Falling Off the Edge of Theolo

There is an old Hebrew koan: "What conclusions can be reached by doing theology with a Buddhist?"

In his 2009 book, Without Buddha I Could not be a Christian, Paul Knitter lives out this question.

Knitter's book serves first as a personal memoir. His intimate revelations--deeply candid, often anxious and sometimes tortured--will resonate with readers who have become dissatisfied with rigid and exhaustive categories for Christian faith. Knitter's self-reflective journey serves a practical theological purpose: to crack the shell of historical Roman Catholic theology with the non-theistic tools of Buddhist teaching. He does so with the expertise of a man steeped in academic Roman Catholic discipline who is at the same time well trained in Buddhist thinking and practice.

As such, for those exploring the interfaces between Christianity and Buddhism Without Buddhism will prove an invaluable resource. Knitter's deep knowledge of Christian doctrine allows for a complex and thorough comparison with the ancient Asian philosophy. The book wrestles with the big questions of Christian theology: theodicy, trinity, the effect of prayer, divine and human justice. In spite of the book's often over-apologetic tone (concerned as it is not to give offence to either Christians or Buddhists), its thinking is clear, informative, and on some points persuasive. I am certain that for many of Knitter's generation--Baby Boomers who still struggle to emerge from the perceived cocoons of pre-1970s structures--Without Buddhism will offer a breath of fresh air and a new engagement with religious thinking.

As I read this tortuous journey from Christianity to Buddhism and then (maybe) back to Christianity, I was struck by a paradox lurking largely unspoken beneath the text. The book's starting point, like Knitter's journey, is a problem with Christian theology: the water in which Knitter spent so much of his life thoroughly immersed. Buddhism, on the other hand, is at its root non-theistic. While Christian practice of emptying the self compares well with Buddhist practice, doing theology with Buddhism seems comparable to a dog asking the hemlock how to wag its tail.

In Christianity, theology is distinct from the scriptural witness, confession, and experience. The weaknesses in Christianity which this text attempts to address with Buddhism are chinks in the armor of Christian theology. As the book often admits, many (non-papal) strains of Christian theology, confession, and practice do not suffer the problems of Knitter's theological training. This is especially true of mystical sects of Christianity. The existential edge from which Knitter fell into Buddhism was not that of faith per se, but the precipice of theology.

Because of its theological starting point, Without Buddha constantly wobbles (Knitter's terms: "passes over," "passes back") between worldviews, producing difficult questions. Is there such a thing as evil, or not? Is Christ a person, or just a spirit of non-self? Does justice meaningfully exist such that it may be pursued? Of course, vacillations on such crucial points as these fit nicely into one of Knitter's persistent themes: seeking oneness in duality, that which is both one-and-not-one. In spite of Knitter's clearly positive interpretation of his journey, this reader is unsure whether the tensions in the text are necessarily creative or simply fraught.

Among the many other questions raised by the book, the reader must wonder if another book, "Without Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him) I Could not be a Christian," could be written (especially if Knitter's wife were Muslim). To cast the net more widely, might we soon be reading "Without Confucius I Could not be a Jew"? Does Knitter's book suggest implicitly that, at least theologically, every religion is insufficient without all the others? Does it point us to a reductive or historical humanist position on religion?

We are told in the introduction (page xi) that Knitter feels his understanding of Christianity is necessarily incomplete without reflection on other religions. This lens shapes the entire book, and Knitter's calling as Professor of Theology, World Religions, and Culture is evident. As the title suggests, the book describes his synthesis of Christian theology and Buddhist teaching. The synthesis, for Knitter, is so complete that he finally asserts, "To have one without the other is to have neither" (227). That is a strong statement for the necessity of syncretism--at least for Knitter.

This reader, taking personal privilege here, has found that attempting to follow Jesus faithfully leads to all sorts of creative conundra around questions of oneness, duality, the nature of evil, pursuit of justice, and the nature of heaven (to name a few). Coming home to one spiritual spouse (to use Knitter's metaphor) has proven to be richer and more challenging than sharing the marriage-bed of faith with multiple partners. So, it seems to me, one of the overarching questions in Without Buddha does not suit the case.

For the challenge, and passion, and thoughtfulness of Knitter's work I am thankful. And thanks to my brother, Chris, for blessing me with this book as a gift. I thank God for you!

~ emrys

Quality On Tap

I'm giving public kudos to the manufacturer of an increasing number of our faucets: Aquasource (http://www.aquasourcefaucet.org/). Because of idiosyncrasies in our home, we've had to make two repairs to a faucet we bought three years ago. All it takes is a call to their customer service department, and a new part is on the way, at no cost to us. 

Better yet, I describe the problem ("The handle on the faucet is getting harder to turn, and water has been dripping underneath the sink when the cold water is on") and customer service identifies the problem and sends the part ("You need a new ceramic three-way valve. We'll send you one. What's your address?).

When the part arrives, I call the same number and have patient, knowledgeable tech support to help me through the repair process (still at no charge). For a reasonable cost, the faucets are reliable and good-looking. We get them at Lowe's.

Now I'm eyeing the upstairs bathroom hardware and wondering how long before I'll have it in the budget to change those . . .

~ emrys

I'm a Dork

I scanned the shelves of our local Rotary book giveaway kiosk. Dork Diaries: Tales from a Not-So-Popular Party Girl by Rachel Renee Russell (2010) caught my eye. My daughter is now a beginning reader, which means that in the blink of an eye she will be picking up teen fiction. I might as well get a taste of what will be on the school library bookshelves. (The back cover of Dork Diaries states, in understated print, that "this edition is only available for sale . . . through school book clubs and school book fairs.")

The formatting of Russell's book captures the adolescent imagination with its hybridizing of hand-printed typeface on notebook paper and Japanimation cartoons. The latter add humor and poignancy to the repetitive, predictable drama of an adolescent girl's life. I must be clear here, for the drama of adolescent life was for all of us repetitive and predictable: projecting our anxieties on friends, trying to lie to our parents, over-expressing or stuffing our emotions at precisely the wrong times, and fretting over who would go to which dance or party with whom. Russell's character, Nikki, who journals about pedantic youth with the articulate erudition of a college English major (Will my daughter know and use the word "sashay" in seventh grade?), goes through the whole roller-coaster of tweenager life in 279 pages.

It's a page-turner: Will Nikki stay on the good side of her friends? Will Nikki's nemesis (MacKenzie Hollister) completely ruin Nikki's social life? Will Nikki and her BFFs (yes, txt-gen abbreviations are retained for authenticity) rescue the school Halloween party from disaster? It's all the drama you'd expect from the life of a tween "dork." (That term must be clarified, here, as a purely self-referential moniker. All the characters are pretty Anime twigs, the girls indistinguishable except for slight differences in hair style.)

Once, though, Russell peeks with us into the abyss of adolescence. After snubbing the cute boy who is (we intuit) about to ask her to the dance, Nikki writes, "WHY was I acting so crazy? WHY was everything so confusing? WHY was I hurting a person I really cared about?"

Good questions. Of course, tween fiction can't begin to render a response. Even beginning to entertain these Big Questions violates the rules of the genre. Wrestling with the angel of angst must be put off, our existential needs receiving only the bone of a BFF group hug and . . . well, I don't want to spoil the whole ending. But it's fair to say that Nikki isn't yet ready to crack the cocoon of middle school. Which makes me wonder . . .

Does this book have any function besides mindless entertainment? One approach to recovering from difficult events in our lives is to tell our experience to others. In the telling, so one gathers, there is healing. Through the telling comes the therapy. The "Aha!" moments arise from putting to words one's remembered reality. Is there similar value, for tweens, in reading Dork Diaries? Or is it literary bubble gum? To return to the small print on the back cover: Does this genre have educational value?

Or--I continue to wonder--perhaps the value is in my reading such books with my children. Perhaps discussion of whether we should emulate the lives we read in such fiction will provide enrichment and growth. (In which case, God help me if my daughter really likes this material!) Maybe the task is to use the narrative as a mirror for my kids' own lives. Are you really a "dork" because your brain suddenly starts hiccuping around that boy?

A third (non-exclusive) option: Maybe series like Dork Diaries will serve as reading exercise for my kids. Genetically, odds are high that they will become bookworms. And not every book can be The Catcher in the Rye. Maybe one just needs sometimes to read as a way to zone out of the day-to-day world. Maybe my kids will read just for entertainment's sake on occasion, and nothing more. Like . . . bubble gum.

And maybe they'll come away from it knowing words like "sashay."

Thanks, Ms. Russell, for making me think. Now I'm going to put my nose back into some writing on comparative theology.

~ emrys

Scripture, History, and Interpretation

With fundamental questions about interpretation of the bible continuing to surface in our congregation and denomination, I decided to go more into depth with the scholarly work on the subject. I picked up an e-book edition of Behind the Text: History and Biblical Interpretation, Volume 4 of the Scripture and Hermeneutics series, editors Bartholomew, Evans, Healy, and Rae. (The year . . . I can't find the year on the title pages of the e-book. What the ? 2003, I think.)

First, a comment on e-book reading, as this is my first textbook length book read in electronic format. I found not knowing where I was in the book by the weight and thickness of the pages disorienting--or, better put, fatiguing. Many times when I've read dense scholarly works and come upon a section that drags, I think to myself, Well, it can't go on for that long, because there's only this much (perceived by my fingers holding the pages) left in the book. I couldn't do that here. Even with the page numbers labeled at the bottom of the screen, I felt like I didn't have a handle on how much I had read and how much I had to go. I never realized before how important this sense was to my process of reading.

On to content. The contributors to this volume reveal a vast depth of research and knowledge in the field of hermeneutics, history, and philosophy. I gained great insights into the impact of thinkers like Spinoza, Duhem, and Troeltsch--though, taking as long as I did to read this text without a book club, I already feel myself losing the ability to articulate what I read! I had many "Aha!" moments when I recognized within myself patterns of interpreting scripture that come from these modern and post-modern currents of philosophy and their associated views of history and hermeneutics.

The format of Behind the Text, an interaction of scholars with each other's essays in the same volume, made for compelling arguments tempered by thoughtful critique. At times, it also made for some repetitiveness, though for someone not immersed often in this level of discussion that redundancy could be helpful. (I don't use the adjective "Troeltschian" often.) Even when the going was tough because of the high-powered academic writing style, my labor was rewarded by greater understanding.

The capstone of the book was the final article, written by Stephen I. Wright, entitled "Inhabiting the Story: The Use of the Bible in the Interpretation of History." His first insight, which put into words something I sensed reading the rest of the text, was that most of the work so far had been "on the defensive" for historical-critical interpretation of the bible. Coming from the conservative realm as texts published by Baylor and Zondervan are wont to be, I think the milieu of this slice of the academy is generally suspicious of or hostile to the historical-critical method. While I found this apologetic work enlightening for its elucidation of the philosophical contours of historical-critical method, I personally have always assumed the method to have some validity. Wright's pointing to the elephant in the hermeneutical room allowed me to take a deep breath and realize my relationship to this gaggle of articles.

Wright's second helpful insight was his move from "whether the bible should be interpreted with a critical historical eye" to "how shall we use the bible critically to interpret history?" As someone who does this every week--nay, every day--I engaged his closing article with relish. His descriptions of the work of figurative interpretation of the scriptures resonated with my own regular hermeneutical work, and stretched my thinking around new facets of how that work is done.

For any scholar--academically credentialed or not--interested in getting a better handle on the issues of interpretation that arise from the problems of history, this book is worthwhile. It is a reminder that even before we--and I'm thinking especially of pastors and preachers like myself now--begin to think about interpreting a text, we have already made philosophical decisions of which we may not be aware. Part of the value of reading this book, for me, is becoming aware of those decisions and exploring whether I want to make different decisions in the future. What do I assume about history? What do I assume about how God acts in history? Do I want to continue assuming that? If I don't, how will that affect my speaking about and speaking from the scriptures?

~ emrys

The Wife of Bath

The best gifts are the most unexpected ones.

Today I had the joy of receiving a note from an old friend with whom I have been too long out of touch. She is an artist, residing in Bath, Pennsylvania. Upon finding her name in my dad's address book--unearthed in this month's portion of the continued sifting through his estate--I wrote her a few weeks ago.

What should appear with the note today but a gift of several bars of soap, made by the Wife of Bath--with a name whose pun works two ways. Here is the label from a soap called Instant Karma:

I cherish those things both artfully made at home and which bear a pleasing scent--perhaps learned from a few years of my own wife's work with homemade candles. I also enjoy references to medieval poetry which make me dig up again that ancient high school learning so long buried.

If one should desire for one's spouse a gift of handmade soap, composed lovingly with an artists' palette of scents and colors, then let me recommend a purveyor of such fine goods: Linda Kondikoff, kondikoff2@ptd.net.

Just remember first to ask your spouse what she most desires.

Thanks, Linda, for the wonderful surprise!

~ emrys

Happily Ever Before?

Disney's newest classic, Frozen, has rocked the world of a whole new generation of Disney Princess fans. For those of us who have lived through several iterations of the "one day my prince will come" plot line, a major epicenter in the film was the moment when (spoiler alert!) Prince Hans of the Southern Isles abandons Princess Anna to the demise of her frozen heart. What? The prince and princess aren't going to ride off into the sunset together? No: As promising as Kristoff and Anna's relationship appears, the act of True Love that saves Elsa is her sister's self-sacrifice, not a chivalrous kiss.

What happened to that universal salve for loneliness and meaninglessness, Marriage?

This very question Stephanie Coontz explores in her book Marriage, a History: from Obedience to Intimacy, or How Love Conquered Marriage (Viking 2005).

In her exhaustive, scholarly tome, Coontz provides a breathtaking panorama of the institution of marriage through history. She begins with the fragmented anthropological tiles of ancient societies and slowly walks us down the aisle to twentieth-century marriage. On either side of the aisle sit the sweeping forces that contribute to our understanding of marriage: sociology, economics, law, and psychology. Coontz takes them all in, reflecting on the shifting effects each element of our Western society has on this bedrock covenant commitment.

As a "history," the book does not have a thesis per se. But one facet of the study seems to me to rise in greater relief, as I view the subject from my perspective in 2015. This aspect is described pithily in the subtitle: "How Love Conquered Marriage." Coontz asserts that in the 19th and 20th centuries the idea of marrying for the love of two individuals--the "love match"--radically and irrevocably altered the nature of marriage in our society. She emphasizes how re-centering marriage on the desires of two individuals has made the institution (if it can now be called that) both more satisfying and more fragile than it's ever been.

I appreciated Coontz's book for the rich detail engendered by her depth of research. But adding value to her work is her humble recognition of our biases and the concomitant surprise when faced with historical facts. We (especially we Disney viewers) assume that the Donna Reed version of marriage represents not only the ideal scenario but also a relationship reflective of the institution throughout Western history. Sure, they didn't always have electric toasters; but it was always the wife's job to stay in the home and wait for her husband to return from work, right?

As someone who officiates at weddings more than the average citizen, I am especially sensitive to the changing mores and family systems that affect--and effect--marriages. I am far from certain that a nostalgic insistence on the way things were (though they probably weren't) is the panacea for the fractured relationships that individualism produces. As in all relationships, nuptial or otherwise, I am convinced that commitment and self-sacrifice, no matter what the precise language or circumstances of the covenant, are the central features of success; who earns more money, who does the grocery shopping, and who spends more time with the kids matter less. As strange as it feels to me to quote a Jack Nicholson character in connection with marriage, his guise in As Good As It Gets says it well: Each spouse must feel of the other that "you make me want to be a better person."

So perhaps Frozen has touched this chord, too, with the zeitgeist-savvy writing by which Disney has made its trillions. It is not the descent of a privileged Prince Charming to the lowly station of a Damsel in Distress which melts the ice on a cursed world. Instead, the willingness of a sister to sacrifice her life exemplifies true love. So if marriage is going to last, even in our self-obsessed culture, it must help spouses commit to the discipline of sacrifice: What will I give up to bless my partner in our life together?

For anyone who wants to rethink the purpose and power of marriage, or to better understand the strange times in which we live, I recommend Marriage, a History.

~ emrys

Wanting Another Future

Somehow I got invited to a community forum for Rural Broome Counts, an effort to research and address the human service needs of the rural portion of our county (Broome County, NY). One of the presenters at this forum was Frank Evangelisti, who brought us a summation of the 2013 Broom County Comprehensive Plan: Building Our Future. After his brief presentation, he half-jokingly offered copies of the full plan and report, a 300-page spiral-bound tome with graphs, data, narrative, and an extensive vision for Broome County's future progress. After the forum, I got myself a copy.

Broome County has about 200,000 residents, living in situations as diverse as dense inner-city apartment buildings and 150-year-old farmhouses without a neighbor in sight. I was fascinated to read through all the data, distillations, and declarations made in the "comprehensive plan" for such a population.

More than the hard data, the vision-casting that goes on in the document makes me think. For instance, how does leadership make a community "vibrant"? This term came up specifically in the dream of the comprehensive plan. Color? Art? Smiles on faces? People walking with energy, rather than huddled and plodding against the driving wind?

Being outside the leadership of Broome County--and therefore suffering the separation of abstraction--I found myself reflecting on what a "comprehensive plan" would look like for the community of which I am a leader: the Church. Every item in the Broome County plan called for some change, some additional investment of energy, and probably some money. How does a community get people to want to do such things?

How does the Church get people to want to enact a vision for her future?

~ emrys

Both Ends of the Spectrum

The stark contrasts within my children sometimes amaze me. It's as if, at the age of 5 1/2, there is a policy of full inclusion, unconscious of paradoxes that we will see later in life.

Here is my daughter, gleefully sloshing in the autumn creek water, one of her favorite activities outside:

And here is that same young lady, poised and ready for the beginning of Sunday morning worship:

I'm not sure who taught her to cross her legs like that--I suspect that, yet again, she's imitating Kerri. Of course, one thing is constant: PinkAndPurple.

What a grand mixture we are, from the very beginning!

~ emrys

The Way of the Cross

There is little to be said about the work of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, not because his work is not worthy of note but because his work and story speak best for themselves. So it is that after reading Letters and Papers from Prison (Eberhard Bethge, ed., 1967), I recommend it to you for its earthiness, sublimity, and challenge, which only diminish in description.

Nonetheless I must note three quotations, which speak to the theology arising out of Bonhoeffer's experience. He writes, "Our being Christians today will be limited to two things: prayer and righteous action among men [sic]" (p161). Bonhoeffer's thinking, in these letters, has little use for religiosity and ceremony.

"God lets himself [sic] be pushed out of this world and onto the cross. He is weak and powerless in the world, and that is precisely the way, the only way, in which he is with us and helps us. Matthew 8.17 makes it quite clear that Christ helps us, not by virtue of his omnipotence, but by virtue of his weakness and suffering" (188). Here is a clear strain of Lutheranism, to be sure, but also a radical sort of faith that on which even Paul in his letter to the Corinthians only begins to touch. Bonhoeffer has no patience for the deus ex machina, the God who extracts by miracle, brand of Christianity.

Thus: "It is only by living completely in this world that one learns to have faith . . . . By this-worldliness I mean living unreservedly in life's duties, problems, successes, and failures, experiences and perplexities. In so doing we throw ourselves completely into the arms of God, taking seriously not our own sufferings but those of God in the world--watching with Christ in Gethsemane" (193). Bonhoeffer's testimony against religious escapism gains great credibility from his own choices: to plot against the Third Reich; to serve as chaplain to inmates and guards while incarcerated; and to go peacefully to his execution on 9 April 1945.

Would that we could all take up the cross, when that path calls us, in such a manner as he. And would that we who follow Jesus could live each day as if we are preparing to do so.

~ emrys

Dismantling a Dream

Since visiting Disney World when I was a teenager, I have loved treehouses. The Swiss Family Robinson part of the park sold me on the wonders of living in tight, handmade quarters high up off the ground. I have dreamed for many years of one day having the chance to make one of my own. In 2006 we purchased (or began a handy arrangement with a bank to live on) 3.25 acres of forest with a house on it. 

In 2007 I began building my treehouse. Soon I had Phase 1 finished and had moved on to Phase 2. Soon after the floorboards started going down on Phase 2, My Lovely daughter was born; and everything non-parental in my life slowed down. Including treehouse construction.

Fast forward to the spring of 2014, when my construction-savvy brother came visiting. He noticed that the growth of the treehouse-hosting trees was pushing the boards off their anchor bolts. Slowly but surely, my treehouse was becoming a disaster waiting to happen.

So over the last three months, my treehouse has come down. Rather than let it turn into a decrepit shambles hanging in the distant trees, I decided to give it a proper end.

Here is the roof, torn off the rafters and sent drifting to the ground:

 Phase 1 without a roof (note that the condemnable wooden ladder has been replaced by a safe aluminum one):

 The only proper end for wood that's been hanging out dutifully in a tree for seven years is sublimation in a funeral pyre:

 Phase 1 with rafters and half of the railing gone:

 Where my foot went through the deck, proving another facet of my brother's concern:

 View from below Phase 1, after the decking was removed:

 The first night of returning the elements to whence they came:

And My Lovely assistant, who is ever ready to help on such solemn occasions:

Phase 1 with only two whole boards left. I cut the main joists, because of what you'll see in the next image:

Seven years of growth consumed more of the shafts of the lag screws, pushing the (rotting) wood outwards. An attempt to unscrew the lags met with significant resistance. Of course! A hard wood like maple would certainly grip the screws ever tighter over time. I decided to leave them in, and mark the tree for anyone who might show up with a chainsaw.

All the while, autumn was falling. So my Two Wee Helpers took frequent breaks to enjoy the crackling shower of lofted leaves:

Phase 1 with only screwed-on chunks left:

Phase 2: the next target for demolition:

 An example of where the rotted board had torn off its anchors, leaving one joist precariously perched:

Only the three joists left on Phase 2:

It turns out the lag screws did come out of the soft hemlock:

The free-floating triangular support that held up one half of Phase 2, on its way to the ground:

Emboldened by my success on the hemlocks, I made another attempt to get the screws out of the maple tree. With some persistence and lots of grunting, I did finally get the screws loose, dismantling even the last scabs of wood from Phase 1.

Lastly, the maple tree that hosted Phase 1, stripped naked but for a few holes and the green paint with which I had marked it:

Adieu, fair Treehouse! Though it lacks a structure of which to brag, this little stand of trees will hold for me memories of brilliant plans, time with teenagers, and adventures with my Two Wee Ones. It was worth it.

~ emrys