Full of Grace and Truth

“Full of grace and truth” has stayed with me this Christmas 2020 season to dispel the gloom of unreformed Scrooges, unredeemed Grinches, and an unrelenting pandemic.

The Gospel writer John used “full of grace and truth” to describe God’s coming into this world through the beloved child and prophet Jesus. John gets credit as a theologian for his elevated prologue beginning “In the beginning was the Word…” but, in truth, we are all theologians, speculating in our own “Tiny Tim” ways about the nature of the universe, of humanity, and the nature of God.

In early Christianity, “theologia” was communion with God, so maybe it’s better to consider John a mystic, a contemplative whose vision revealed a thin place—Jesus—where God’s grace and truth could touch, heal, transform our confusions and delusions and self-elevating pride.

Blending grace and truth, to my very human perspective, is as challenging as mixing divinity and humanity. When I think of those among us full of grace, they seem able to be gracious because they hold their tongues when it comes to truth: “No, you don’t look fat.” “No, your profits are well-deserved.” “Yes, you are super.”

When I think of those among us full of truth, they come across as challenging, even judgmental, spoilers, disagreeable. Yes, they are prophets and whistleblowers and much needed in our self-deceptive, aggrandizing, fame- and wealth-driven world, but dinner with them? Heavens, please, no!

But one of the characteristics that makes divinity “divine” seems to me to be its ability to integrate both grace and truth. “Yes, you belong,” grace says. “Yes, you belong,” truth says. In the view of process theologian Daniel Day Williams, belonging is as vital (as in life-giving) as believing. Grace tells us we belong. Truth tells us we belong.

The belonging Jesus proclaimed confirms our place in creation and our citizenship in God’s common spiritual wealth, neither of which is to be taken lightly. That’s grace with a dose of truth.

Happy New Year!

Chris

 

Relevant New York Times columns by Peter Weimer:

The Forgotten Radicalism of Jesus Christ

The Uncommon Power of Grace

How Can I Possibly Believe that Faith is Better than Doubt?

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Copyright © 2020 by Chris R. Glaser. Permission granted for non-profit use with attribution of author and blogsite. Other rights reserved.  

Jesus Breathed on Them

Wildflowers along our morning walk.

Very early Sunday morning, I felt Wade’s breath on my bare shoulder. That simple touch begat my morning meditation. The sensation reminded me that he was there, but also, that I was there.

And I began to think of the Gospel of John’s version of Pentecost, the giving of the Holy Spirit. “Peace be with you,” Jesus said, after appearing to his disciples despite their doors locked against the authorities, religious and political. After showing his wounds to make clear he was not a ghost, Jesus simply breathed on the disciples, saying, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” With this breath they (and we) are sent into the world.

Less dramatic and sparser sermonic fodder than the Acts’ story of Pentecost, but this is probably how most of us encounter the Holy Spirit, that Spirit of God embodied in Jesus and passed on to those who attempt to live God’s will for justice, mercy, and compassion. A breath that reminds us God is with us, even within us, and reassures us that we are here.

It’s the breath of creation and evolution, of meditation and inspiration, of sensuality and spirituality. In troubled and busy times, it’s the breath we catch to find peace.

John’s Gospel is thought to be the most mystical of the four in our Bible, but it is arguably also the most physical and sensual, after all, it begins with God’s Word becoming flesh. In it, Jesus is referred to as the bread from heaven, living water to quench all thirst, the vine that sustains us branches, the source of our second birth, a good shepherd who calls us by name. He elevates physical well-being above religious rules by healing on the sabbath, disassociates disability from sin in healing one born blind, and offers us abundant life. He appreciates familial intimacy with Martha and Mary and Lazarus, and is crushed by the latter’s death, prompting him to call him back to life. He cradles an especially beloved disciple at the last supper and washes his disciples’ feet, and appears first to a grief-stricken (lovesick?) Mary when resurrected.

That his breath outpours the Holy Spirit fits the sensuality of this Gospel and, of course, parallels the breath Yahweh breathed into the chest of the first human creature. Biblically, breath and spirit are used interchangeably, as the same word may be used for either.

All of this did not come in my Sunday morning meditation, of course, but something I did ponder is the role of Jesus in my life. I’ve been re-reading Henri Nouwen’s Reaching Out about prayer and the spiritual life and noticed his reference to the ancient and traditional “Jesus prayer,” which he renders, “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy upon me,” leaving out the end, “a sinner.” I guess that’s how I came also to leave out that self-disparaging ending, because this particular book came from his notes for my first course with Henri at Yale Divinity School. I always associated the prayer with those in the Bible in need of healing who cry for mercy, a broader application of the principle.

In this way, I’ve been occasionally praying this prayer, in that, as I age, I am feeling more vulnerable, more fragile. And though it’s comforting to address it to Jesus, my theology prompts me more often to pray, “Lord God, have mercy on me.” During my morning meditation this past Sunday I concluded that it doesn’t really matter to whom I address the prayer, as Jesus best represents God to me and I doubt that neither really care!

As I enjoyed Wade’s breath on my shoulder, I thought how comforting to think of Jesus’ or God’s breath on me.

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Copyright © 2019 by Chris R. Glaser. Permission granted for non-profit use with attribution of author and blogsite. Other rights reserved.

"I Love to Tell the Story"

Copyright © 2011 by Chris R. Glaser. All rights reserved.

In the discussion that followed my sermon in July at the Georgia Mountains Unitarian Universalist Church in Dahlonega, Georgia, I was asked why I had never become a member of their denomination. “Because I love the stories,” I said, referring to the biblical stories. For four years I had given non-sectarian talks for Midtown Spiritual Community, an Atlanta congregation that had left Unity because it was “too Christian,” and, while finding the challenge stimulating and the congregation loving, I missed being able to use more of the stories of my Christian tradition. But I do understand how the certainties portrayed in these stories, while attractive to some, can be off-putting to others.

For example, during different phases of my life I have liked and disliked the Jesus of the Gospel of John.  I love that John is a mystic and sees the deepest meaning in the life of Jesus. But at other times I have found the certainty of Jesus portrayed by John unsettling and unfriendly, formal and rigid. “I am the vine, you are the branches.” “I am the bread of life.” “I am the way, the truth, and the life.” These self-affirmations seem audacious and self-centered even in this day and age when self-affirmations are all the rage!

I find myself wanting to see more of the struggling and human Jesus in this Gospel, rather than the so-sure-of-himself divinity. But then, the Gospel of John was written about 100 A.D., and rather than representing the certainty of Jesus, reflects instead the assertions his disciples came to claim on his behalf. In fact, all the Gospels reflect their certainties of who he was, whether Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John.

But I do love the way these certainties about Jesus are wrapped in really great stories.  Most of us understand the futility of the quest for the historical Jesus. Jesus is one of those people that, if he didn’t exist, we would have to invent him. Jesus becomes our spiritual leader, our “anointed one,” as he engages us in a way no one else can. If there is no other hint of divinity, it is this ability to inspire visions and dreams and stories.

In Susan Cheever’s book Home before Dark, a memoir about her writer-father John Cheever, she describes how he embellished stories. One was about a publisher making a special trip to Martha’s Vineyard to get him to sign a book contract. In each version of the story, the publisher’s arrival became grander, and, as I remember the story, the means of transportation changed from ferry boat to private yacht to a small fleet of ships—all to entice Cheever to give him one of his bestselling novels. A writer should be so blessed!

This is how stories about Jesus evolved. His followers wanted to say something about the importance of his life. At the same time, they wanted to say how simply and subtly Jesus entered and departed life’s stage, reflecting not only his humility but also why the whole world didn’t get his significance immediately.

“I love to tell the story, of Jesus and his love.” I grew up singing these words from Katherine Hankey’s hymn. That’s the purpose of all of the stories, I believe, “to tell the story of Jesus and his love.” That’s the certainty to cling to.

On Sunday, October 9, Chris will be in Wilmington, Delaware, preaching on the parable of "The Wedding Banquet" during worship at the Hanover Street Presbyterian Church, 1801 North Jefferson Street 19802 and speaking in the adult class that follows on "A Brief History of Marriage." His books will be available and the public is welcome!

Spiritual Autism

Copyright © 2011 by Chris R. Glaser. All rights reserved.

I was invited to preach for a new church start. I was told that the Sunday before I was to preach, the congregation would be voting on whether to affiliate with the United Church of Christ or the Unitarian Universalist Association. Of course, both denominations are progressive, but Unitarian Universalists do not necessarily regard Jesus as central to their faith. Thus I urged them to call me as soon as possible after their vote! My sermon would depend on the outcome.

When the pastor called to tell me that the congregation had voted to join the UCC, I breathed a sigh of relief, as I was more accustomed to preaching to Christian congregations at the time. For this new UCC I preached on the challenging text from the Gospel of John that depicts Jesus telling his disciples to eat his flesh and drink his blood so that they may abide in him and he in them. I used these words to talk about how God welcomes embodiment. Spirituality in Jewish and in Christian traditions is not an “out of body” experience, but very much embodied, whether within an individual body or the body of a spiritual community. That was the gist of what I was trying to say, but boy, did the members of this congregation take offense! Taking me to task in the talk-back session that followed, they seemed to stumble on Jesus’ metaphor. It reminded me that progressive Christians at times can also be literalists.

Malcolm Gladwell writes about how we evaluate information in his book Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking. In one section on autism, Gladwell writes, “People with autism find it difficult, if not impossible…drawing understanding from anything other than the literal meaning of words. … In anything less than a perfectly literal environment, the autistic person is lost.” 

My judgmental side goes directly to thinking of biblical literalists as suffering from a kind of spiritual autism. But research indicates that any one of us can become functionally autistic, if even for a moment, when there are other factors involved. Gladwell writes, “Our mind, faced with a life-threatening situation [for example], drastically limits the range and amount of information that we have to deal with. Sound and memory and broader social understanding are sacrificed in favor of heightened awareness of the threat directly in front of us.” 

And it doesn’t even have to be a life-threatening situation. Anger, fear, passion, sexual arousal, hurry, drugs, alcohol, abuse, addiction, religious or patriotic fervor, or feeling threatened in any way can render any of us temporarily autistic, incredibly focused on the literal. We have seen this in the heated discussions of vital topics, such as abortion, sexuality, marriage, and war, as well as discussing lesser things when limited by time, ignorance, prejudice, or reason-altering substances or conditions.

Returning to my preaching experience, I didn’t realize that a sort of spiritual autism might have been kicking in. Perhaps the congregation could not hear Jesus’ words about eating his flesh and drinking his blood metaphorically because the literal application of this idea in their previous religious traditions had been used to threaten and intimidate and even exclude. It was good they took offense at what I said, because it surfaced issues within the congregation that had not been resolved by a simple vote to join a progressive denomination.

Many disciples of his own time also stumbled on Jesus’ words, “Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them.” They questioned, “This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?” I believe this teaching may serve as a spiritual metaphor for the truth that, first, spirituality cannot be separated from our bodily experience and our physical actions. And second, how we experience or embody God in the world reveals our inner life, what we have first received in our own communion with God. “The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life,” Jesus concludes. The Gospel writer John, who begins his story with God’s Word of grace and truth made flesh, now suggests that Word may be incarnated in us.