created for woman, but woman for man.” This verse deserves a book, but here are my thoughts, nevertheless. If Creation is approached holistically, then we notice man was made in the image of God prior to his split and the formation of woman. Then God commands for man and woman to be reunited. What was lost in this act? What was gained? The ache in my soul and the absence of my wife indicate to me what man lost. Though joined in marriage, man always reaches out to be joined back to woman in perfect harmony. In this state exists the image of God. Apart from each other they are a sundered Creation.

Reaching Out

The week is over; Friday barely had time to get here and I’m already sitting in an airport preparing for a flight to Atlanta. It’s a radical experience to go from a highly academic environment to a cultural canvas of diversity and secularization in less than twenty minutes. Christological interpretations, intertextuality, eschatological inferences, and feminist Biblical interpretations disappear into the mental drain attached to the basement of my brain. I see only people, now. Different shades, colors, accents, haircuts, garb, dress, and religions float around me and I’m not invited to invade their space. So where do I take this Gospel I’ve been shown?

How does Duke theology fit into the context of everyday life? What is a Scriptural process in engaging the culture around me? In the midst of this confusion and a passive concern for the world, the only truth I confidently pursue is the heart of the Gospel manifested in my own life. “Remember your baptism;” my friend’s admonition to never forget my changed identity repeats itself through my mind. If we have faith and passion concerning the theology about God, then we must translate that same faith into anticipation for what God continuously initiates within God’s Creation.

The ongoing revelation of God to humanity finds expression as God so chooses. Therefore, Christians must remain ever vigilant in mind and spirit to observe the intimations of the Spirit within their surroundings. By doing so, one practices a type of involvement with the culture that identifies with the heart of Christ by constantly seeking for a way to approach the world. At times I wish I could simply know the mind of Christ and act accordingly, but then I face the possibility of lacking the necessary courage to act as Christ.

In my Church History precept we discussed the eschatological reality of being a part of the resurrected body of Christ. We are hidden with Christ, and made sharers in His death so that we may also share in His life. By this same power we are new creations, constantly exhibiting the truth of the Gospel in the face of doubt and resistance. Faith allows us to act; it brings our grace to fruition. The same grace of salvation, brought to pass by a saving faith, continually clashes with our sinful nature. This forces us to constantly shift our conviction from doubt to faith, trying to live every minute with purpose. Every conversation, action, deed, thought, and so forth possesses the infinite potential found in the ordained purpose of God. As a Christian I often feel as if the interaction with the world rests on my initiative or good planning, but God prepares the hearts of the people to respond to God’s call. We are agents of God’s Will, members of Christ’s body. We are not our own; we are bought with a price. I need not live afraid of what I’ve missed; rather, I should live with an intense focus on the present, every mindful of what God has done, is doing, and will do around me. With this in mind, being a passive-aggressive Christian doesn’t sound quite as bad.

Sitting

I’ve been sitting for the past five hours. During those hours I’ve incorporated a variety of busy work to convince myself I really haven’t been sitting. I read half of a book, prayed, walked to a different chair, sat down, ate lunch, walked to the library, sat down, read some more, got out my lap top, and started typing my journal entry, still seated. I’m not accustomed to sitting; the stillness grinds on my mind and my thoughts disappear into fragmentary laments and ponderings over irrelevant concerns. I desire action.

I met with Dr. Jo Bailey Wells a little over a week ago. I came into her office, sat down, and in her disarming British accent she proceeded to inform me on how to productively sit and wait, in this case on the timing of God. Since my recent interest in the Anglican Church I’ve begun to remedy my ignorance of that centuries-old tradition. While simultaneously facing doubts over ordination, my usual thirst for action became a quest for meaning and a future. I wanted to fix the problem, read a book, study Anglican history, smoke English tobacco, and talk theology with my ecumenical pals; Dr. Wells told me to sit.

“Just push the boat out, Brad; test the waters. Even row a little if you like…but just enjoy where you are.” So I am. For some reason I can imagine sitting in a boat (where at least I’m moving, or rocking, to and fro in imaginary symbolism) as more fruitful than sitting in class chairs, church pews, or my home recliner. At this point the shore lies a meter off my bow with my back turned to the horizon, but I’m sitting. From time to time I reach out to grab the oars, pretending as if a quick pull or stroke will yank the horizon into view and cast the shoreline into memory. I know it won’t, however, so I sit.

Perhaps it’s my Baptist background, but so much in me cries out to reach out and do. It’s my job, my life, my soul, my call, my career, my family, my wife, my purpose. All these realities compound my inability to let God take me where God wills. I want to offer my own sacrament of exhaustion and hard work alongside the body of the Christ. Just sit, God seems to whisper. Wait. These whispers sometimes seem less than a whisper, like a hollow breeze that mimics a whisper. Before you’ve heard the voice the breeze is gone and the trees are still again, sitting on their roots and looking down at you walking along in such an awful, worried hurry.

It’s time to get up for now; I’ll walk about a hundred meters then sit down in my Hebrew class. But I’m not worried for now. I’m going to sit, and listen, and write out this journey. The word of God comes and goes, leaving us with impressions of the Spirit, while we sit and wonder if in these tarnished images God still sees Himself.

Without Faith

What constitutes a person’s faith? Less than a year ago I probably would have possessed a succinct conclusion regarding that question. At this time in my life, however, I struggle to understand what composes my own faith. Is faith simply a set of beliefs, a type of intellectual acceptance of certain facts and figures? Jesus plus the Cross minus my sins equals salvation? Or is it more of a world view? Creationists versus evolutionists, those who read the Bible as history versus those who read it all as formational literature, conservatives versus liberals, and many more controversies illumine stark contrasts between people of faith, even in the Church. What makes me Christian? Is it because I believe in six days of Creation, a literal Flood, prophets who sent bears to maul mocking youths, Israelites who smashed infants and murdered women because God told them to, or is it because I somehow manage to justify and explain all these things in my head? In truth, I believe faith is none of the above.

Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. What proves that certainty? Is there some type of action required of me, or do I only need to feel certain? Much of the confusion I’m feeling regarding this question comes as a result of a tough question that was put to me earlier this week. If a person claims to follow Christ but his life clearly implies the opposite, then what are we to conclude regarding his faith? It is not our job to judge, but it is our job to learn from each other in the Church how to conduct ourselves in a way that honors Christ. So if a person follows Christ in action, but not in word, what comes of her?

Whenever I wrestle with these thoughts, one idea always bleeds through the mental jargon. It isn’t complicated; it doesn’t require belief, or acceptance, or explanation. It’s just to love. And I do not mean to suggest that this idea to love reserves itself only for those I already love. The thought is more of an imperative, like a command from God, a whisper from the Holy Spirit. Just love. In every second of my day each person that I encounter, every enemy and/or friend I come across, is to be loved. I think this is faith. I don’t need faith to have the idea, nor do I have to believe in love or that I’m supposed to love. I am simply to love, and that action is faith given flesh. This is Gospel.

So when things are confusing, when Hebrew texts don’t exactly line up when any English translation in existence simply because Hebrew and English can’t be precisely translated into the other, when dozens of assumptions I’ve held about my beliefs can no longer be reconciled to my faith, then I will love. At moments like these, a person discovers the presence or absence of their faith. Somewhere in these tangled thoughts lies the foundation of being a pastor/priest, a person of faith.