from Indianapolis

So I’m in Indianapolis for the Lilly PTEV (programs for theological exploration of vocation) conference. Great people (I’ve met students from Goshen, Messiah, Dordt, Alma, Austin, etc), great conversations.

Coolest thing about this conference? The OpenSpace way it is run: we decide what, when, and how we want to talk about stuff. The only guiding question: What does the world need to know about your theological exploration of vocation?

I’ve gone to conversations like:
is thinking about vocation a luxury? What about those who can’t (injustice) or are unable (disability)?
how can we come together? Ecumenism rocks!

Utrecht, Heidelberg, and Trent

It is a rare gift to behold an historic event, so rare that I might not have noticed it for the brief ordinariness of it all. I witnessed a small step closer in the dance of ecumenism between long-separated partners: the Catholic Church and the Reformed Church.

In typical Reformed fashion, it began with a study cfommittee charged by the Reformed Ecumenical Council (REC) with the task of evaluating the Heidelberg Catechism Q&A 80 on the Catholic Mass (Eucharist) and the Lord’s Supper. Written in the 16th century, this confession accuses the Catholic Church of “condemnable idolatry” in the celebration of the Mass, on grounds that it denies the uniqueness of Christ in the elements. (There’s a bit more going on there too; read it for yourself. You can also read the Christian Reformed Church in North America’s report on HC80).

On the plane to Amsterdam, I glanced at the ponderous report prepared by the committee. By the time of the presentation session, I had forgotten their main conclusion, and so was suprised to hear their humility and repentance of its gross mischaracterization of Catholic theology, at least today.

When Monsigneur Rodano, head of the Council on Ecumenism at the Vatican, rose to deliver his remarks, his creased hands unfolded a single sheet of paper on the podium. I expected a few dry remarks on the nature of the Catholic Eucharist. Instead, in a light Jersey accent (picture the Godfather in a clerical collar) he voiced an eloquent and impassioned plea for mutual understanding. He warmly commended the CRCNA for its efforts at dialogue with Catholic leaders to learn the nuances of their church’s beliefs, and gave an rousing cry for the honest truth that brings the healing of memory.

Lament

I just finished writing a paper on John Witvliet’s book Worship Seeking Understanding. One of the chapters which provoked most thought was a reflection on death and the worship life of a community. The topic has been on my mind due to recent events in the Calvin community. I originally split this in two posts but decided to reunite the sections today. Here it is:

Though absent for last fall, I have walked with the community through the sicknesses of Daryl Holmlund, John Zoerhoff, and Carol Smith; and have been further impacted by the recent death of Rachelle Goedhardt and Carol Smith. Although I know that death is no more common this year than any other in the Calvin community, the weight of suffering seems to bear down heavier than before.

Last year I served as a Worship Apprentice, an experience that shaped my faith journey into the rhythm of faith of the entire community. Although no longer so intimately involved in the worship planning and leadership, I still retain a close link with the sighs and joys of Calvin students, faculty, and staff. This close identification with the worship life of the community is a dangerous thing, I know, but one that I contend is closer to Christ’s self-giving sacrifice for the church. If worship nurtures the faith of the community through difficult times, then we need to be intentional at including lament in the rhythms of communal worship.

Last fall I spent the semester in Budapest, Hungary, through Calvin’s Off-Campus Programs. Among the most moving days I spent in the city were those surrounding All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day, because I experienced communal lament in a way I had never seen before. Of all their national holidays, these are the most cherished by Hungarians, where one remembers loved ones who have died, mourns centuries of national tragedies, and honors saints and heroes.

On a cold November night, I went to a graveyard in the Buda Hills about an hour before it closed. Inside, people milled around quietly, placing candles and flowers around a rotunda and a sculpture near the front gate. As Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played in the background, I stood for over an hour, watching candles flicker in the wind. When a candle blew out, I would take another and light it, or cluster candles together against the wind. Old women, young couples, and teenagers walked quietly through the graveyard, remembering those they loved. Sadness hung heavy as fog descended over the city, obscuring the bright lights along the Danube.

I waited for the music of Fall to cascade over me, and once the music repeated itself, I walked through narrow paths up the hillside, among gravestones and wooden markers. Along with the entire nation, I mourned the loss of loved ones, the untimely death of humans by war, disease, and famine, and the suffering of the world. As I walked back down the hill, the vibrant, joyful notes of Vivaldi’s Spring reminded me that death does not have the last word. Lament moves through sorrow and anguish to quiet, confident trust in God. Christians would benefit from deeper, worn-in practices of lament in the rhythms of public worship.

The Church

A motley crew, all of them. The lumpy oval of people surrounds a table, wearing brown tops and ties, black suits and pink shirts, orange plastic earings, foam green and baby blue skirts, and auburn sashes. The plate passes by me and I take a piece of bread – the size of a marble, white, dry, and crumbling. This is the body of Christ. Ringing in my ears, a shaky soprano offers her song, but keeps switching between remembrance and real presence language in her song. Which is it?

I look up around the circle again. Faces raised, eyes clenched tight, hands cradling the bread, everyone is intent on the proceedings. I know these people, know their stories and their personalities, know who has scrounged for money this year, know who struggles with old, sick bones. Their kids are playing in the back of the church, an occasional scream or giggle penetrating the music, but this commotion does not distract anyone. Behind me stands the family of a Korean-American pastor; a few steps away is the member who has worked in the US for several years.

How many of them realize – those girls across the circle who dance for the church, those old women whose knees are stiff from prayer and arthritis, the dying man who smiles in childlike abandon, the 15-year-old boys with wayward voices and hands a size too big – how many of them realize what is going on? They are not alone; they are not the only ones in the world who partake. Do they understand the mystery, appreciate the dissonance, or rejoice in the hope? The dry bread accompanies watered-down grape or pink cranberry juice. The flag falls, the signal is spoken, and all hands move in unison, raising plastic thimbles to their lips. In syncronized slow-motion, a hundred heads tip back and swallow the juice; a few seconds later it is all over. Does anyone notice the irony? For a moment, this squabbling band is united in one common task, around one table. We rejoice momentarily, shouting “El vive!” to each other, picking up old arguments and tasks and clothes as we walk back to the benches.

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. Have we seen his glory?