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The archetype of the cross
by Paul Brenner
In our understanding of the Christian faith -- which may have been formed by simplistic Sunday School teachings and a self-serving denominational interpretation of church history -- we tend to believe that Christianity started in a pure unified form with Jesus' teachings to his disciples, and that they then carried that pure faith after Pentecost thoughout the Roman world in spite of terrible persecutions. The Lutheran-Protestant understanding is that this original "pure Christianity" of the first century was corrupted by the Roman papacy, recovered by Luther and other reformers in the sixteenth century, and today the Christianity we practice and believe is identical to the "pure Christianity" that was there in the very beginning.
This reductionism not only overlooks the diversity of the Christian faith and practice in its beginnings, but it also ignores the spiritual heritage of the Mediterranean world Christianity inherited, utilized and transformed. Christianity did not begin as an entirely new phenomenon, but as a spiritual "mystery" (I Corinthians 4:1; Romans 11: 25; Ephesians 6: 19; Colossians 2:2 etc.) with imagery, vocabulary, stories, rituals, and dates that were recognizable to and resonated with non-Jewish devotees of the ancient Mystery Religions.
As people removed by two thousand years from the origins of our own faith, we have much to learn about this complex spiritual heritage of the mystery religions and how it is woven seamlessly into the Christianity we practice and believe.
The great psychologist Carl Jung, in his work with dreams, religious rituals, and cross cultural psychological study, uncovered the existence of images and ideas that occur in individuals of all cultures and at all times through the history of human life. Jung called these commonly shared ideas and images archetypes. They comprised what he called the "collective unconscious," or the repository in the unconscious of each human of the collective wisdom and experience of all human life.
The idea of archetype might be compared to the way a common physical structure is shared by all human beings, yet, each individual person, regardless of gender, race, age, color of hair or eyes, height or weight, is recognizable as an individual person. Archetypes are recognizable universal truths about human meaning and life in spite of all that may appear different in their historical, cultural, or religious expressions.
In his groundbreaking book Answer to Job, Jung observed, "Christ would never have made the impression he did on his followers if he had not expressed something that was alive and at work in their unconscious. Christianity itself would never have spread through the pagan world with such astonishing rapidity had its ideas not found an analogous psychic readiness to receive them."
The most common representation of Christianity is the cross, the central symbol of our faith. When we approach the cross as a universal archetype, we can discover a rich constellation of meanings that operate deep within the human psyche to bring healing and wholeness. From this perspective, the cross reveals fundamental truths about human existence and the quest for meaning in life than enriches the practice of our faith.
Beginning with Osiris in ancient Egypt, thousands of years prior to the birth of Christianity, the archetype of a godman, born of a virgin whose father was god, born in humble circumstances, who performed miracles and wonders, taught rebirth, died as a sacrifice, was raised from the dead by divine intervention, and whose death and resurrection were celebrated through participatory rituals -- was well established and practiced in the mystery religions of Dionysus, Adonis, Attis, Mithras, and others.
For example, the Mysteries of Mithras, which spread throughout the Roman Empire as rapidly as Christianity during the first century, celebrated the birth of Mithras on December 25, which at that time was the day the winter solstice was celebrated. An ancient Egyptian hymn celebrating the birth of Osiris, states: "He is born! He is born! O come and adore him!…Child who is born in the night." An inscription written about Mithras' death, quoted in Turcan's book Cults of the Roman Empire reads: "You have saved us by shedding the eternal blood." After his resurrection -- perhaps the reader can guess which day in the Christian calendar this might coincide with -- he ascended to heaven in a sun-chariot and sits enthroned by the God of light as ruler of the world. His followers believed he would return, waken the dead, and separate the good and the bad on the day of judgment.
It does not take much imagination to see how the existence of this archetype of the god-man in the mystery religions could have served as a bridge that helped the Christian Gospel resonate profoundly with pagans in the first century. To state it in Jung's vocabulary, the Christian Gospel of Jesus, the God-man, was not a new or strange idea to the initiates in the mysteries of Dionysus, Osiris, Attica, Mithras, etc., but was embedded as an archetype within the pagan psyche's unconscious, an archetype that was activated by the story of Jesus.
The symbol of the cross is also found into pre-Christian usage. In the Mysteries of Dionysus -- the Greek version of the Mysteries of Osiris established by Pythagorus -- a large mask with a beard representing Dionysus was hung on a wooden pole. We can draw a parallel to the Christian cross when we understand that in the Greek of the New Testament, the word which is translated as "cross" has a general meaning of "stake" or "pole." Among Jews bodies of those who had been stoned to death to cleanse the community from the impurity of the transgressor were displayed on a stake. (Noted in Mead, Fragments of a Faith Forgotten.)
In his sermon to the Sanhedrin (Acts 5:30), Peter proclaimed, "The God of our fathers raised Jesus, whom you killed by hanging him on a tree." The Apostle Paul echoes this: "Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law, having become a curse for us-for it is written, ‘Cursed be every one who hands on a tree'-" (Galatians 3:13).
The cross is formed by the crossing of two straight lines. The point at which they intersect is the organizing center which joins all opposites into One.The vertical axis of the cross connects heaven and earth and hell, and the horizontal axis connects all the polarities, divisions and opposites of life. The cross is therefore the archetype of the Tree of Life, in contrast to the Tree in the Garden which resulted in death. As such, the cross is the Axis Mundi, the archetypal center of the world.
These opposites are represented not just by the two thieves crucified along side of Jesus, but by the pairing of Mary, mother of Jesus with the disciple Jesus loved at the foot of the cross, by the weeping women in contrast to the soldiers, and the site's placement between Golgatha (a garbage pit) and Jerusalem, location of the Temple on Mount Zion. This bringing together of opposites is true "at-ONE-ment," boldly all-inclusive, powerfully symbolic, and embodying Truth about the human condition, personal and communal.
Jesus, at the center of this center, is the symbol of universal wholeness, of totality, as the all-embracing One who unites all opposites, since he is complete in both humanity and divinity, flesh and spirit, eternity and temporality, infiniteness and finiteness. Because of this, Jesus is represented on the cross in two ways. As the suffering dying One he is at One with all injustice suffering, limitation, and death. As the eternal everlasting One he reigns as Christus Rex dressed in royal and priestly robes, transcendent over injustice, suffering, limitation and death, and at One with personal and communal resurrection, rebirth, renewal, hope, and life itself.
According to Plato (Republic, Book Two), to adherents of the Mysteries of Dionysus the figure of the god-man nailed to the cross represented the death of their own lower nature as characterized by the senses, and the mystical transformation of their lives. The "truth" being expressed by their participation in the rites of the various mysteries was their own rebirth and transformation into a "higher" expression of life.
Vocabulary similar to this was used by the Apostle Paul in many of his letters, such as, "I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live but Christ who lives in me; and the life I now life in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me." (Galatians 2: 30).
For those of us who are followers of the Way, the cross symbolizes our at-ONE-ment, that is, the joining together of the contraries or opposites in our own lives in order to be able to live as Self. The intersection of vertical and horizontal of the cross bears remarkable coherence to the body when standing, feet together, and arms straight to the side. The Self and the Cross become one and the same, and the assimilation of the individual into the One who passed through death into resurrection, is enacted in our Baptism and participation in the Eucharist. Through this identification with the One on the cross our true Self is revealed and activated.
The sign of the cross that is made over us by the hands of those ordained "to preach Christ crucified" and upon us by our own hand constellates this uniting of opposites, reminding us each time that our True Self is found in the point of Oneness at the axis of the cross. We become whole as we discover ways to join the contraries, reconcile the opposites, and inter-relate the polarities that, without the cross, tend to split us apart and keep us a war within ourselves and the world in which we live.
The season of Lent was originally created as the time of preparation for initiates to participate in the Christian Mysteries of death and resurrection through Baptism and Eucharist at the Easter Vigil and to become members of the community with a mission to the whole world. For us today, Lent is preparation for participation in the renewal of our baptism at the Vigil and participation in the Feast of the Resurrection. Jung writes, "It is this fact (i.e. the Archetype) which also makes it possible to say that whoever believes in Christ is not only contained in him, but that Christ then dwells in the believer as the perfect person formed in the image of God."
During this critical time in the history of the world, beset by conflict brought about by the collision of opposities, contraries, differences, and diversities, unfortunately, often fed by narrow minded myopic religious literalism and self-righteous individualism, our own annual participation in these mysteries of endings and beginnings can also give renewed and empowered vision of the collective vision of community Jesus embodied as the at-ONE-ment of the horizontal axis of the cross's reach..
May this powerful archetype help us deepen our own journey of faith as we seek to live in Christ as members of his Body, and in our life together as that Body seek to build a world of justice that includes all without restriction.
For further reading
C. G. Jung, Answer to Job. Princeton, N.J.: The Bollingen Series, Princeton University Press, 1958.
Diarmuid McGann., The Journeying Self: The Gospel of Mark Through A Jungian Perspective. New York: Paulist Press, 1985.
Alan W. Watts, Myth and Ritual in Christianity. Boston: Beacon, 1968.
John P. Dourley, The Psyche as Sacrament. A Comparative Study of C.G. Jung and Paul Tillich. Toronto: Inner City Books. 1981.
Elaine Pagels, Beyond Belief. New York: Random House, 2003.
The real Passion
by Rachel Hoobing
During Holy week, the week that begins with Palm Sunday and that leads us into Maundy Thursday then Good Friday and finally leaves us on the eve of Easter, we travel through these days to remember God's passion -- a passion of love lost, betrayal, and murder.
We travel with Jesus to remember that this God, our God, suffered and yet loved all of creation and all of humanity, even as the God in the human Christ died on a cross. We journey through Holy Week to remember the sufferings of God in the human one, not so that we might "suffer" rather so that we remain faithful to the promise of new life and new creation by way of and through the cross. We journey through Holy Week to remember our calling as Christians to stand with and in solidarity with those who suffer in mind, body and spirit. We journey through Holy Week to quiet our minds and our hearts and to reflect. We journey through Holy Week because we preach of Christ crucified and Christ resurrected. We journey to Good Friday to see the injustice of the death of our friend and to look upon a God who would dare to be faithful to creation and humanity even to an end.
The story does not stop here. We hear the good news of the resurrected Christ. It is a shock to discover a God in human with healed scars who appears and calls people to minister to a world in need of healing. We celebrate God's last word, the resurrection of Jesus Christ. We celebrate Easter because God calls forth into life. God is one of life. God calls us to untie ourselves from sin. God calls us to be in the world and to act out of love. God calls us to be out. Out of ourselves so that we might be able to witness and be with our selves, our neighbors and with God in life-giving, life-renewing and life-sustaining ways.
I have not seen Mel Gibson's movie The Passion of the Christ, and I do not intend to. I do not think that the film holds the message that was written in the Gospels so long ago. I do think that it glorifies violence and reveals a (G/g)od who is bloodthirsty, vengeful and abusive.
I was at one time one of those persons who put so much weight on the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus Christ as the act of salvation. I once considered everything about Jesus' life as details and trivial. I have since matured and done some heavy thinking on the birth, life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.
Consider then, the birth and life of a young man who challenged the status quo and everything that has been regarded as socially acceptable. He ate with undesirable persons and with those who were regarded as outcasts. He preached of the coming of the Kingdom of God, one that will spread and cannot be stopped (see the Mustard Seed parable). He preached truth, love, forgiveness, wholeness, faith, and right relationships. Just as he did then, this young man calls all of humanity to love our selves, our neighbors and God. He calls humanity to live lives that are life-giving, life-sustaining and life-renewing for one's self, neighbor and God.
I now hold that the death of Jesus was inevitable, unjust, violent, and horrible. Jesus died a death that was common state practice for "undesirable persons." Crucifixions were common occurrences for the public to witness. People who were surrounded by such deaths were perhaps more concerned to act within the boundaries of the civil and religious order so as to live life. The underside of these public scenes of death was that "life" was ruled by torture and death.
This young man upset the world order and in so doing was rejected and murdered. People feared the vision of this young man. People feared change. People feared love. Due to the fear of upsetting the religious and civil order, Jesus was killed. People did this. We, you and I, may even do this today if given the opportunity.
Instead of going to The Passion, take the time to read each of the Gospels from beginning to end. They offer a more complete picture of the birth, life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. After you read what Matthew, Mark, Luke and John wrote, maybe even look at Thomas and some of the lesser-known Gospels.
When you read, consider that each unique book offers seeds of insight into this one whom we call Christ, and why this young man would try to turn the world upside down with his notions of equality, justice, love, hope, right-relationships, and faith.
Read the Gospels from the beginning to understand that the passion of God began in the beginning before creation. Read and reread that God so loved the world. Remember that when you get to the part of the story of Jesus' death that crucifixion was a political instrument, a human instrument of pain, torture and death. Keep in mind that God's love is always breaking in, each and every moment of each and every day. God's real passion is life and love for all of creation and all of humanity.
Welcoming the stranger
by Richard Fabian
(The Rev. Richard Fabian is co-presbyter of St. Gregory's Episcopal Church in San Francisco, a congregation nationally known for innovative worship. In this address, which he delivered to St. Gregory's 2004 liturgy conference, he discusses the ways their innovations make worship more accessible, to both members and visitors. -- Ed.)
Christians have taught for centuries that our Sacraments are Signs. Different churches have counted different numbers of Sacraments; but scholars agree that the Eucharist is preeminently Jesus' own Sign. So his Church must hold his Sign up clearly. I want to talk now about ways we can make Jesus' Sign so clear that even unchurched people can get it right off: that way it's a Sign of the gospel, the good news about Jesus as well.
Luke's and John's gospels say Jesus did Signs and Wonders, and in Hebrew scripture those differ. Doing Wonders can prove any prophet's spiritual power, and change the course of battles. But a Sign shows people what God is already doing, maybe always doing, while they somehow dangerously fail to see, even when their own experience of God should make it plain. Therefore the prophet tries some dramatic gesture to show them even plainer, hoping to overcome their tragic blindness. Jeremiah calls city leaders out to the Jerusalem garbage dump and breaks a pot and says: here's what God will do to our nation if you don't wise up. Jeremiah doesn't pretend he's breaking up the nation; he's using a pot for a Sign, of what God is up to for real. Jeremiah's Sign failed in his time, because his leaders went on blindly as before, and his nation was destroyed. Yet Jeremiah's Sign still speaks to every Bible reader, telling them what God is always up to. Who knows what they learn to see today, or how they live in response?
In Jesus' time everyone yammered about God's kingdom coming: when, how, where, with what result. But Jesus' parables have a unique theme: God is here working with you right now; it's too late to prepare for God's coming, to manage, to control God's work; instead, your response right now makes all the difference. And so to help people see what they were failing to see, Jesus made a Sign out of Isaiah's prophecy about a banquet where the Israelites and their pagan enemies, the clean and the unclean, would dine together one day. Jesus summoned all the Wrong People to his table, dining with them publicly.
Scholars tell us this Sign was so offensive, both religiously and politically, it led straight to Jesus' death. So you might expect the Church would repeat his Sign just the way he did, because showing Jesus' life and death to the world is our chief job. But Jesus' own worst enemies read his Sign more clearly than his Church has often done since. Luke's gospel (15:2) preserves an insult directed at Jesus, and thus our surest evidence about him. We spelled out that insult in decorous gilt Greek letters on our altar table at St. Gregory's: "This guy (houtos) welcomes sinners and dines with them." For centuries Christians have argued about the second verb there-about what we are eating when we keep Jesus' memory this way. But the first verb is first for good reason, because it carries Jesus' own real meaning: THIS GUY WELCOMES. Today Church Growth writers talk a lot about making our buildings welcoming, our services welcoming, our music welcoming, our ministers and church members welcoming. Of course we work hard to do that here at every St. Gregory's Church liturgy. But the real reason for our hospitality is not to grow a bigger church. The real reason is to show Jesus to the world.
And the chief impact is not on our visitors. Some of our visitors do come back, as we hope, and some join up; but numerically most don't. Many visitors are traveling anyway; and some are hunting for a different kind of music, or social style, or ethnic or age group, or any number of things they may still be out there hunting for. The chief impact of our hospitality is on our own life right here. In my student days I traveled through Europe staying at monasteries as a guest because monasteries interested me (and they were cheap!) and as a guest I discovered what I'll call Fabian's Law of Hospitality. Contrary to what you sometimes hear "Those folks are really warmly knit together, but unfriendly to outsiders," in fact groups treat outsiders pretty much the way they treat insiders. You can tell right away from the welcome you get, just how much the group's members accept each other, and know they can rely on each other -- how much welcome they experience there. A welcoming church is a loving church, and an unwelcoming church loves nobody, and every visitor feels it. Our liturgical welcome is a Sign anyone can read.
Let me describe some ways we hold up the Sign of Jesus' hospitality.
At St. Gregory's we put newcomers first, all the time. It's a Sign for all to read, just the way Church Growth writers say "Put signs up everywhere pointing to the bathrooms" and other facilities, because newcomers will know right away that you want them to be at ease whether they need the bathroom now or not. We address every announcement, every instruction, every action for newcomers to follow, and we know that our old timers will experience again the welcome they already find here. Of course, welcome is different from compulsion; and true hospitality means making the church services always available, so people know they are welcome to take part as they choose -- and if they don't take part, they are still welcome. That takes practice, and planning, and reminders when we slip into in-jokes or apologies to people who've heard this before, or anything that suggests newcomers are different from old timers. By Fabian's Law, they are the same.
In recent studies, most people who join a church say they decided to do so within three minutes of entering it. That means the first moments of a service will set the context for everything afterward. Outside on the steps, a greeter welcomes everyone arriving, new or old, and hands them a music book. And inside, more greeters guide them to a welcoming table for nametags and anything else they will need at this service. As the choir begins a choral prelude, the vested clergy emerge from their vestry and move among the crowd, touching each with a quiet word of welcome. This is no handshake-we deliberately extend the left hand, conveying affection rather than formality, because affection is the context our old timers share. More than that, St. Augustine wrote that worship begins in awe and ends in affection; so we move affection right up front.
We move music up front, too -- good music, probably higher quality than most churches give newcomers to sing, because good church music is more powerful. And nearly every part of the service we can sing, we will sing. So after a welcome from the presider, our Music Director begins at once introducing today's music in away all can join in. Many Americans today have been told they can't or shouldn't sing; it isn't necessary to rehearse the hymns, only to create enough familiarity-or the illusion of familiarity -- so people will understand they're welcome to sing nevertheless.
Of course it takes serious planning to create an experience like that. We choose hymns and chants that are easy to pick up, by ear or with simple musical notation, and our own composers write more of those every year. We begin each in unison, moving to harmony on the second verse. And for many processions we use call-and-response, or repeated refrains answering a solo cantor: these join rich variation in scripture text with ready congregational participation. They also cut down on paper -- we give people only the paper they'll need to sing, to keep everyone's heads out of books and into the liturgical action, newcomer and old timer alike. (When our people are busy eating and drinking at the altar, the choir will sing more complex music on their own.) Likewise, you know that at the end of our services we dance carols, or circle dances: these we will introduce on the spot. First we teach an easy repeating step with rhythm instruments, and once the step is moving steadily, we start singing along.
And throughout the liturgy we announce everything we're about to do, so people hear that the most ignorant newcomers are welcome. You don't have to know anything to take part here. Each announcement we script carefully, giving information in exactly the order a newcomer can follow in thought and action. And we announce only what we'll do right now, so they have no need to remember things. Nevertheless, we watch newcomers for signs of confusion, and every week after church we revise the script to guide them better. Only one announcement is repeated: twice we invite all to share the bread and wine which are Christ's body and blood, and to respond with their own gifts for the world's needy and the church's work. We make clear the Eucharistic bread and wine are Christ's body and blood so that no newcomer will be surprised when these are offered, and sure enough, every Sunday a few visitors do decline communion and receive a blessing instead. Nevertheless the coffee hour that follows in the same altar area distributes food and drink from the same altar table, and includes everyone who wishes to share it.
Deacons have the task of marshaling everyone, so everyone can carry out their part in our common liturgy. So naturally, most announcing is our Deacons' work. We train them to aim every remark, every gesture at newcomers, fixing their mental attention on one or two visitors if necessary. When Deacons select readers and assist them by pointing the text, or guide children bearing the gifts of bread and wine to the table, they convey the context of hospitality, modeling welcome for church members to help newcomers out in turn. Hospitality is a natural human behavior, after all; our adversary here is alienated worship. Alienated worship shows up when people don't help guests out or fix things that go wrong, the way they would at home the way any host or hostess would do. When Church members don't host newcomers, that's because they don't feel at home here themselves. It's Fabian's Law again: groups treat outsiders and insiders basically the same.
The Sign of Hospitality that Jesus chose, came first from Isaiah's prophecy about Jews and Heathen dining together. Throughout our building, St. Gregory's liturgical art and vestments honor God's conversation with the whole world, visibly evoking this original sense -- note the icons of saints from every faith dancing overhead as we dance below, and Jesus leads all. On Good Friday we wear vestments drawn exclusively from religions outside Christianity, to symbolize the universal significance of Christ's death and resurrection. And all year long our use of scripture exemplifies prophetic hospitality.
Inclusive and expansive language are important for Christian mission today, and for this there is no clear standard yet. So we combine several approaches at every service. Overall, we work on building up feminine imagery in our readings, prayers and songs, without suppressing masculine language. It's a slower reform method than some, but makes clear everyone belongs.
And after readings and meditative silences and a sermon, we invite anyone to share experiences of their own that these have brought to mind. We do not invite opinions or arguments, but only shared life experience, something people with widely differing opinions can receive openly and respond to in turn. (Sometimes the presider must intervene to keep this sharing on track!) In fact, St. Gregory's membership comprises a wide spread of political opinion, and both left and right wingers alike sing in our choir, volunteer in our food pantry, teach in our classes, and party together. Their combined participation shows it's safe for everyone here, whether people choose to speak up or not. Making people know they are welcome is our prophetic work. The Church need only make clear the Sign Jesus chose. How people respond is up to them, and to God.
Who is my stranger?
by Mark Pritchard
1
For Americans, the word "hospitality" brings to mind the image of a warmly decorated home prepared for a holiday party. People are busy in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on food; someone's setting up more chairs; someone else is on the phone giving directions. Everyone is in a tizzy of anticipation. Or maybe you think of hospitality in the Martha Stewart sense. Inviting people over for a dinner or a party gives you an excuse to show off your possessions, your kitchen acumen, your taste.
Instead, imagine visiting a foreign country for the first time. When I moved to Japan at age 27 to take a job teaching English, I prepared for my trip by studying guide books and learning some crucial Japanese phrases. After making my way from the airport to the city where I would be living, I was met by my employer who checked me into a hotel and took me out to dinner. I was taken care of as well as could be.
But the next day I was on my own, with no idea what I was going to do for breakfast. Peering out the hotel window at an unfamiliar urban landscape, I was vastly relieved when I glimpsed, a block away, the familiar signage of a McDonald's. I made my way there, sliding down the snowy sidewalk in my street shoes, and upon entering was further relieved to find a menu with full color photos. Using my just-learned skill at reading katakana, I laboriously sounded out the name of my breakfast. "So... see... ju... mah... feen." Understanding dawned. I could order a "sausage muffin."
Nothing had ever tasted so good.
Looking back more than fifteen years later, I can lament the forces of globalization that have spread American crap to every corner of the globe. I can see the irony of an American traveler using his insignificant knowledge of Japanese for the first time to order an American dish at an American fast food joint. I can recognize that my experience is trivial next to that of the millions of refugees who flee from war every year. But for a hungry, jet-lagged, disoriented young man on his first day away from home, that familiar sign and picture-menu translated into a welcome. It meant I could eat. It was hospitality.
I was in Japan, coincidentally, because of another type of hospitality. Several years before, I had had a girlfriend who studied Japanese tea ceremony. For many, tea ceremony or chanoyu is merely a metaphor for something unnecessarily formal and complex. From my friend, I learned that while chanoyu was indeed both formal and complex, its most important element was hospitality. Everything in the tea ceremony -- from cleaning and decorating the tea room to preparing the various implements to be used, from seating the guests to finally making and serving tea -- is done to communicate to the guests a feeling of genuine warmth and hospitality. When done correctly, both host and guests feel not bound up by tradition and afraid of making mistakes, but relaxed, friendly and grateful to each other.
Not so different from that first image of a holiday party, in a way. But while both traditions have their aspects of preparation, anticipation, and celebration, chanoyu distills these aspects to a bare minimum, and makes of them a ritual that is rich in history and symbolism. In fact, it has more in common with another, more familiar feast: the celebration of the Eucharist. In each, there is a host who prepares and serves a meal in an attitude that is a mixture of warmth and formality. Each has its characteristic vessels, movements, and speeches. Each is a symbolic feast where everyone present is an honored, welcome guest.
Another thing they have in common -- something that seemingly works against this inclusivity -- is that it's difficult for someone who knows nothing about the tradition to just walk up and join in. Before I attended my first tea ceremony as a guest, I went through an hour-long orientation that helped me understand what I was about to take part in. Similarly, we want guests at the Eucharistic table to know what they're doing up there, and what the celebrant is doing. So we provide instruction through confirmation classes and bulletin rubrics. Without this assistance, the formality of chanoyu or of the Eucharist would be intimidating. A little instruction, along with an open invitation, gives people a way in.
That's why we should be very conscious of the stranger -- and by stranger, I mean someone who finds him- or herself walking into our church for the first time. Perhaps they've never been to church before. They don't know why we keep standing up and sitting down. They might find our thick worship folder intimidating. They probably don't know what "kyrie eleison" means, how to pronounce it, what language it is, or why we're saying it at all. They are like me on that gloomy morning in northern Japan, hungry and disoriented. I'm not saying everybody needs a picture menu and the familiar taste of junk food. But they do need a way in.
Yes, it's true that many who come to St. Francis come from some church background. We shouldn't be too worried about them -- they'll get it. I want to stick with the image of that person who finds him- or herself in a pew for a reason they can't really explain, there to take part in something they're not sure of. Someone who is a true stranger, a true foreigner.
2
A familiar conversation:
A lawyer stood up to test Jesus. "Teacher," he said, "what must I do to inherit eternal life?"
Jesus said to him, "What is written in the law? What do you read there?"
He answered, "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself."
Jesus replied, "You have given the right answer; do this, and you will live."
But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, "And who is my neighbor?"
Jesus responds with the parable of "the Good Samaritan," a story so familiar that the phrase has entered the general lexicon. By offering this story about hospitality in answer to a question on holiness, Jesus implies that little is more important than care of strangers. "Which of these three (travelers), do you think," asks Jesus, "was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?" The obvious reply: "The one who showed him mercy."
As usual, Jesus has replied to a theological question by turning his listeners' expectations upside down. The one who saved the wounded traveler was regarded as a foreigner by the Jews, though the Samaritans lived right next to them. (When I lived in Texas during my college years, I once heard a campus pastor substitute for "Samaritan" the word "Aggie" -- the much-derided nickname of the students who attended the state agricultural school fifty miles away.) Suggesting that non-Jews could be more righteous than pious Jews like the priest and the Levite who passed by the wounded man was the sort of thing that eventually got Jesus in a lot of trouble.
In modern-day San Francisco, however, we don't have any trouble with that idea. We dig that we are called on to help those in need. For the image of the wounded traveler, we substitute the image of a homeless beggar. Someone interpreting the story might feel guilty if they don't put the homeless in the backseat and check them into the TravelLodge for a couple of weeks.
Even without taking that literal interpretation, we recognize that something needs to be done. At St. Francis, we feed people on Sunday morning before church. It's something. Not enough, but nothing is enough. It's one of hundreds of soup kitchens and food pantries all over the city. We recently had an election for mayor in San Francisco in which the homeless population, and how we treat them, was the major issue (which, come to think of it, is sort of impressive all by itself).
I want to think about the less obvious strangers in our midst. Where Jesus' interlocutor asked him, "Who is my neighbor?" I want to ask "Who is my stranger?" Who am I called on to help, to take responsibility for, to welcome? To whom can we, and do we, extend our hands?
Some of them are newcomers to the city. Some of them came here a few years ago for the dot-com boom, and are adrift. Some of them are addicted, and some of those are digging out of addiction in a 12-step program.
Though we usually don't think of it in this way, the fact that St. Francis hosts several 12-step meetings is another way we welcome and care for the stranger. We don't know their names; we don't put them on our membership roster; we don't count them as worshippers. And yet they are hearing and receiving God's grace every day in our building.
Not only are they in the same struggle -- seeking God's grace in a harsh, unforgiving world -- but they are much closer to the kind of outcasts Jesus hung out with than are the few dozen people who worship here on Sunday morning. They are also predominantly younger, on average, than our worshipping congregation, and that should give us something to think about. In fact, the 12-steppers who meet in our building every week outnumber our own congregation by a factor of six or eight. They are a shadow parish within our walls, coming and going before 8 a.m. and as late as 9 p.m. What do we give them? Something extremely valuable in this city where rent is the biggest part of anyone's budget: the gift of space. What else can we do to give them hospitality?
We reach out to others, some with close involvement, some casually: the elderly who come to the Senior Center once a week; the families who come to Community Night once a month; the families served by the Friends of St. Francis Child Care Center. The people who belong to the neighborhood association, and the members of Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays (PFLAG), both groups that meet at St. Francis monthly. The people of St. Saviour Anglican Church who share our sanctuary. With each of these groups, and with each individual in these groups, in some way we play host. We have an opportunity to shelter them, extend friendship, give them hospitality.
3
The action in February by the new mayor of San Francisco, Gavin Newsom, rocked the city and the nation. In a surprise decree, Newsom had the city begin issuing marriage licenses to same-sex couples. The LGBT community responded as they do to any big event: they high-tailed it down to City Hall. But this time, instead of protesting outside the building, they were welcomed inside, and all the recognition that local government could give was suddenly bestowed on them.
What a radical act of hospitality this was. People in same-sex relationships went from being shut out from the benefits and status of marriage to being taken in. The circle that had long excluded them suddenly included them.
The shock waves reached across the country and around the world. Gay marriage in San Francisco was front-page news in places like Tulsa and Ft. Lauderdale. Five weeks later, after the California Supreme Court halted the same-sex ceremonies, the city announced that couples from 46 states and 8 countries had come to San Francisco to be wed. Clearly this wasn't just another act in the three-ring circus that California (and the San Francisco LGBT community in particular) provides by way of entertainment to the rest of the world. It was a genuinely society-shaking event.
Another landmark event in the history of our community shook a local religious institution to its foundations. In the early 1980s, a small group of gay and lesbian Buddhists founded a Zen center in the Castro. For years Hartford Street Zen Center sat quietly in the middle of a residential block in the Castro. Then one day in 1987 the abbot of the center -- Issan Tommy Dorsey, a former drag performer turned Buddhist monk -- took in a man dying of AIDS. Taking care of people with AIDS soon became the major work of the center, so much so that visitors to the place had no idea that there was actually a zendo (meditation room) taking up the entire basement. Finally, after ten years, Maitri opened their own building (coincidentally on the same block as St. Francis) and the Hartford Street Zen Center went back to just being a place where people studied Zen Buddhism. Today it's still on Hartford St. in the Castro, with resident students and others meditating every morning and evening.
No doubt there were members of HSZC who were concerned that taking care of AIDS patients was overwhelming their institution. In fact, caretaking did overwhelm their institution. Several years after passing the responsibility for dying patients over to a new organization, HSZC is struggling with the legacy of having spent several years more or less ignoring its own institutional health. Unlike the larger and more famous San Francisco Zen Center, HSZC didn't produce a "lineage" of succeeding priests and abbots to take over from its founder, who himself died of AIDS at Maitri in 1990. But I don't think there's anyone now at HSZC who regrets having followed the way of compassion.
All acts of hospitality are rooted in compassion, because we can't reach out to others or effectively welcome them until we can put ourselves in their place. Jesus himself says of the Samaritan that "when he saw him, he had compassion" (Luke 10:33) - he knew that on the road to Jericho, anyone could be a victim of robbers. As for the priest and the scribes who passed the man by, I wonder if they thought something like, "That could never happen to me, for God protects the righteous. He must have deserved his fate." I know such thoughts tempt me when I see society's outcasts on our streets.
Hospitality is radical. It shakes up individuals, families and institutions. It can shake up Tulsa as well as San Francisco. It can shake up churches and Zen centers. It is risky, requiring a change of perspective and of self-definition. As a member of St. Francis was quoted in the last issue, the people we feed early Sunday morning in our Hospitality Hour are "remarkably like us." Yes: We need care, food, a welcome, an open door, a way in. But as an institution, we own the door. Can we, like the mayor of San Francisco, risk opening it to everyone?
For further reading
Christine Pohl, Welcoming the Stranger: What Hospitality Teaches Us About Justice. Sojourners, July 1997.
More information about the history of Maitri Hospice is on their website.
Walls do fall
by Jane Moyer
I was in Berlin when the Wall fell. It was November 9, 1989, and I was working for a German pharmaceutical company. I had been in Munich at a trade show when word reached us from headquarters that East German border guards were no longer demanding visas for people to go from the East to the West (at that time you still needed a visa to go from West to East). People were tentatively, at first, walking across the border. The first ones were the bravest -- no one knew if they would be allowed back, or if they would be arrested or detained on the other side, or even if they would be shot in the No Man's Land between the East and West guard towers. No one knew what would happen.
The Day the Wall Fell was one event on the path of the liberation of Eastern Europe and the demise of the Wall. The old order of the East was crumbling -- Poland, Estonia, Latvia and other satellites of the Soviet Union were sapping Moscow of energy and resources in their struggles for independence, and the Soviet Union was becoming financially incapable of controlling its vast empire.
The beginning of the end of the Wall wasn't when Berliners took sledge hammers, shovels, even spoons to the concrete Wall -- it was months before, when officials in Hungary and Czechoslovakia decided to quietly allow border crossings while Moscow was busy elsewhere. Consequently, in the summer of 1989, there was a mad dash to the Czech embassies and the Hungarian border, and Eastern Europe was suddenly being drained of its skilled and professional workforce. The military was called in not to stanch the flow of emigrants, but to staff hospitals and air traffic control towers. Unable to prevent people from leaving, East German officials decided to allow people to leave on one-day visas, and only through the border at Berlin (at first), thinking this would slake their thirst for freedom for awhile. When the border became completely overwhelmed with people requesting visas, and with the world watching, the border officials simply gave up. And the Wall fell.
The interesting thing to me in these events is that the Wall, in great measure, was not just the concrete eyesore snaking through Berlin; The Wall was the mindset of impossibility, the idea that Berliners would always be separated into Eastern and Western, sharing a common language and heritage but unequal in status. It was also the mindset of intractability, and that it would never change. Many Germans believed in "die Wiedervereinigung," or Reunification, as a concept but could not imagine its ever becoming reality.
Over the years there had been attempts to scale the Wall, or dig under it, or fly over it. There were protests, and actions and votes and threats. But it was the bold and courageous seizing of the moment in 1989 that led to the fall of the Wall.
Can you see the parallels to our current times? For years LGBT people have lived inside our own walls -- the Wall of marriage, for example -- that is, the inability to have our relationships recognized by the state, being separated. We have protested, and voted and applied, but have always been denied. Many believed that the ability to marry would never happen, but continued to hope for it.
It took Hawaii to really start the discussion a few years ago. And then Vermont. And then Massachusetts. And as circumstances changed and opportunities presented themselves, bold and courageous people have seized the opportunity and have broken through this wall here in San Francisco.
The things that changed on February 12, 2004 in San Francisco's City Hall were the language on a marriage application and the mindset of intractability. As people began to see what was possible as opposed to what was not possible, a brave few exchanging vows turned into a gorgeous flood of lovers waiting in the rain, around the block, taking their turn to crack the Wall.
And like those who first walked across No Man's Land in Berlin, none knew what would happen, what the consequences might be, or how long it would last. They only knew that the world had changed, and there was no going back.
Jane Moyer is a member of St. Francis and a human resources manager at a Sonoma County company.
The scene at City Hall
by Ruth Frost
Associate Pastor Ruth Frost wrote this report several days after her wedding at San Francisco's City Hall to fellow Associate Pastor Phyllis Zillhart.
San Francisco, Feb. 18 -- San Francisco's City Hall has been in the news a lot lately. San Francisco's Mayor, Gavin Newsom, the Board of Supervisors and various other city officials have decided to challenge the State of California to live out the principles of equality outlined in the state's constitution, by offering marriage licenses that do not discriminate against LGBT people. Reworded licenses marked "first applicant and second applicant" are now being made available at City Hall, together with marriage ceremonies performed by city officials, rabbais and other clergy.
An injunction seeking to bar this action was submitted to the court last week but the court refused to hear it until Tuesday of this week, leaving a five day window of opportunity for LGBT people to legally marry at City Hall over this Valentine's Day weekend. This resulted in a flood of eager applicants from all over California and beyond. People are literally camping out on the steps of City Hall for hours in the rain in the hope of being one of the 500 people the system is able to process daily. City officials volunteered their time all this holiday weekend to make this possible. The spirit of cooperation and volunteerism is amazing!
Phyllis and I went down on Friday the 13th (!) to participate both as applicants and as officiants. We stood in a long line which snaked three stories around the rotunda all the way to the basement. There were an incredible number of couples with babies and toddlers, and others who had taken school aged kids out of school to rush down to be married. We were there with our daughter, Noelle.
The atmosphere was electric with anticipation, appreciation and general ebullience. There were many lusty rounds of "Goin to the Chapel and We're Gonna Get Married" sung to the reporters covering the event. There were a handful of amused straight couples who found themselves in a sea of friendly LGBT couples. During the hours of waiting, it was like the feeding of the five thousand, as folks shared whatever they had brought--power bars, water bottles, peanuts and champagne-- with one another. (Today, we hear that people have been driving up with food and coffee for those who are still waiting outside the building.) Someone said to Noelle, "You're very patient. You must be getting a little annoyed with the wait." Noelle replied, "All I am is excited for my moms."
Phyllis was there in collar to hold up the professional side of our lives, and I was without collar to hold up the personal side of our lives, making her promise to marry me first before she officiated at any weddings. Needless to say, she broke that promise, as people saw her collar and begged her to marry them in line. (There were three lines; one for licensing, one for the ceremonies, and another for recording them with the registrar's office.) The top gallery of the rotunda was the wedding gallery with several stations for the ceremonies. One city commissioner, who had gone down to City Hall for another purpose, took one look at the crowds and exclaimed, "This is marriage triage! Scrub me up, give me a gown and I'm good for the day!" That was the spirit throughout the day.
When we finally reached the head of the ceremonies line, Supervisor Bevan Dufty saw us and threw his arms around us whispering, "Would you like me to do your wedding in the Board of Supervisors chambers?" We said yes, delightedly, knowing that the elegant chambers was saturated with the history of Harvey Milk and Mayor George Moscone. A gay male couple whom Phyllis had already married accompanied us as our witnesses, together with a lesbian couple who were their witnesses.
Noelle had salvaged a floral bouquet from a garbage bin to hold so that she could be the official flower girl for all three of us couples. When it was our turn, Noelle stood between Phyllis and I, with our arms around her as we clasped hands with each other. It was a sweet moment to exchange vows with her in our embrace. Afterwards, she pelted all of us with flower petals and hugs were exchanged all around between us couples -- strangers to one another, initially, and now friends.
By the end of that day Mayor Newsom had lost his voice, and simply had to listen to the crowds chanting "Thank you, thank you!" at him.
Someone has asked us why we got married after nearly twenty years of already feeling very married. We did it not to feel more married (we don't), but for the following reasons: 1) to stand in solidarity with our city in this action on our behalf, recognizing that the city was doing for all of us what St. Francis and First United did for the wider church 14 years ago. 2) to solidify a written record of who we are as family to one another for Noelle's sake. 3) to witness and support others' joy in their relationships of love and commitment. 4) to live our "now" already in anticipation of the future, no matter what the short term legal outcome is. 5) to say "yes!" to love between us and among us.
Anyhow, it was -- and is -- a joyous turn of events and one that makes us proud to be San Franciscans. It is also our sense that a great wound in the city's history left in the wake of the assassinations of Harvey Milk and Mayor George Moscone over twenty years ago is now healing. There haven't been so many queer people in City Hall since that sad event. Thank God -- and Maryor Newsom -- it's a celebration today!
Gay weddings rock city, nation
On Feb. 12, recently-elected San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom thrilled the LGBT community and dumbfounded the rest of the country by authorizing the nation's first marriage licenses to same-sex couples.
Newsom ordered the clerk of the City and County of San Francisco to begin issuing marriages licenses to all couples regardless of gender. After word spread, hundreds, then thousands of LGBT lovers from across the city, the nation and the world beat a path to San Francisco's City Hall to be married.
Several couples from St. Francis Lutheran were married in the days and weeks that followed, including Associate Pastors Ruth Frost and Phyllis Zillhart. After their vows, Frost and Zillhart performed several other weddings on the spot. City Hall remained open throughout Valentine's Day weekend as couples rushed to solemnize their vows before courts could step in.
As it happened, weddings took place for a month before the California Supreme Court ordered the city to stop granting same-sex marriage licenses and performing same-sex weddings. However, the court did not invalidate the marriages that had already taken place, leading advocates of gay marriage to hope the court would uphold the practice.
St. Francis and many other local churches held services blessing the "City Hall marriages." In a service February 19, fifteen couples had their marriages blessed here, with happy brides and grooms in various modes of dress -- some with children proudly looking on -- gathered in front of the altar.
Mayor Newsom, a married, heterosexual Roman Catholic, said he decided to begin authorizing same-sex weddings in San Francisco after attending the State of the Union address on January 20 and hearing President George W. Bush speak out against gay marriage.
The ELCA's sexuality study: time for a reality check
by James DeLange
The ELCA (the national Lutheran church body) is in the middle of a four-year study on sexuality meant to inform decisions at its 2005 national convention on issues such as ordaining gay clergy. In this essay, former St. Francis pastor James DeLange cautions against forming too-high expectations. -- Ed.
The decision of the Massachusetts Supreme Court that gay marriage is constitutional, the actions taken by the Mayor of San Francisco to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples, and the response by the President of the United States to advocate for a constitutional amendment "to defend the institution of marriage between a man and a woman," will heat up the cultural wars in our nation, especially in this election year.
However the election turns out in November, you can count on the cultural war to be resumed in the 2005 ELCA synod and national church assemblies. While national polls indicate a 50-50 split on civil unions for gay and lesbian people, the opposition to gay marriage enjoys a 2-1 margin. The membership of the ELCA reflects a similar division, with even more opposed to gay marriage.
However the church chooses to nuance the "blessing of same sex relationships," it will be seen by opponents as marriage -- as it is already by GLBT folk who have done it. A successful effort by the ELCA to extend marriage rites and ordination to GLBT persons will be viewed by many of those opposed as the final blow in the liberal takeover of the ELCA. An unsuccessful effort will represent a different kind of final blow for many GLBT people and their supporters who placed their faith in this lengthy process. People on either side will not only threaten to leave the ELCA, they will leave and take their money with them. A large swath of church members who are not sure how they feel about GLBT issues will see all this as church politics and find it extremely distasteful. They will see it as impossible to reconcile rough-and-tumble maneuvering for control of synod and churchwide assembly votes with the spirit of Jesus Christ. They might not leave their congregations, but they will vote with their minds and their pocketbooks to put a distance between their congregation and the larger church.
So, as in the past, the Lutheran Church in this country will value church unity over all other considerations. The ELCA, it will be argued (though not openly), cannot afford yet more disaffection. Its very survival is at stake. No matter what the recommendations from the Task Force For ELCA Studies on Sexuality turn out to be, the priority of ELCA unity will be embedded in any resolution that is adopted by the 2005 churchwide assembly. So don't be surprised if this season's sexuality study ends up on the chopping block and we end up with a resolution that says everything but does nothing.
The Lutheran church in this nation has a long and sad history of making progress on social justice issues that can best be characterized as too little, too late -- race, voting rights for women, the ordination of women, divorce and remarriage, birth control, dancing, card playing -- to name but a few serious and not so serious social issues that have faced regional and national church gatherings.
To all who hope that this study will come out with a positive result for LGBT people: Be forewarned. We have been here before with these "studies." Remember you are Charlie Brown and it is Lucy who has the football. If you believe that Lucy is going to do anything different with the football than she did last time, you are sadly mistaken. If you invest your faith in the institutions and structures of the church to do the right thing, you do so at your vocational and spiritual peril.
Learn from the experiences of African-American citizens who, on too many occasions, put their faith in the good intentions of white folks to do the right thing. If I may be so presumptuous as to offer some pastoral counsel: It would be good to start now investing more time and energy in prayer, Bible study, sacramental life, and developing deeper connections with the saints in your circle of believers. You will need the whole armor of God to help you through the disappointment to come.
Recognize this exercise by the ELCA to study homosexuality for what it is: To buy some time. Bishops and other national and synod leaders pay attention to the national polls. They hear often from their loudest critics. They know that most of the opposition to GLBT rights comes from my generation, people over 65. The unacknowledged calculation is that the larger culture and the civil courts will do the work of moral persuasion until it is safe for the church to make a decision. That, and a few more funerals. This, sad to say, is the decision making pattern of the Church of the Reformation in America on important social justice issues.
Nothing would please me more than to be proven wrong on what the Lutheran Church does about same sex marriage and the ordination of gays and lesbians. But given our history I am not hopeful. A reality check tells me I have no reason to believe this time will be any different.
Pastor James DeLange retired in 1999 after 18 years as senior pastor of St. Francis. He currently serves on the board of Lutheran Lesbian and Gay Ministries.
instrument
a newsletter of St. Francis Lutheran Church
Editor:
Mark Pritchard
This
Lent 2004 issue was completed on 25 March 2004 and posted on the web on 27 March 2004.
Produced
on something like a quarterly schedule. Submissions in MS Word format to
mark94110 at yahoo.com, or on paper to Mark c/o the church office, 152 Church
St., San Francisco, Calif. 94114. Submissions may be on any topic related to
spirituality or the work of the people.
Opinions
expressed herein are those of the authors and not necessarily of St. Francis
Church, its staff or members.
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