Progressive Christian Reflections by Chris Glaser: October 2016

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Henri Nouwen and Fun

"Quick, Chris! Take a picture!"

For my European readers, an international conference on Henri Nouwen will be held in his home country of The Netherlands, November 28-30, 2016. Details may be found at: https://www.drietour.nl/georganiseerde-reizen/europa/nederland/conferentie-henri-nouwen

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Henri Nouwen often reads sad, lonely, and anguished. But that belies the fact that, in real life, he was also a lot of fun.

When I tell personal stories about him or show videotapes of his presentations, participants in my Nouwen seminars and retreats are delighted to be in touch with his playful side. Even his most heartfelt presentations were filled with humor and buoyancy, as he danced around, arms waving and hands gesturing wildly, eyes protruding and neck stretching to make a point, straining with every fiber of his being to reach an audience with spiritually profound insights.

When I first studied with him at Yale Divinity School in 1973, he arranged a Jesuit-turned-clown to serve as an artist-in-residence for two weeks. The mime interrupted our class one session, and Henri grinned, amused like a kid and puzzled, “Oh, so you’d like to take over the lecture?” The mime took Henri’s place at the lectern, and without saying a word, imitated his body language and gestures and facial expressions with such accuracy and detail that we laughed aloud and had fun at Henri’s expense.

In his book, Clowning in Rome, Henri described spiritual leaders as the bumbling, stumbling clowns of the circus, hoping to teach others by our own awkward fumbling in the spiritual life. We are not the “virtuosi” he wrote, not the masters of the trapeze or the lion tamers or the skilled riders of horses, zebras, and elephants.

“They are like us,” we say of circus clowns as we witness their very human antics.

Henri felt that ministers (by which he meant every Christian) serve best when we offer our vulnerabilities, our own woundedness, to others, as in another early work in which he depicts the minister as The Wounded Healer.

I describe Henri’s books as a series of “wounds with a view,” sometimes raw expositions of his own pain, challenges, loneliness, and yearning for the spiritual life. That’s why he touches his readers so deeply.

And that’s why he was drawn to the poor and marginalized of the world, whether those living in poverty in Latin America, people with disabilities of the L’Arche community, individuals living with HIV/AIDS, or spiritually impoverished seminarians and churchgoers. All of these had something to teach Henri—and us—about the spiritual life. Each group also had something to teach Henri about play and simple pleasures.

The spiritual mentor who once wrote of ministers as clowns rather than virtuosi came full circle toward the end of his life when he met and travelled briefly with The Flying Rodleighs, trapeze artists in a European circus. In the video, Angels over the Net, Henri is clearly having fun gazing in wonder as they perform double and triple jumps high above their net. He himself skips toward the circus with a child with Down syndrome, and together they playfully bounce on the circus net.

When he tried to explain his newfound wish to be a trapeze artist, his Dutch accent and his earlier extended stays at a Trappist monastery prompted hearers to think he wanted to become a Trappist rather than a trapeze performer!

Though Henri taught at Notre Dame, Yale, and Harvard, he found his final home with people with developmental disabilities, who had little idea of his accomplishments but who loved him just for being with them. They brought out his playful side, the fun of living in the moment.

And for Henri, living in the moment was touching eternal life here and now.

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Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Becoming What We Behold

Evelyn Underhill biographer Dana Greene requested last year that I write this for the Underhill newsletter. This past summer, I had hoped to honor the 75^th anniversary of Underhill’s death by posting this, but it coincided with the Orlando shootings and I felt the need to write about that.

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Daily we behold terrible and diminishing things, not just in the newspaper and on the news, but in films, television programs, books, plays, even music. Daily we also behold our “golden calves” of consumer products in ads, commercials, and our neighbor’s latest acquisition. Daily we are bombarded and distracted by e-mails, text messages, and the multiple layers of the internet. If, as in Evelyn Underhill’s estimation, we become what we behold, we are becoming a mess of noise, violence, and greed with little room for the divine, the holy, and God.

Saints are to be found in “the mess,” as Underhill suggests, but not overwhelmed by it. The reason? Saints, mystics, and everyday fellow travelers take time to be present and available to the eternal, to the inbreaking commonwealth of God, to God. Not for self-improvement, but for their own sakes. But being present to eternity, God’s hope for the world, and God herself is transformative, offering peace that passes understanding—not just for ourselves but for the world. Underhill might as well have quoted Mahatma Gandhi, “become the change you want to see in the world.”

The danger she observes is that too often those who want to change the world do so without changing ourselves. In youth I wanted to “change the world.” In adulthood I wanted to change my little part of the world, the church. Now I feel blessed if I am able to change myself! But the truth is, whatever I’ve been able to do for various causes has come to whatever extent I have spent time in God’s presence. God is a very good influence, and I wish I had spent more time with God. This is why I find mystics and the contemplative life so appealing.

Of all the mystics and spiritual guides I have encountered, mostly through reading and courses, Evelyn Underhill writes the closest to my own spiritual experience. I too am theocentric, as she was at first. I too have reservations about the attempts of theology, ethics, religion, and the church to “capture” God, as if that were even possible. I too value other religions and the multiple expressions of Christian faith.

But I too have needed spiritual guidance, spiritual community, belief systems, and liturgy and worship to better understand that God is love. And perhaps most intimately, I too believe in the “homeliness” of the spiritual experience. For me it is not ethereal, other-worldly or supernatural, but an incarnated, earthly, and embodied encounter with the sacred—yet no less profound because of that! God’s love was first embodied for me in my parents, and then multiple church “families.”

That’s why Jesus is important to me, more so than “Christ.” The homeliness of Jesus, his everyday compassion and yet need for prayer, his teachings and also his teachings on prayer, praying in our pantry or closet (remembering to “shut the door” in Underhill’s words), the simple prayer he taught his disciples, and his trust in a loving God—all suggest spiritual maturity. Yet “Christ” too is important for me, as it was for Underhill, that we as Christ and as part of Christ live redemptively for the world and as part of the Body of Christ, the church.

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Wednesday, October 12, 2016

A Letter to My Younger Gay Self

Chris in high school.

Three years ago, Presbyterian Promise invited me to write to my younger gay self as part of a national “It Gets Better” campaign. This was the result.

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Dear Chris (at 17),

You fear you are the only one with same-sex attractions, or the only “normal” one, and that you will never find someone to love and to love you in a lasting, intimate relationship—but you will, and the church and culture will even come to recognize your relationship within your lifetime. In your extreme loneliness right now, I know that’s hard to imagine. Put away your suicidal thoughts, and know that you are NOT alone!

You know already you are loved: by God, by your family, and by your friends. But you fear they might not approve of your desire to be with a man or love you still. Let me tell you, your fear and anxiety and anticipation in telling them is really the beginning of birth pangs—in some ways, the worst part. Once it’s out there, you can talk about it—with God, with your folks, with your friends.

God loves you, and has made you who you are. That’s difficult for you to accept right now and sounds too good to be true. But be logical—why would God create gay people and not let them love, marry, and pursue ministry, or whatever vocation they feel called to fulfill?

Yours is a gift to love, deeply and intimately, someone of your own gender, and all ability to love comes from God. And you have loved God, tried to do what’s right, and have heard a call to ministry. Harmonizing your sexuality and spirituality will give content to your ministry, believe me! Many, many people do not know how to put the two together.

You especially fear your father’s reaction, afraid even that he might attempt to block your call to ministry. You are closer to your mom, but she will have the greater trouble because she will worry about your safety, happiness, and future—that’s what moms do!

And Dad, think about how he’s handled every REAL crisis (not the petty stuff). He gets quiet, ponders, tries to respond both with reason and love. He will be there for you, both your parents will be there for you, even before their questions are answered and their doubts addressed.

Mom will worry about what she did wrong, and both will hope you might change with therapeutic help. But they will read the materials you give them and they will find other information on their own until they understand you and who you are, and they will become your greatest advocates.

You know your friends hold you dear, just as you hold them dear. You know how open they are—it’s the 60’s, after all. Especially when you get to college, your friends will be liberal, compassionate, concerned for justice, and not the fundamentalists you were raised with. And what will surprise you is that those fundamentalist childhood friends for the most part will also become liberal and progressive, and accepting of you. Not all of your friends will welcome you, but most will. Focus on the many, not the few.

However, I must warn you that coming out to the church will prevent your ordination. Yet it will give you a broader ministry. If you’re looking for financial or job security, don’t come out to the church, or do something else. But if you’re looking to make a difference in the church and world, to have a ministry that reaches beyond an individual congregation, presbytery, or denomination, coming out openly and honestly is God’s calling for you.

Mind you, you will then be typecast and your spiritual insights will be ignored or dismissed by the vast majority of Christians, but the people who need you and want you and love you will appreciate your gifts. And you will come closer to God and to Jesus, which is what you hope for.

You will shed many tears, endure hardships, have your heart broken or disappointed in love and in ministry many times, but it WILL be worth it, let me tell you. Joy and love, God and writing will always lift you up again.

And know that I love you. I suffer with you in your struggle. And I admire you. It does get better.

With love, always,

Chris (at 62)

Related Post:

My Loneliness Led Me to God

Wednesday, October 5, 2016

Black Museums Matter

Reading of the opening of the National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington, D.C. reminded me of the most difficult thing I saw when visiting the Holocaust Museum last May.

There are so many heartbreaking things to witness in that archive of brutality and inhumanity, what I will describe may seem less consequential, but for me it summed up everything, from the piles of shoes of concentration camp martyrs, to the railroad car used for their transport, to the various devices used to end their lives, not to mention the multiple ways intended to dehumanize them before their incarceration.

These things brought tears to my eyes, but what made me want to cry uncontrollably was seeing a youth—maybe 15—sitting quietly on a bench in a side pocket room intended for rest and reflection. He looked so disheartened, so disillusioned, so overwhelmed by what he saw, I felt for him.

This is what our various histories do to young people: histories of anti-Semitism, racism, ethnic hatred, sexism, classism, heterosexism, mistreatment of those with disabilities, religious intolerance, and so on and so on—this is what we do to the innocent, not only of times past but of the present day.

“Woe to anyone who causes one of these little ones to stumble…” Jesus admonished.

Yet frankly, my own disillusionment as a youth, learning of slavery, Jim Crow segregation, lynching, racial hatred, bigotry, and prejudice made me a better citizen. My own disillusionment in American foreign policy around Vietnam and Latin America made me a better patriot. My disappointment at the inequality and mistreatment of women made me a better person. (I say disappointment rather than disillusionment in this case because I never had the illusion that women were treated fairly.)

And the disillusionment that led to my involvement in the reformation of the church around LGBT inclusion made me a better Christian.

I’m glad to learn that there will be a room in the new museum in which to reflect and recover after visiting the exhibit devoted to Emmett Till, a black youth brutalized and lynched after being accused of whistling at a white woman.

Whenever I am able to visit that museum, I expect that I will see another youth sitting in that room with the same downcast and forlorn expression that I saw last May.

Related Post:

Black Lives Matter