Judas and Mary Magdalene Lovers?

         

          Two letters have been unearthed that some say, “could turn Christianity upside down.”

        “We think it could, possibly, with some measure of uncertainty, be two letters,” says Professor Sam R.T. Pants, archeologist from Harvard University.  ”One is perhaps from Judas Iscariot to Mary Magdalene and the other potentially is Mary’s reply.”

         A team of linguists from Harvard quickly translated the letters and sent them out to all available news sources - including this blog.  The first letter reads as follows -

 

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         My Dearest MM –

            How beautiful you are, my darling!  Oh how beautiful!  Your eyes are doves. Your voice is sweet, and your face is lovely.  Your cheeks are beautiful with earrings, your neck with strings of jewels.  Let me kiss you with the kisses of my mouth — for your love is more delightful than wine.

            Your teeth are like a flock of sheep just shorn, coming up from the washing.  Each has its twin; not one of them is alone.  Your lips are like a scarlet ribbon; your mouth is lovely.  How beautiful are your sandaled feet.  Your graceful legs are like jewels.    Your navel is a rounded goblet that never lacks blended wine.  Your waist is a mound of wheat encircled.

            How beautiful you are and how pleasing, O love with your delights!  Your stature is like that of a palm, and your breasts like clusters of fruit.  I will climb that palm tree;  I will take hold of its fruit.

            Come away, my lover, and be like a gazelle.

            With much love,  JI       

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     The assumed reply is as follows -

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     Dear JI (a.k.a. Jerk Ignoramus) -

     First, how dare you rip off a beautiful poem from Scripture to serve your own purposes.

      Second, if you would spend more time following the Lord rather than oogling my body, there might be hope for your soul.

     Finally, nobody will ever believe those rumors about me and Jesus being married, so give it up.

      Drop dead,  MM   

 

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          While some within academic circles are convinced of the authenticity of these letters, others have doubts.  Said one Princeton professor,

          ”You’ve got to be skeptical since the letters are written on Harvard stationary.”

 

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{first published April 1, 2007 in Necessary Therapy}

Heaven on Earth Revisited

 

          It was 1985.  I was at the hospital, being wheeled into the operating room for an elective surgery that was more annoying than critical.  Through the powers of my persuasion (a dangerous substance - to be used only in small doses) - I had convinced the staff to let me listen to some music on my headset before the anesthesia kicked in.  This is what I heard -

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He Was In Heaven Before He Died *
©John Prine 

There’s a rainbow of babies
Draped over the graveyard
Where all the dead sailors
Wait for their brides
And the cold bitter snow
Has strangled each grassblade
Where the salt from their tears
Washed out with the tide

Chorus
And I smiled on the Wabash
The last time I passed it
Yes I gave her a wink
From the passenger side
And my foot fell asleep
As I swallowed my candy
Knowing he was in heaven
Before he died

Now the harbor’s on fire
With the dreams and desires
Of a thousand young poets
Who failed ’cause they tried
For a rhyme without reason
Floats down to the bottom
Where the scavengers eat ‘em
And wash in with the tide

Repeat Chorus:

The sun can play tricks
With your eyes on the highway
The moon can lay sideways
Till the ocean stands still
But a person can’t tell
His best friend he loves him
Till time has stopped breathing
You’re alone on the hill

Repeat Chorus:

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          I woke up with the words still gently caressing my mind.  The surgery was over.  God was in this place, and all was well with the world.  I felt blessed by the life I had been given. 

          Who would have thought rectal surgery could be so reassuring?

 

          { For more Prine info, check out the John Prine Shrine.  Music and other materials can be purchased at OhBoy Records .}

 

{originally published April 9, 2007 in Necessary Therapy}

Manic Monday VIII

          Pole to Polar: The Secret Life of a Manic Depressive  tries to look at the lighter side of mental illness in “Laughing at Suicide“

 

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          Furious Seasons calls into question the media’s role in pedalling pharaceuticals in “NPR Show Tied to Pharma Influence“

 

 

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          NAMI Affiliation Leader Alicia Sparks from Mental Health Notes features an inspiring story in “Bipolar Survivor Ken Jensen Explains Why It Takes Guts to be Him“.

 

 

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          Sara from Life Simply wonders about her diagnosis in “Am I Really Bipolar II?”

 

Sunday Morning Coming Round Again

{first published March 25, 2007 in Necessary Therapy}

 

          Yesterday, a song was running through my head -  Kris Kristopherson’s “Sunday Morning Coming Down”.   It took me back 20 years, when my life was a lot like that song.  I was 21, working six days a week at a plastics factory, living alone, and staying out too late with people who had about as little ambition as me.  I hated Sundays.

Well I woke up Sunday morning
 With no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt
 And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad
 So I had one more for desert

          I slept on a musty mattress on the floor, had a milk crate that doubled as a kitchen table and typing desk and bought my clothes from the Salvation Army.

Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes
And I shaved my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.

          Each Saturday night I traveled about 20 miles to the nearest college town where I could meet up with some friends, go to a bar and listen to bands (mostly upper middle class white kids) screaming about how awful life is.  Then I would go alone to hear the Blues or lonesome, low-down Country while lighting one cigarette off another.

I’d smoked my brain the night before
With cigarettes and songs that I’ve been pickin
My mouth was like an empty ashtray I’d been lickin’
But I lit my first and watched a small kid
Cussin at a can that he was kicking.

          Sunday again.  Sunday, when I would watch the world go by and sometimes wonder why I wasn’t in it.

Then I crossed the empty street
And caught the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken
And it took me back to something
That I’d lost somehow somewhere along the way.

          Life wasn’t always this way.  Especially not Sundays.  In high school, I had great friends and was part of a thriving youth group with a dynamic leader who shared with me the love of Christ.  I came to believe and it carried me through rough times.  But I didn’t hang on.

          Faith can be fickle, at least the faith I had then.

On the Sunday morning sidewalks
Wishing Lord, that I was stoned
Cause there’s something in a Sunday
Makes a body feel alone
And there’s nothin short of dyin
Half as lonesome as the sound
On the sleepin city sidewalk
Sunday morning coming down.

          Sunday morning, clothed in a Salvation Army topcoat, head covered by a Jim Beam hat (with maybe even a fifth in my pocket), I went to the park, and just like the song says. 

In the park I saw a daddy
With a laughing little girl who he was swingin

          I smiled.  Life can be good.  Maybe not my life.  Maybe not yet.  But maybe it could be.  There’s always hope.  Always. I started looking for the faith I thought I’d lost.

And I stopped beside a Sunday school
And listened to the song what they were singin
Then I headed back for home
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin
And it echoed through the canyons
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.

          I may have headed home that day. But, not long after that, I was drawn into a country church (with a bell no less).  I still smelled of smoke and wore that Salvation Army topcoat (though I left behind my Jim Beam hat and my pockets carried only my offering).  Those simple, faithful, wonderful Christians welcomed me home.

 

          I don’t listen to Kris Kristopherson much anymore.  But I still have faith.  I go to church every Sunday (in fact, get paid to do it).  And each week I pray someone out there in the world might let go of the loneliness of their days going down and look forward to Sunday morning coming ’round.

Resident Aliens

          In 1984, I marched through the streets of Louisville, Kentucky, walking beside three political refugees from El Salvador who had found sanctuary in the homes of a few concerned Christians.  They were “illegal aliens”, ineligible for asylum because our government supported theirs.

          Later, in 1987, I spent some time in a farm community in South Georgia, known as “Jubilee”.  Part of their mission was assisting refugees who were unable to stay in the US find their way to Canada where they could settle safely with their families.

          Now I find myself a neighbor to a growing population of “undocumented workers”.  The issue is beginning to hit closer to home.  I was intrigued when I saw this article in the May 9, 2007 New York Times.  It begins -   

          “Recalling a movement that challenged United States policy in Central America in the 1980s, several religious congregations in New York and other cities will announce a campaign Wednesday to provide sanctuary to illegal immigrants who face deportation,”  reports James Barron in “Congregations to Give Haven to Immigrants“

          Providing safe haven for strangers and resident aliens is clearly a Biblical mandate.  The ethical quandry comes when we consider how far we should go to oppose the legal system of the government where we reside.  One pastor who is part of an organizing effort called “The New Sanctuary Movement” expresses her conviction this way –

          “We’re launching now because we’re fed up with detentions, deportations and raids,” said the Rev. Dr. Donna Schaper, the senior minister of Judson Memorial Church in Greenwich Village. “We felt it was not morally possible to remain silent.”

          How is it possible to be a good citizen and a good neighbor, particularly toward those who are falling through the cracks?  It seems we have reached a point where these two compelling Christian duties conflict so sharply that something (or someone) has to give.

          The single most important question Christians need to answer in this and any other political situation is - “Is obeying the law of the land causing me to disobey God’s law?”  If you are led to answer yes, then you may need to break the law and accept the consequences. 

 

 

 

{first published May 10, 2007 in Necessary Therapy}

The Living Word

For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.  (Hebrews 4:12)

 

          The world often advises us to be guided by our feelings, to do what seems right in our own eyes, to make the logical decision when it comes to the paths we choose. Ultimately, however, any guidance that comes from within us is flawed. We see only partial reality and any judgments we make based on our own limited perspectives are bound to fall short. So where do we turn for guidance?  The Word of the Lord.

          Martin Luther sums this up quite well.

“You should not believe your conscience and your feelings more than the word which the Lord who receives sinners preaches to you.”

 

 

{first published May 3, 2007 in Necessary Therapy}

Faith and Suicide Revisited

      Since being diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, I’ve been inundated with all the alarming statistics about my future functioning (or lack thereof).  By the grace of God, I have more-or-less beat the odds thus far.  For this, I’m grateful.

       Many others aren’t so fortunate.  There are many people who try just as hard as I do to stay sane only to fall victim to the illness, even to the point of death.  And it’s not a question of the measure of faith they have.  Personal faith can’t save you from tragedy.

         Some time ago I read an article in the New York Times that poignantly illustrates this -

           The police arrived at the small Astoria, Queens, apartment of Mr. Guglielmini’s mother, Francesca, soon after she last saw her son. A young man had jumped off the 59th Street Bridge, they said. A backpack had been recovered. In it were two Bibles, and Mr. Guglielmini’s name.

       So if our faith can’t save us, what can?  Only the hope of Christ, given to us through the gracious mercy of God.  Why everyone doesn’t receive this gift is a terrible mystery.  The fact that some do is evidence of God’s amazing love.

       For my part, I just cling to the belief that Someone stronger than I am is keeping me alive and is leading me through dark valleys to greener pastures.  God has saved me from the point of death not because I have more faith than anyone else, but because He has others plans for my life.

       So if you find yourself lost in a dark valley, hold firm.  Keep the faith of Christ that carries us through.

 

 

 

 

 

 

{adapted from “Faith and Suicide, published May 15, 2007 in Necessary Therapy}

Finding Myself

          I’ve never been so lost in life as when I was trying to find myself.  I was so busy trying to carve out a new identity for myself that I failed to recognize just who I am in the first place.  I was lost.

          There are a lot of lost souls out there.  It seems it’s almost a cultural mandate that we have to go out looking for ourselves and, when we do, there’s no telling who we might find.  Many people get lost trying to find themselves and come out barely able to recognize themselves (if they come out at all).  

          John Prine sings of one poor lost soul in this classic song –

 

Come Back to Us Barbara Lewis Hare Krishna Beauregard
©John Prine

The last time that I saw her
She was standing in the rain
With her overcoat under her arm
Leaning on a horsehead cane
She said “Carl, take all the money”
She called everybody Carl
“My spirit’s broke”
“My mind’s a joke,”
“And getting up’s real hard”

Chorus
Don’t you know her
When you see her?
She grew up
In your back yard
Come back to us
Barbara Lewis
Hare Krishna
Beauregard

Selling bibles at the airports
Buying Quaaludes on the phone
Hey, you talk about
A paper route
She’s a shut in without a home
God save her, please
She’s nailed her knees
To some drugstore parking lot
Hey, Mr. Brown
Turn the volume down
I believe this evening’s shot

Repeat Chorus

Can’t you picture her next Thursday?
Can you picture her at all?
In the Hotel Boulderado
At the dark end of the hall
I gotta shake myself and wonder
Why she even bothers me
For if heartaches were commercials
We’d all be on T.V.

Repeat Chorus

 

 

 

for more information on singer/songwriter John Prine,  check out the John Prine Shrine.  You can purchase Prine’s music and other materials at Oh Boy Records.

 

{first published May 27, 2007}

Whose Right to Vote?

 

 

     I know very little about current events.  I am particularly ignorant about political affairs.  At times I scan the on-line version of the New York Times or the BBC , looking for something to write about and I come up empty - not because there’s nothing there, but because I don’t understand hardly anything I read.

      I don’t think I’m alone in my ignorance.  While there are many people who follow the news closer than I do, much of the news is presented in such simplistic ways that it doesn’t inspire much thought.  Instead, it evokes a one-sided opinion that is easily changed with the mood of the nation.

      Take the Iraqi War, for instance.  In  a New York Times article some time ago, Gary Bass writes -

Of all the people who deserve some blame for the debacle in Iraq, don’t forget the American public. Today, about two-thirds of Americans oppose the war. But back in March 2003, when United States troops stormed into Iraq, nearly three out of four Americans supported the invasion. Doves say that the public was suckered into war by a deceitful White House, and hawks say that the press has since led the public to lose its nerve — but the two sides implicitly agree that the public has been dangerously unsure, or easily propagandized, or ignorant.

      One of the cornerstones to a healthy democracy is an educated populace. It seems to me one of the contemporary crises we face is the lack of people who can think through issues without being unduly influenced by party-line political pundits.

     Bass goes on to cite economist Bryan Caplan who writes in his book The Myth of the Rational Voter: Why Democracies Choose Bad Policies :

     “voters are worse than ignorant; they are, in a word, irrational — and vote accordingly.”

     I think it’s much more complex than this.  I think by the time it comes around to voting, rational thought has long since been thrown out the window.  Irrational thinking shapes our daily lives in subtle, subversive ways, in what we say and do, in how we spend our money - in short, in how we choose to live.

     So where do we go from here?  Caplan proposes a “voter competence test”, giving extra votes to those who demonstrate greater economic literacy.  The econonmist Caplan shows his stripes here, of course, elevating his own academic discipline to the highest level.  I don’t agree that such a test would necessarily yield better government.  I do think, however, we need to discover fresh avenues to help people who vote learn how to think - not just economically and logically, but morally and spiritually.

     In the meantime, I guess we just vote the best we can.  God help us.

 

     

 

{first published May 29, 2007 in Necessary Therapy}

Manic Monday VII

           

Real Live Preacher offers a beautifully poignant reflection on his mental health in “Call It Depression“.

 

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          Stephany from Soulful Sepulcher describes the exhausting journey of a parent with a bipolar child in “A Mother’s Story“.

 

 

 

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          Susan Bernard, the Bipolar Wellness Writer, raises some intriguing questions about the nature of Bipolar as temperament or personality in “Is There a Bipolar Personality?”.

 

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          Jonah Lehrer in The Frontal Cortex examines the tenuous connection between mental illness and artistic expression in “Madness and Creativity“.

 

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          Abagail Zuger provides an excellent review (”Quieting the Demons and Giving Art a Voice“) of Marya Hornbacher’s book Madness: A Bipolar Life.

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          Mental Health Notes features the cartooning work of Chato Stewart, who is living with and laughing at Bipolar.  Check it out - “Success Story: Using Mental Health Humor As a Coping Skill“. 

 

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          If you’re interested in some in-depth scientific conjecture on potential factors relating to Bipolar, check out “Lithium, Circadian Clocks, and Bipolar Disorder“ in A Blog Around the Clock.

 

 

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          Lily from Succor Midst Sorrow reflects on some myths and misperceptions about Bipolar in “Some Crazy Ideas about Bipolar Disorder“.

 

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          Roller Coaster Kid offers some encouraging words for parents of children with Bipolar in “Don’t Give Up“

 

 

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           bedknobs, broomsticks, and bipolar disorder serves up a thoughtful (and humorous) piece called “12 Steps to Bipolar Disorder“

 

 

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A Good Rest

{This was first published on April 1, 2007 in Necessary Therapy}

          For in six days the LORD made the heavens and the earth, the sea and all that is in them, but he rested on the seventh day.  Therefore the LORD blessed the Sabbath day and made it holy.  (Exodus 20:11)

          I don’t take Sundays off (as a pastor, it’s an occupational hazard).  The trouble is, I don’t take any days off.  I work every day.  I don’t even take vacation time. 

          It’s not something I’m proud of.  In fact, I feel terrible that I am willfully violating one of God’s commandments.  Not keeping the Sabbath, not devoting time to be spiritually refreshed, disturbs my mind, upsets my heart, and saps my strength such that I have less to give to God and to others.        

          By contrast, every Sunday morning, Wendell Berry takes a leisurely stroll through his field, then comes back and write a “Sabbath poem”.

Here’s one of them -

 

Whatever is foreseen in joy
Must be lived out day to day.
Vision held open in the dark
By our ten thousand days of work.
The hand must ache, the face must sweat.
And yet no leaf or grain is filled
work of ours the field is tilled
And left to grace.  That we may reap
Great work is done while we’re asleep.
When we work well, a Sabbath mood
Rests on our day, and finds it good.

 

 Rest.  It’s good.  Very good.

A Political Solution

{first published on May 11, 2007 in Necessary Therapy}

 

   The most demonic, destructive people on earth are those who seem to have devised solutions to the world’s problems.  Kill the Jews and save the economy.  Abort minorities and reduce crime.  Engage in “pre-emptive” strikes and end terrorism.

    W.H. Auden observes what is appealing about despotic leaders in his poem - “Epitaph on a Tyrant” (found in Collected Poems).

     Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after/ And the poetry he invented was easy to understand/  He knew folly like the back of his hand/ And he was greatly interested in armies and fleets.

     It is human nature to want to understand and be understood.  When someone comes along who seems to “feel our pain” and recognize our needs, we tend to turn over a great deal of our trust in them and leave ourselves very vulnerable.

     Deep down, I think many people, even “good old Americans” would prefer a benevolent dictatorship to a messy democratic republic.  We long for some political figure to take care of things for us, rather than do our best to faithfully take care of things ourselves (with God’s help).

      Auden reveals the danger of this as the poem concludes - 

      When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter/ And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

       The Bible says Satan comes as an angel of light - someone who seems to show us the way out of the darkness.  When you seek political solutions for the problems of this world, be wary of those who seem to have them.  There is no “final solution” in this life and any who propose to have it are not of God, but of the adversary.

One Soldier’s Prayer

{first published on March 29, 2007 in Necessary Therapy}

 

          I went to a worship service this week and we said a prayer litany for the American soldiers serving in Iraq.  During the prayer, we read off a list of all the soldiers from our area who had been killed in the war.

          I don’t know the statistics (maybe someone out there does), but for every soldier who dies, there are many, many who are wounded and maimed.  It makes me think back to the John Prine song, “Sam Stone” written at the height of what was then called, “The Vietnam Conflict”.

 

 

Sam Stone came home,
To the wife and family
After serving in the conflict overseas.
And the time that he served,
Had shattered all his nerves,
And left a little shrapnel in his knees.
But the morhpine eased the pain,
And the grass grew round his brain,
And gave him all the confidence he lacked,
With a purple heart and a monkey on his back.

There’s a hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes,
Jesus Christ died for nothin I suppose.
Little pitchers have big ears,
Don’t stop to count the years,
Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios.

Sam Stone’s welcome home
Didn’t last too long.
He went to work when he’d spent his last dime
And soon he took to stealing
When he got that empty feeling
For a hundred dollar habit without overtime.
And the gold roared through his veins
Like a thousand railroad trains,
And eased his mind in the hours that he chose,
While the kids ran around wearin’ other peoples’ clothes…

There’s a hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes,
Jesus Christ died for nothin I suppose.
Little pitchers have big ears,
Don’t stop to count the years,
Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios.

Sam Stone was alone
When he popped his last balloon,
Climbing walls while sitting in a chair.
Well, he played his last request,
While the room smelled just like death,
With an overdose hovering in the air.
But life had lost it’s fun,
There was nothing to be done,
But trade his house that he bought on the GI bill,
For a flag-draped casket on a local hero’s hill.

There’s a hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes,
Jesus Christ died for nothin I suppose.
Little pitchers have big ears,
Don’t stop to count the years,
Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios.

     For all the Sam Stone’s out there - God bless.  No matter how it seems, Jesus did die for you - to live.

 

Winning the War

{first published on May 2, 2007 in Necessary Therapy}

 

 

          First, I need to confess my own quiet complicity in the current war.  I’ve had misgivings since we first invaded Afghanistan, but I’ve kept them to myself.  Here and there, I’ve pointed to some absurdities about war in general and this war in particular, but for me to now make judgments from higher moral ground would be just as absurd.

          Maybe I should muster up the courage (now that my conscience is more keenly pricked) to jump in with some political rhetoric.  But I just can’t bring myself to do it.  It would only be contrived.  It’s just not me.  I find myself so thoroughly apolitical, that all I can do is nod in agreement, shake my head in disgust, or quietly walk away.  None of these translate well to blogging.

          What I can do (and often do do) is hide behind the convictions of others and feign  innocence based on ignorance.  Allow me to quote Mr. Wendell Berry, writing during the first Gulf War in his essay - “Peaceableness Toward Enemies” (from Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community).

         “We must…consider the possibility that this war happened not because we had a purpose in fighting it but simply because we were prepared for it, because we wanted to show what could be accomplished by our terrible new weapons, and because we ‘needed’ just the sort of victory we won.” 

          I’ve heard it said that every generation needs its war.  There’s nothing like a good war to stir up the patriotic juices, to summon up a strong sense of self-righteousness, and to stimulate political debate.  War, even when diabolic to its core, serves a larger purpose that small-minded folks like me can’t even begin to conceive.   

          In the aftermath of this war (if we ever get to experience an aftermath), as we lick our wounds, we can tell ourselves we’ve at least done something in response to terrorism.  We, as in, everybody except folks like me - pansy bloggers who sit back and write pointlessly silly reflections instead of dealing with the real world of politics that makes a difference in peoples’ lives (and deaths).

          God bless America.  Please.