"Shitty First Drafts"

(Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life)

"Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft. I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they're doing it."

Thanks for your contribution, Anne. I appreciate it. I agree heartily, and I felt moved enough to write these words into my fake-moleskine notebook (which, since I got it at Target, is probably made out of beavers); http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/2009/02/24/122-moleskine-notebooks/

However, although your words are nice, I don't quite know how to stop looking at my feet. Have you seen the stepping stones at Duke Divinity School? They are not stones. They are jutting, jagged rocks, like the ones on Tom Hanks's Castaway island. They would kill me if I fell.

But alas, I know you are right, Anne. I know that writing a paragraph should not take me 4 hours. I know that I should not write one sentence and then yell at the dog, "This is too impossible. I am the worst sentence writer in the world!" The dog doesn't understand why I'm yelling anyway, and the people that I'm dog-sitting for probably have one of those teddy-bear-nanny-cams that is filming me as I sit at the kitchen table and yell neurotically at their canine therapist. I know that writing one sentence and then leaving the house to go buy chocolate is ultimately impeding me from creativity and insight and joy. The idea of stepping carefully on all of those stones is just too incredibly hard, and so instead I find a canoe and paddle erratically in no fruitful direction. All I want to do is walk leisurely on the stones, but I cannot. It is too hard.

Writing is too hard for me. I am writing a spiritual memoir for one of my classes, and I cannot do it. It is personally taxing, and besides that fact, the words that I try to put on the page are vapid. I try to cure my writing affliction with chocolate and with warm soup, but the words still will not come. I have been in an informal, non-graded writing class this semester. The others write so easily. In the time it takes them to write 200 beautiful sentences, I have written 10 sentences that contain no good in them at all. They read their writing, and I feel as though we're on Writing Survivor: Outwit, Outcharm, Outlast. I persistently lose the competition and have to go back to the island, cold and unfed.

However, it has actually never even been a competition. It's a spiritual formation class, for goodness' sake. I am there to grow in and by the presence of others. I am there to relish the presence of these women of God. I am not there to walk the stones carefully and to outperform. It is wrong for me to be a competitive monster. It is wrong for me to want to Gladiator-fight the other girls off the stones and to run triumphantly and alone to the other side.

I know that you must struggle in the same way sometimes, Anne. Has it become easy for you to write shitty first drafts? I can't seem to do it without the aid of gin. And so I languish, yelling my feelings at dogs and eating too many chocolates, and then after many, many wasted hours of self-pity, I finally produce a shitty first draft that happens to be my only and final draft.

Perfectionism is leaving me cramped and insane, but I frankly don't how to get off the train. I think that my professor, for whom I'm writing this paper, sensed that we might struggle with the pressure to write well for him. As such, he sent us an email with this quote from Flannery O'Connor: "You do not write the best you can for the sake of art but for the sake of returning your talent increased to the invisible God to use or not use as he sees fit."

In writing, my telos ought not be personal success. My telos ought not to be to Outwit, Outcharm, and Outlast. Frankly, my telos in life ought never be any of these things. I do not exist in God's world to outperform. As a friend of mine wisely says: "That's not the Gospel."

It's not the Gospel.
I still don't know how to stop looking at my feet.
I still don't know how to rejoice in my walking.
I still don't know how to run freely across the stepping stones.
But I know that it's not the Gospel.

Dear (Extroverted) Ministers and Future Ministers: (Or Why I Struggle with Going to Church)

Dear (extroverted) ministers and future ministers of the Word of our God and Savior Jesus Christ,

I have something that I need to tell you.

I need to tell you what going to church is like for an introvert.

Going to church is terrible.

I need to tell you this, (extroverted) ministers and future ministers, because of this state of affairs, I find you disastrously unaware.

I will now demonstrate this truth with an anecdote:

Last year, one of "your kind," with what I found to be utmost insensitivity, said to me: "Sara, it's not that hard to go to church."

I was appalled. APPALLED. "Has he ever been in a church parking lot?" I thought, indignantly. "Has he ever passed the peace?"

"Clearly this man (and of course he is a man) knows nothing of the extreme anguish that church attendance produces inside of me. And if he knows nothing of my acute distress, then he clearly knows nothing of the acute distress of the entire world. And if he knows not of the acute distress of the entire world, then he ought not be a minister of the Word of our God and Savior Jesus Christ. It is settled," I thought. "This man is not equipped for ministry."

Allow me to clarify for you, ministers and future ministers, what this extreme anguish is like. For ease of imagery, I will play the role of the distressed parishioner in the following scenarios:

Scenario #1: "The parking lot"

Perhaps unbeknownst to you, ministers and future ministers, navigating the church parking lot is one of the most harrowing experiences an introverted church visitor can have.

"What if I turn wrongly into the church parking lot, indicating to everyone that I am a visitor who knows nothing of the story of redemption?"

"How am I to greet the nice-looking couples I walk by in the parking lot? Am I to greet them with a holy kiss, as Paul instructed? Must I say something trite and bouncy, like: "Grace and peace, brothers and sisters!"? Do I shake hands? Hug? Elbow-bump? For the love of everything that is good and holy, can't I just pretend to text?!?"

"What door do I go in? Oh dear God, what door do I go in? God, show me the damn door that I'm supposed to go in!"

To be sure, a visiting introvert's experience in the church parking lot before the service has begun is 100x less distressing than her experience after the service.

After the service, otherwise reserved churchgoers spill into the parking lot, all jacked up on grace and Eucharistic elements, eager to pounce on any newcomer they see and force them to feel welcome.

"I'M SO GLAD THAT YOU CAME. WE WELCOME YOU. I HOPE THAT YOU FEEL SUFFICIENTLY WELCOMED. PLEASE COME BACK TO OUR WELCOMING CHURCH."

Ministers and future ministers, I want you to know that introverts leave encounters such as these, panting and groaning anxiously, for a full 3-5 minutes. The experience alone is enough to prompt someone to order one of these: http://www.amazon.com/Hidden-Bible-4-oz-Flask/dp/B001T3YC2E

Suffice it to say, the church parking lot is an introvert's hell. It is one of the foremost obstacles that introverts face in trying to get themselves to church. This is something that I want you to be aware of, ministers and future ministers, for your present or future ministry.

Scenario #2: "Pew selection"

Once the visiting introvert has braved the horrors of the parking lot, she then faces the equally horrifying horrors of the "greeters' spirit tunnel" and then, the horror of all horrors, the moment of pew selection.

Ministers and future ministers, I will have you know that walking through the tunnel of forced Christian hospitality upon entering the church doors is, emphatically, not a good time. This is especially true for young-looking female introverts who attend church without male companions. Truly, for the single introvert, church is inordinately harrowing because churchgoers, suffice it to say, have absolutely no idea how to talk to young, single females who are joining them for worship. Typically, their response it to think silently, "Hmmm, I wonder how this nice, 15-year old lesbian found our church?" The introvert finds this to be stressful. Ministers and future ministers, perhaps you could train your parishioners to accept and embrace singlehood in the church and to not assume that all single females are lesbians.

Having received her bulletin, the introvert is once more overcome with extreme anguish, because she now faces the horror of all horrors: pew selection.

I will demonstrate this extreme anguish with another anecdote:

Earlier this year, when attending a new church, I decided to make my pew selection choice with confidence. This, as it turned out, was a terrible decision. I had just sat down, confidently, and had just confidently given a faint-smiling-head-bob to the young, blonde woman next to me when she turned to her spouse and began frantically whispering. They deliberated--I could feel them deliberating--and then they pew-shuffled 6 feet away from me. "Oh God," I thought frantically, "am I supposed to pew-shuffle with them? Maybe they could tell that I couldn't really see over the head of that tall man ahead of me." It was the worst 5 seconds of my life. Upon confidently giving the woman the faint-smiling-head-bob, I had envisioned myself, 4 weeks later, sitting jubilantly on this beautiful couple's sofa, nursing a hot toddy and playing a rousing game of Cranium. Now, however, it couldn't be more clear that I was being rejected. Another adorable couple appeared at the side of the pew. They wanted to sit by the first adorable couple. I was in their spot. I had broken the rules of church visitor pew selection.

Ministers and future ministers, pew selection is right up there with the parking lot in terms of fostering anguish. The introvert must decide not only where she is allowed to sit, but she must also apply great strategy to her decision so that she will have easy access to the sanctuary doors, come the moment of the benediction (more on this next week). The anguish of pew selection is one more obstacle introverts face in trying to get themselves to church. I think it necessary for you to know this for your ministry, ministers and future ministers.

Going to church is ridiculously hard for introverts, and I haven't even begun to describe what happens when the service actually begins and when it ends. Next week, ministers and future ministers, I will take up Scenario #3: Passing the Peace and Scenario #4: The Fellowship Hall. Sweet Jesus, the horrors of the fellowship hall...

I am glad we have begun to communicate about this, extroverted ministers and future ministers, and I hope to find you next week to be more sensitive to this state of affairs.

Best,

An Introverted Churchgoer

"Thanksgiving"

Dear friends,

Happy Thanksgiving. I hope you ate lots of mayonnaise and cream cheese-based foods.

I had a good day. I ate Thanksgiving foods and smiled Thanksgiving smiles and wore a Thanksgiving blazer. All in all, what a success.

Last year at this time, though, was quite different. Last year at this time included no Thanksgiving foods, smiles, or blazers. Last year at this time was, in fact, an abysmal sort of day.

I guess I'd say that drinking blueberry lager on the floor of my closet, alone, was the low point of Thanksgiving last year. Or maybe it was when I studied Church History notes in the mall parking garage in between the two movies that I went to see by myself. Or maybe it was when I went home and saw all the gladware containers stuffed with delicious turkey and potatoes and gravy that I could not eat. Suffice it to say, I would be unable to point to one of these events as the worst part of the day.

You see, my roommate had wanted me to be in attendance for a Thanksgiving meal in our house attended by her, her military boyfriend whom I once caught cleaning a gun in the room just opposite mine, and our older, hippie neighbor who had promised to bring a free-range turkey and to abstain from the bad energy contained within carbs.

"Hellz no," I said.

She cried, or at least got excessively weepy, and I retreated stubbornly to my bedroom. "I do not do things out of a sense of obligation," I thought. "Her excessive weepiness makes me feel obligated to change my mind, and thus I will not."

"I refuse to attend your Thanksgiving," I told her.

She looked at me like I had just taken an electric carving knife to one of the neighborhood cats.

"For the love of God, come to my Thanksgiving!" she exclaimed.

"I will not come to your Thanksgiving," I proclaimed.

It was not until later that I realized that not only did I now have nowhere to go for Thanksgiving, but I would also be unable to stay in my own house.

WHY WAS I NOT GOING TO HER THANKSGIVING?

I wanted to take it back. I so badly wanted to take it back. I could not take it back.

So I decided to go to movies about oppressed, black teenagers.

I got the large popcorn with extra butter. I trust you will understand.

The man taking my ticket judged me, of course, when I presented my ticket for The Blind Side, but I have to imagine he judged me even more when I presented my ticket three hours later for Precious. (I told this story to a friend the other day, and she exclaimed, "You saw Precious alone on Thanksgiving?!? That's like watching Schindler's List!") This is what the ticket-taking man thought as well. I knew this to be true when he coughed "Loser" into his hand and then pushed me into a wall.

All in all, though, it wasn't a terrible experience. I mean, besides the fact that I was horribly depressed. I actually found going to the movies alone to be kind of empowering. Plus, I was able to spend quality time in the parking garage, coming to terms with the intricacies of a Trinitarian God.

And yet, it was also not the greatest day I have ever had. When I felt as though I had waited an appropriate amount of time, I returned home. My roommate cheerfully asked me where I had been, to which I replied, "Out."

"Did you have a great Thanksgiving?"

"I reckon so."

Well, I reckon that I had a greater one this year. Probably because I had the Trinity all figured out this go-around. Oh, and like I said, I was wearing a Thanksgiving blazer.

"There are no words"

Dear friends,

I have had some loud roommates before, but their level of obtrusion is never so apparent to me as when I am involuntarily waking from a nap:

The sound of her heels crashing upon the hardwood floor is as loud as a mother antelope rushing home to get the KFC on the table for the kids.

The sound of her voice is as if an aproned housewife is standing at the threshold, screen door half open, yelling "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY, KITTY."

The doors slam. All of them in the house at once. How does this even happen? It's as if our house has become the set of that last scene in Grease, where Danny and Sandy prance around the "Shake Shack" singing to one another, "You're the one that I want." The only difference is that if my roommate had on black leather and was singing seductively, I would not dance lustily after her but would rather fashion a bayonet out of my possessions and yield it against her. Several times.

Stomping. Slamming. Smashing. Crashing. How could one human being be so impossibly loud? It's as if SNL is filming a comedy sketch, EXCEPT IT IS REAL LIFE, AND I AM THE ONE LIVING IT.

The only way one can defend oneself against the galloping antelopes and screaming housewives is to grumble. Cuss unabashedly. Listen to Sigur Ros on pandora as loudly as possible. Tell God you'll stop sinning if he'll just make the antelope-footed roommate wear slippers.

God doesn't usually answer curse filled prayers with a pair of slippers, though, which is probably an indication that it's time to get up from my nap.

"Because Saying No to Neuroticism Was a Lie"

Dear friends,

Two years ago, when I was the TA for the biblical Greek class at Northwestern, the professor began class on the first day by reciting a passage in Greek, flawlessly and ominously. Although he did not translate the Greek for the class, he set the stage for fear (and later revealed to me that the passage was about death and the coming day of doom). Then, he asked the students what they had heard from others about the reputation of the class.

Without hesitation, a student spoke up: "I heard that at the beginning of the year, you put our soul in a jar, and if we fail the class, you smash the jar."

Hilarity ensued. Are you kidding me, student? Please say that at the beginning of every class for the rest of your life.

All laughter aside, though, this student's comment was exactly the way I had approached the Greek class. I had spent every day of my sophomore year, whilst taking Greek, studying desperately so that my soul-in-the-jar-that-is-Greek-class would not be smashed because of my failure. I printed off my quiz and test grades and hung them next to my pillow so that I could measure my success and/or failure every day before sleeping and upon waking. I stopped looking at the sky while walking, as my flashcards were ever before me. I woke up thinking about Greek. I went to bed thinking about Greek. I was obsessed. I was obsessed because the language was something that I could control and master, and I would control it and I would master it. I told my friends that if I did not get an A on the final, I would be so humiliated that I would just start walking to Mexico, scattering my flashcards in the wind as I went.

I was neurotic. I mean, a really, seriously crazy person. I had to be the best in the class. If I missed the extra credit points on the quizzes, then I had failed. My friend made me a sign to hang in my room that read: "I must beat Ben! Ben is weak! I will be first!" I thought Ben to be my competition in the class. I eyed him warily during class. I had to beat him.

I did not want to disappoint my professor with my failure. I did not want him to smash my soul. Missed points on quizzes would be a personal affront to him. He would lose all respect for me as a human being.

I get the hint, though, that not everyone approaches their academic endeavors in this way.

I still do, though.

Looking an instructor or professor of mine in the eye is ultimately a bad idea. This means that I am bound to him or her. With eye contact comes the need to impress. After eye contact, carelessness is egregious. Perfection is encouraged. After eye contact, poorly constructed sentences and leaps in logic and missed vocabulary words are a personal affront to my instructors. They no longer care for me as a person. I am nothing in their eyes.

Anxiety, not hilarity, ensues.

My tutor in Oxford, Albus Andrew, wrote in his comments on my transcript: "Sara makes very high demands of herself, but has achieved much more than she gives herself credit for." (Ha, Albus Andrew ended a sentence with a preposition).

How, though, does one give herself credit for the work she does? How does one evaluate the presentation that he gave without wanting to jump through the 3rd floor classroom windows? When is a paper something that she can be proud of writing?

As a student, I put my soul in a jar and wait for it to be smashed. Expect it to be smashed. Envision it being smashed.

The truth of the matter, though, is that I am the one smashing it.

If I had my way, I'd stop smashing my soul-jar and instead live my life being the person in this quote by Mary Oliver: "Every day I see or hear something that more or less kills me with delight."

This is my hope. To be sure, I think that I will never be the person in this quote, but that is because of my still persistent smashing.

The prophets, Isaiah and Micah point to a vision of justice in which the world's people "will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore" (2:4 and 4:3, respectively).

May this vision extend also to those who take up their swords and their spears and yield them daily against themselves. May this vision extend to those for whom daily anxiety ensues. May this vision extend to those who put their souls in a jar and wait expectantly for them to be smashed.

Take your soul out of the jar. Love your soul. Love yourself.

God, grant us the courage.

Sara

"Gender Battles on the Sidewalk"

Scenario:

Sara is walking carefully on the right side of the sidewalk, keeping to herself and showing (outward) respect for humanity. All of a sudden, she spots a Duke undergraduate walking in the opposite direction as her, walking very carefully on the left side of the sidewalk. [This means that Sara and the man were heading directly toward one another and would soon dramatically collide.] The undergraduate is wearing hip shades and a t-shirt that bears the word "Capital" with an arrow pointing to his penis. Sara walks dramatically on. Capital-penis undergraduate walks dramatically on. Tension grew. WHO WAS GOING TO MOVE? It was becoming a serious issue. Sara and the undergraduate were just very much about to dramatically collide. 5 steps away from collision. 4 steps away from collision. 3 steps. Sara thinks to herself calmly, but with increasing concern: "Why is he not moving? It strikes me that if I am walking on the right side of the sidewalk, then I should not have to move." 2 steps. The undergraduate with the offensive t-shirt will not budge. He will win this battle. He will not lose. Sara will lose. Dramatic collision only seconds away, Sara makes a tricky little turn with the direction of her body and heads toward the left side of the sidewalk. She has lost the battle. He has won the battle. As the undergraduate's t-shirt had made known, it was he who had the biggest penis. Sara thinks: "I hate you penis-man. I hate you. I hate every man. I hate every person. God, please forgive me for hating that man and for hating every person." End scene.

Later, Sara had a chance to interview the undergraduate about this experience that they had shared; their conversation is recorded here:

Sara: "I'm glad we are able to come together for a time of reconciliation. I'm sorry, though, I don't know your name. What is your name?"

Undergraduate: "You have not earned the right to know my name. You are wearing a hoodie and jeans, and as such, I neither want to sleep with you nor tell you my name. What I will tell you is that I am entitled to a lot, and I don't respect you."

Sara: "Very well, then. Can you talk for awhile about the significance of your t-shirt? Why is it that your shirt has the word 'capital' and an arrow pointing to your penis?"

Undergraduate: "I don't know why I'm talking to you. I am very powerful, you see. Largely, my t-shirt is an indicator that you have no right to speak with me. If I choose to walk on a particular side of the sidewalk, then you should no longer find yourself welcome on that side. I am powerful and rich. Why are you commenting on my t-shirt and not my sunglasses? My sunglasses were very expensive, and you should know many things about me just by looking at them."

Sara: "That is my mistake. I am incorrigible, am I not? Is there anything else you would like to say?"

Undergraduate: "Yes, I am a Son of Entitlement, and I do not understand why you feel like you deserve a place on the sidewalk. You think that you deserve to at least be walking on the right side because it is proper to do so, but let me tell you that if I decide that women do not belong on the sidewalk, then they don't belong."

Sara: "Truly, your logic is impeccable. Anything else?"

Undergraduate: "Yes, you are the inferior gender, and my penis is still very large."

Sara: "Thank you. May the road rise to meet you and the sun be always at your back."

Acknowledgements: To the young man who would not allow me to keep my place on the sidewalk, many thanks.

"Saying No to Neuroticism"

Saying no to neuroticism is not something that I do frequently.

For instance, back in the day when I was either more crazy or less crazy (it's hard to tell), I so badly wanted to be a TA for the Greek class at Northwestern that I composed a list of all the people the professor might pick for the job instead of me, and I gave reasons for why he should not pick any of those persons and should instead pick me.

His emailed response read as follows:

"Yes, your unbridled neuroticism and raving paranoia make it very clear that you are truly the SENSIBLE choice."

I will have you know that he did, in fact, pick me.

However, his description of my neuroticism as "unbridled" often tends to be more true than not.

It is for this reason that I do not belong in the academy.

It is for this reason that I want to instead do the following:

I want to live in a house that is accessed by means of a gravel road.

I want to hang my clothes on a clothesline and attend to the water level in the bird bath.

I want to become really, really good at folding sheets.

I want to cook things in a slow cooker.

I want to buy suet from a butcher and hang it from a tree branch.

I want to spend full weeks vigorously canning pickles and dilly beans.

I want to play gin rummy while drinking gin and rum.

I want to eat oatmeal for breakfast; I want to eat breakfast, period.

I want to keep the Sabbath.

I want to read a novel.

I want to make cookies and watch Love Actually and Titanic.

I want someone to care for me.

I want a backyard,

and I want to belong.

I want life to be the best thing ever.

The heart wants what it wants. At least, that's what I told myself when I just went and bought a diet mountain dew.

Best,

Sara

This blog has gotten far too optimistic lately.

Allow me to reiterate that I still find people to be the worst thing in the world.

Best,

Sara

"My Friend has an Uncle who is a Monk, and We Call Him Her 'Monkle'"

Dear friends,

Fall break was last week, and it was more or less the greatest week of my life. A previous post on this blog recalls that last year at this time, I spent fall break reading Augustine's Confessions and nurturing the festering pneumonia that would soon ravage my body and general well-being as a human. That, as I now think about it, was not the greatest week of my life.

Instead, that prize goes to this year's fall break, in which I divided my time between a beach house and a Trappist monastery. First of all, who knew that "going to the beach" actually means going to the ocean? No one knows that. I'm sure glad I know that now. One of my roommates had to go to Myrtle Beach, SC, and a random person let us stay in her beach house. Did any of you know that beach houses are amazing? No one knows that. I'm sure glad I know that now. I spent my days reading about Dorothy Day's life of voluntary poverty and my nights feasting at the banquet of vacation luxury. Mmmm....conviction.

Highlights of this trip include: the ocean.

I then drove to Mepkin Abbey in Monck's Corner, SC. http://www.mepkinabbey.org/

I was able to stay for several days, observing monastic life and trying my own hand at monastic life. It was a transformative experience in many ways, some of which I recognize, and some of which I'll come to recognize in time.

If you feel as though you know me well, then I probably don't want to talk to you about the experience. If you don't know me well, then I'd love to tell you everything.

The following is a piece that I wrote in class today about my time at the monastery; I hope it gives you the slightest glimpse of my experience:

I did not know that monks eat candy bars. They do, though. They eat candy bars and they wear zip-up fleece jackets when it is cold and they spread Smart Balance butter on bagels toasted in their Cuisinart toaster.

Monks eat squash, too--observing a vegetarian diet and fixing their eyes upon a stick figure Jesus while spooning down stringy, brown-sugared squash. Several hours after the squash-Jesus-combo for lunch that day, I happened upon Father Joe in the gift shop. "I need something more than that squash," he mumbled as he passed by me and selected a Crunch bar. I was delighted. A monk eating a candy bar is like Jesus watching a reality show on Hulu. "Monks like chocolate, too," I marveled. "Maybe a monk is like a real human being."

Of course, a monk is a holy man. A monk's vocation is contemplation--contemplating the things of God and communing with the being who is God. It is such abstract language that we lapse into, though, when speaking of communion with God. It is language at which you must persistently prod if you hope to break through and see God on the couch with his people.

Monks, I think, do not commune abstractly and perfectly with God. They are, in fact, real human beings who eat butter and get cold. They are real human beings who sing several times each day: "Lord, make haste to help me." They are real human beings, who before receiving the body and blood of their Lord, recite together: "Lord, I am not worthy to receive but only say the word, and I will be healed."

The monks do not spend their days standing before the throne of God, picking at stains on their robes and reminding one another to behave. Rather, the monks spend their days sitting on the basement couch with God. Spike TV is on in the background, and they are telling God that just two minutes ago they had wished not to be a people of God. They had faltered--wandered aloud if all this genuflecting and chanting and reading beautiful words to a fake God was really just a cover for the fact that they didn't want a desk job.

The monks are on the couch with God, as though they are friends watching a ball game. One still owns a timeshare on the beach. Another read the whole Harry Potter series while he could have been reading Bonhoeffer's Letters and Papers From Prison. And one is recently divorced and misses the weekends that were free for hunting. One is a father. One is a gardener. One is a man who gets tired.

They continually show up before God, though. Even when they are tired or angry or arrogant or existential, they are God's people. They are God's people, and so they will come before God in praise and obedience, and so they will come before God with great joy. Sometimes, of course, they will trudge in their coming. Sometimes, they will come with the day's work on their minds. Sometimes they will not come in joy at all. This will not matter, though. They are God's people, and so before God they will come. Whether it be 3 AM or whether it be sleeting or whether it be while their mother is in town, they will come. They will come because they know God not to be an abstract being who may be placated with formulas, but rather because they know God as the one who took his God-hands and fashioned each one of them into existence.

They are God's people who are not worthy to receive, and for that reason, they will come.

"An Open Letter"

Dear Cynicism,

I am writing to tell you that I am leaving you. I am moving on. I am moving out of our one-bedroom apartment that has neither a sunny windowsill on which a mint plant can grow nor a sunny room in which imagination can be cultivated. The reasons are as follows: you smother innocence and beauty and emotion, and I find this to be oppressive. As such, I am moving on--severing ties--casting you aide. All the best to you. Godspeed.

You scoff, of course. You're always so quick to scoff. Truly, these castigations are not news to you, both because you revel in your smothering and because I have told you these things before. I may have substituted fennel in the place of mint and emotion in the place of imagination, but my sentiments were the same. I was moving on. Setting sail. Hopping ship to Tarshish. Leaving you. I began to tell my friends that I was trying to "transcend Cynicism." "Who says that?" you jeered, appropriately. No one should say that. No one ought to tell another that she is transcending anything. It is both too enlightened and too pretentious for another--for even me--to swallow.

Frankly, Cynicism, I scoffed as well. I will admit freely to you that I was skeptical of my capacity to shed my crunchy coating and become, at will, a person who has hopes and dreams and beliefs and passions. I was skeptical of my capacity to evaluate the religiously observant in a positive manner. I was especially skeptical of my capacity to experience emotion during worship.

More than all this, though, and I only tell you this because I will soon have left you forever, I think I was scared. I was scared that upon abandoning you, I would find myself doing the two-handed surrender while sweetly singing "I'm forgiven, because you were forsaken; I am accepted, you were condemned." If I left you, I might turn into one of "them." If I allowed myself to experience emotion during worship, I may just as soon be wearing a "Got Jesus?" t-shirt and believing that the dinosaurs fit on the ark because they were teenaged dinosaurs. How I feared believing in teenaged dinosaurs. And so I continued to cling to you for your protection.

I should make it clear, Cynicism, that you did play a role in my life for which I am glad. After meeting your eyes during a discussion of epistemology my freshman year, I knew you were the one for me. I knew I wanted you always at my side. I wanted to put you in my pocket and keep you there, and so I did. That day in freshman philosophy, Cynicism, I tucked you into the left pocket of my purple t-shirt and carried on with my day. Carried on with my life.

But now, Cynicism, I am taking you out of my pocket and I am moving out of our apartment and I am shutting the garden gate on you and I am moving on. It is true--both you and I know that it is true--that I will walk haltingly away and will sometimes fiddle with the latch on the gate. Sometimes, I will even invite you back up to the apartment for a nightcap and a spot of dialogue. Most times, I will continue to cross my arms obstinately during worship or prayer (God forbid we be singing "Blessed be the Name" or "How Great is Our God.") and direct close-lipped stares at my fellow worshipers so that they might truly see that I am not one of "them." Most times, although I have given you a side-hug and have told you "Goodbye Forever," I will forget that I have ever done this at all.

However, I hope for the good days. Now that you are gone, it is okay to hope for the good days and know that they are coming. Even though my leaving you has by no means been successful or sudden, I need to tell you that I am already finding that I do not delight in you so readily these days. Your presence does not make my eyes gleam or my mind burst with delirious self-righteousness as easily as it used to. I am sorry to tell you all of this so candidly, but it is true. And because it is true, I am happy.

This is goodbye, then. I don't want you to try to contact me. I have changed my phone number and I am wearing a hat and I am speaking in an accent and I do not want you to look for me. I do not want you to call. I do not want you to write. I do not want you to think of "us" as living in the subjunctive mood. There will never be an "us" again. And if you see me someday, Cynicism, and I am doing the two-handed surrender or singing "Blessed be the Name" (or God forbid, doing both at once), then I will have you know that perhaps transcending cynicism is possible.

It is, at least, my intention to try.

Goodbye forever,

Sara

"The Enduring Truths of Christian Radio"

Dear friends,

Today, I learned how to cook meth and how to render a genitive absolute with a concessive function. Today, I learned that tuna does not come from dolphins, and I learned that slavery in North America was born not in racism, but in greed. Today I pet a rat on my kitchen table and learned that the process of importing Africans into North America brought about the death of the African gods.

Today, I spent my day at divinity school.

Roughly 5 years ago, I sat in a green-backed chair and drank a cup of coffee brewed from concentrated-coffee-water and told my AP that it sure would be nice to be a biblical scholar. Then I ate the rest of my english muffin and made small talk about Rob Bell.

If you are unfamiliar with contemporary Christian parlance, an AP is an Accountability Partner. APs go out for coffee and talk about lust. Or just sin and failure in general. Contemporary Christians LOVE this because they are given an opportunity to sit around and say things like: "Last night, the Accuser threw a real thorn in my path."

As a freshman at a Christian college, I loved this, too. I had no frame of reference for what it meant to talk about the Israelites (until someone recommended that I watch the Prince of Egypt), and I'd never heard of Ananias and Sapphira, and I didn't know that the Gospels were written after Paul's epistles, but I had a vague sense that it was important for me to read my Good News Bible and to heed the verses that I had double-underlined. I also had a vague idea that my biblical knowledge was lacking, so I remarked flippantly: "It'd sure be nice to be a biblical scholar. It sure would be nice to know the answers to all these questions."

And later that day, I slept through chapel.

Today, however, I did not sleep through chapel. I sat in chapel and analyzed the planning of the worship service and the efficacy of the sermon delivered. Today, I spent the second Thursday of my second year mastering divinity. I sat amongst Christians and made small talk not about Rob Bell or lust or my personal devotions, but rather used words like 'pejorative' and phrases like 'adjectival use of the participle,' and at times I even pretended I was doing the work of a biblical scholar. That is, until I went home and watched a television show about drugs and thugs.

Why am I pondering this progression of events?

Probably because I am an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. And pretentious to boot. Only a graduate student would spend their time narcissistically reflecting on the second Thursday of her second year of mastering divinity. [For a derogatory but humorous representation of grad students, click here-->http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XViCOAu6UC0.]

But beyond these endearing qualities of mine, I am reflecting on this progression of events because I have been trying to take the providence of God seriously these days. I have been trying to really believe that God has and does take a divine hand in my life.

I was listening to Christian radio in my car today, as is my habit (I am repeatedly drawn toward bad movies, bad books, and bad radio), and the announcer told one of those cute, silly stories about kids that is supposed to convince you that God is real and good and true for everyone. Apparently her son was playing on the playground equipment in Chick-Fil-A and while in a green, plastic tunnel, he started yelling, "WHERE ARE YOU, GOD? WHERE ARE YOU, GOD? WHERE ARE YOU?" The mother-turned-radio-announcer stepped out of the backdrop of the other moms, who probably just wanted to tell the kid that God was dead and he'd better just shut up and eat his nuggets, and she yelled, "GOD'S IN THE TUNNEL WITH YOU, BUDDY! HE'S IN THERE! GOD IS EVERYWHERE!"

If I had been in that Chick-Fil-A, this exchange probably would have been the highlight of my month. It would have been like Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul had just occurred while I had sat there eating my waffle fries.

But I was not there. And besides being a little repulsed by the evangelical-ness of it all, I think that the happy-Christian-mother-and-son-duo embody some of the most basic realities of a Christian's existence.

We cry out to God.

"Please, God, I do not want to work at the Chinese or the Dutch restaurant again. Please give me a future. Where are you, God?"

"Please, God, give me a spirit of prayer and a heart for you. Where are you, God?"

"Please, God, I enjoy none of this, where are you, God?"

Maybe we just feel a little too alone inside the green, plastic tunnel. And we forget that we need not blindly grope about for a God who has toes and plans and veins and love because this God who has toes and love is all the while groping about for us. We get a little panicky, wanting to touch this God and know this God to be there. We forget that "God's in the tunnel with you, buddy."

I imagine that although this all sounds a little magical and dumb and over-the-top--although it smacks a little of all these things--this simple idea is also profoundly true for those who are and who are to be ushered into the fold of salvation.

God is everywhere. God is in our kicking off of the sheets and God is in our flipping off of terrible drivers and God is in our baking of banana muffins and God is in our everything. We crawl around and we yell and we murmur and we pray, and God swirls us around in providence.

I am in divinity school because God is everywhere and because God has toes and love and is in my everything.

Best,

Sara

"Inspirations from Charles"

Dear friends,

I often forget that I have an eyebrow ring until someone reminds me. Like Charles, the liver-spotted, elderly man in my church this summer who, while grasping me in a prolonged side hug, said: "You're an ugly, ugly girl. You're so ugly. You'd be a beautiful girl if you took that out," he said, pointing to my piercing, "but until then you're an ugly girl."

Or others, after knowing me for 3 or 4 weeks, point their finger toward my forehead and ask: "does that hurt?"

"Yes, I have been in constant pain for 5 years," I tell them. "No, you dumbass, it doesn't hurt." They always ask this question, and I always fail to understand why they are asking it.

In my church this summer, however, I tended to avoid calling the parishioners dumbasses. I would say something sweet or expected and then go home on Sunday evenings with a headache and angst I could sometimes taste in my throat about how I was not being myself. This angst mushroomed into private, melodramatic writhings as I tossed and turned in bed, just so incredibly perturbed that not everyone in the world thinks the exact same things as I do.

I err on the side of melodrama. I do not think this has to do with my eyebrow ring, though. Really, I just got the eyebrow ring because that girl in Model UN my freshman and sophomore years had one, and I thought it neat. An eyebrow ring and a plaid skirt, debating the policies of the world, now that sounds like an identity. I would like to have a defined identity. I'm sure that when someone tries to describe me to someone else, there are familiar words that usually arise. But I do not know what they are or if I would like them. Sometimes I do learn from a stranger-turned-friend that he or she formerly knew me as the girl with the eyebrow ring. Behind the counter of the coffee shop or in the front row of the pre-calculus classroom, that is who I am. But I hope that I am more, and I hope that that "more" is not an ugly, ugly girl.

"People are terrible"

Dear friends,

The complexity of human relationships only astounds me positively on my good days. Some days, really, I am just tickled by the beauty of flawed humanity. Most days, though, I am very much astounded negatively by the complexity of human relationships, and I find people to be the most terrible thing ever. They are awful. They are just so very bad.

For instance, yesterday I stole some groceries, and the cashier who caught me was very unkind to me, which made me lose all faith in humanity and decide that I could never be a pastor ever because we’re all just heartless machines with faces.

You see, intentional stealing was never my goal. I had, in fact, thought that I had paid, but as it turns out, the debit card transaction had not gone through properly, and I had picked up my bags and departed before the cashier had told me such. The next thing I knew, she was running through the parking lot after me, angrily screaming that I hadn’t paid her. “Oh, what a silly situation,” I thought casually as I toddled back inside, cradling a massive watermelon like an oversized child. She, however, was not at all amused as she glared angrily at me, seizing an opportunity to be the oppressor, rather than being the oppressed Food Lion checker that she always had to be.

And then, in an instant, I knew people no longer to be the intricate creations of the Triune God, but rather to be terrible, soul-crushing, dehumanizers. “Why, under any circumstances, would I want the responsibility of shepherding a flock with the aforementioned characteristics,” I thought bitterly while cutting up the watermelon later at home. “Pastoral care? With the terrible, awful, no good, very bad people of the world? No thank you, God. I’d prefer a cubicle and a handful of sardonic co-workers whose eyes I can carefully avoid on my way in and out of the break room.” No thanks to forced smiles. No thanks to endless obligations. No thanks to ceaseless giving. I think I will instead forego the church and say yes to sincerity and praise and honor and love.

But there are still the good days. The good days when I feel about busting with joy about all of our misfittedness. And our depravity and flaws and ugliness all seem so beautiful and like something I’d like to be a part of and cheer for with a uniform on. I want to stare into angry-Food-Lion-lady’s eyes until we recognize one another’s humanity and begin to grin slowly in the solidarity we’ve found by having noses and freckles and hair. I want to understand that she dehumanizes because that’s mostly all she knows by standing on that other side of the counter and scanning the bologna, mustard, and wine of some person who will not look her in the eye, and who will go home and feast on his bologna and mustard and wine because he has no other joy in his life, because his wife will no longer look him in the eye. It’s a cycle of oppression and in some strange way, it’s beautiful because it gathers us together as sinful humanity. We are sinful humanity, and we writhe and spit and cuss with our eyes, and yet this nastiness is beautiful because even after screaming at one another in the parking lot, God still beholds the whole lot of us and looks us in the eye and loves us. And although it’s abstract, it’s real and it’s beautiful and it’s so good that it cancels out the bad and maybe I can be a pastor. Maybe I could love all of our misfitedness. Maybe our flaws and ugliness hold us all together. Maybe the church is where we probably belong. Maybe someday, all of our good days will converge into a grand good day and sinful humanity will rejoice as redeemed humanity.

Maybe someday. As for now, I’m still perturbed that I forgot to use my MVP card.

Dear friends,

I am moving tomorrow to begin my summer internship at a Methodist church in Mooresville, NC. During this time, I will be writing many sermons. I have decided that I'm not going to post them on my blog because I don't want to turn my blog into a sermon depository, so if you're interested in reading them, please let me know somehow and please make sure that I know your email address. This isn't some attempt to see how many friends I have. Really. Just let me know if you're interested, and I'll pass them along.

As for summer blogging, of course the plan is always to do so. We'll see how it goes. I think I'm probably going to be super busy, but I will also probably be super angsty, and when I am angsty I am more likely to blog. So hold out hope for that!

Best for now,

Sara

"I love to arbitrarily highlight study guides"

When you have enough time, studying for exams is exhilarating.

Highlighting. Memorizing. Making lists. Arranging your papers in a systematic pattern that only you understand.

So. Much. Fun.

This is why I loved Greek with all of my heart and mind and soul and strength. I cannot wait to take it for real again next semester. I am excited to go on vocabulary walks and to take my white board to parties and to wake up and go to sleep every day with a Greek word or paradigm stuck in my head.

Please, can someone give me a job where I can just be successful at memorizing things? I would like that very much.

Best,

Sara

"Mercy trumps Mockery"

Dear friends,

The following is my first attempt to style a sermon in a way that I believe will teach the Bible. It may be a tad different than the sermons you usually hear or preach yourself, but I hope you will give it a chance. This is the first piece of writing I've poured my heart and soul into in about 2 years. I owe the credit to Debbie Blue, author of Sensual Orthodoxy and From Stone to Living Word: Letting the Bible Live Again. If I can exhort you to do one thing, I would exhort you to read these books. Many thanks also to Christopher Wurpts for loaning me his copy of Sensual Orthodoxy, which I have yet to return.

I invite your critique,

Sara

[My text is Matthew 27:27-56; please read first.]

It is hard to begin a sermon on the Passion with some whimsical, lighthearted tale. I so badly wanted to. I wanted you to smile wryly while I crafted a story in which I established myself as a successful and adorable protagonist who outwitted those who dared mock me and turned the shame upon them by the means of my rhetorical skills and quick thinking. Or perhaps I could have preserved my kindhearted image and fashioned a story in which I evaded my mockers with my simple words and down-home charm. However, as I read Matthew’s Passion narrative, in which Jesus is mocked, beaten, and berated by character after character, I realized that my desire to ease you into this painful story with a playful anecdote was unfair both to you and to the text. I was seeking to domesticate my own truly painful experiences of being mocked and of hurling my own biting words which would leave scars on my victim for years, even though I had perhaps delivered them while wearing a ribbon in my hair and a slight smile. But even worse, I was domesticating the text by trying to make the sequences of mocking, stripping, striking, spitting upon, and crucifying Jesus somehow less serious, simply because we can all identify with this treatment in some tiny way. In reality, the fact that we can imagine ourselves as the attackers or as the one being attacked makes this scene all the more painful. We could be those soldiers. Many days, in fact, we are those soldiers.

I think that the soldiers were probably friends. Friends who elbowed one another after making a “that’s what she said” joke[1] and friends who looked forward to grabbing some frozen yogurt together once the crucifixion they were presiding over was finished. Were they bloodthirsty murderers who went to unnecessary lengths to punish and mock their victims? Kind of. But they were also real people who just wanted to go home after a long day’s work so that they could have a beer and lounge on their patios. During the day, sure, they spat upon Jesus, jammed a crown of thorns atop his head, hit him with a reed, and just overall made a mockery of his kingship. But perhaps before they had reported for duty that morning, they had paused to kiss their wives or to admire the curl in their daughters’ hair. Then they headed to work, greeted one another with a grunt, scratched themselves, and began to carry out their duties for the day.

Interestingly, Matthew is not very interested in telling us much about Jesus in this narrative. It’s as if the whole scene is some kind of elementary school play, but the kid who was supposed to play Jesus got sick, and so they had to give all the good lines to the overly-aggressive kids who had botched their auditions and who were just supposed to be quiet, unruly bystanders. Matthew, the school’s play director who frankly just wants this dumb play to be over with so he can start attending his bowling league again, makes do with what he has and hands the Jesus outfit to the shy understudy and tells him not to worry, he’s reworked some things, and “you’ll only have one line. Granted, it’s in Aramaic, but you’ll do fine, kid.” Then he gathers everyone else: “Listen up, everyone; Johnny is sick so I’m going to need you all to step it up a notch. You, you’re a soldier. And you, you’re a bandit. And where’s Big Mike? Big Mike, you’re going to be Simon from Cyrene. You get to carry Jesus’ cross.” And all of a sudden the play was about Jesus, but Jesus frankly wasn’t the star anymore. The unruly bystanders took charge of the scene, and all of a sudden the children began to enact a drama that was both very real and very disturbing.

Truly, in Matthew’s passion narrative, the focus seems to be on everyone but Jesus. A whole host of characters parade in and out of the scene: soldiers, Simon of Cyrene, bandits, passersby, chief priests, scribes, and elders. The women who had provided for Jesus during his ministry are there, faithfully standing by, and some people even wonder aloud if Elijah will show up. However, as the various characters react to Jesus, we see that Jesus really does stand central in this story, but he is central in that the prominent characters gain their story line through their relations with him, as they participate in his crucifixion. He is central in that as this horrific drama begins to unfold, he stands in the midst of a swarm of people who plan on killing him—who will kill him—and he displays no resistance. There is no heavy shoving as he yells at his contenders to “bugger off, mates.” There is no dramatic scene as he pretends to take a deep gulp of the wine mixed with gall only to rear back and spit it into the soldiers’ eyes. There is none of this. We want there to be, but there is not. We want Jesus to throw some well-placed uppercuts, calmly walk away from Golgotha while his contenders writhe in the dirt, and go back up the mountain and give that nice speech again. But Jesus does not do any of this; rather, he bears the brunt of their mocking without a word, and the parents in the school auditorium begin to wonder if this is all starting to get a little too real.

The soldiers—those friendly, frozen yogurt eating soldiers—begin to mock this so-called “King of the Jews” by adorning him with the garb of a king. Around Jesus’ freshly flogged shoulders, they drape a scarlet robe that is just like their own standard issue Roman soldier capes.[2] In Mark’s telling of this same scene, the soldiers clothe Jesus in a purple cloak like that of an emperor, but here Matthew changes it so that Jesus appears just like one of the many soldiers. For just a moment, we might think that they are extending a subtle recognition that Jesus is an equal among them, but then just as quickly, they thrust a reed in his hand as a mock scepter and kneel before him in mock homage, while raising their voices in a mock chorus of praise: “Hail, King of the Jews!” Then there’s the spitting and the stripping and no one has gotten sick of the mocking yet—they’re giving one another sloppy high-fives and slapping one another on the back because what they are doing to Jesus is just so funny. But it’s not funny. Because that soldier who just used the reed to backhand Jesus has a curly-haired daughter at home. And maybe a swing set in his backyard. He is not a monster but a human being. They all are not monsters, but human beings. And yet, as they continue to dehumanize Jesus, they are effectively dehumanizing themselves. The men who had gathered that morning in the break room to punch their timecards now find themselves in a blurred crowd of inhumanity. Their jeers do not stop, though. Caught up in this drama of mockery, they are unable to recognize the depth of their own evil.

The soldiers head out now and happen upon Simon of Cyrene, who takes the cross from Jesus upon himself. A nice gesture, for sure, but the soldiers had compelled Simon to do so. He had not pushed himself to the front of the crowd so that he could somehow redeem the previous actions of his fellow men with a valiant display of effort and concern. For bearing one’s cross was an activity that seemed best avoided. Jesus had told his own disciples not too long ago: “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (16:24). The disciples had wanted to be Jesus’ followers, but they hadn’t wanted to take up their cross, and so they had fled. Now, Simon of Cyrene has been picked to bear Jesus’ cross while the other Simon—the Simon who had gone on a camping trip with Jesus and who had offered to pitch a couple tents when things got weird and Moses and Elijah had showed up—is now noticeably absent. This new Simon is coming to Jesus’ aid now, to be sure, but he honestly is doing it because the soldiers had pointed their night sticks in his face while yelling brutishly, and thus his forced act of assistance furthers the drama of mockery against Jesus.

Things are really just getting worse. The bandits who have been suffering the same treatment on Jesus’ right and left perceive that they have a distinct opportunity to divert the attention of the few soldiers who are still paying attention to them if they just join in and berate the most despised among them. It’s one of those awful scenes where three nerdy schoolchildren are best friends and walk home from school together every day and help one another stand strong against their bullies. But then one day, one of the nerds does something cool at school, and all of a sudden he has an in with the popular kids. That day, on the way home from school, the bullies start heavily taunting the nerdiest of the nerds, and the now-kind-of-cool-nerd must decide whether to stay loyal to his best friend or whether to join in the taunting and remain kind-of-cool. Of course, he seizes the opportunity to elevate his status, and he hangs his friend out to dry. Similarly, the bandits do not join in solidarity with Jesus as all three hang there in agony. Instead, for their own sakes, the mocked bandits now become mockers as well as they echo the words of the chief priests: “He trusts in God; let God deliver him now, if he wants to; for he said, ‘I am God’s Son” (Mt. 27: 43). The whole drama has escalated to such a tenor that the soldiers will not recant the story of the day to their wives when they go home. The parents in the auditorium know they will have to have a careful chat with their children about this Jesus play of theirs. It may even be necessary to send a strongly-worded letter to the school administrators concerning the terrible scenes that had been performed.

The time has come for Jesus’ solitary line. He has not said a word since the trial proceedings. He has been mocked and beaten, and yet he hasn’t said anything in such a long time. Now, though, he cries out: “‘Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?’ that is, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (27:46). Those who are close to Jesus—the women standing by—are absolutely speechless. “What? What, Jesus? Really, Jesus? You’ve got it all wrong. Look around you! Look at the face of the man who flogged you. Take a second glance at the man who nailed you to the cross. It is they who are to blame. Cast the blame at them, Jesus, but leave God out of this.” But it’s not as if Jesus doesn’t know this. After all, he is the one who has endured blow after blow from these people. And yet it is not them whom he cries against; rather, he directs his address to God. “Eli, my God.” And although this God has supposedly forsaken him, God is still his God. Jesus claims continued allegiance with this God by the means of a possessive pronominal suffix. But his cry is loud, and it is despairing, and it is enough to jolt one of the bystanders out of the drama of mockery within which everyone else is still entrenched. It is as if this individual has been slapped by a good friend, and all of a sudden he or she is able to see how debased it all is. He or she runs to give Jesus a drink of sour wine. This sour, “vinegar” wine may not seem too appealing, but it was actually a popular drink in hot countries for refreshment and quenching of thirst.[3] The others, though, are unaffected. The soldiers take the opportunity to make a sarcastic comment about how maybe Elijah will come to save him. And they’re just so clever, and the whole crowd of them is like one big, hilarious boy’s club. But aside from them, someone has finally stepped out of the whole horrible scene to help Jesus, who cries out again and breathes his last.

The death of Jesus, though, is not going to be enough to enough to break this crowd out of their cycle of cruelty. It is going to take something earth-shattering to break through their thick-headed skulls. Appropriately, God sends an earthquake. The massive curtain is torn cleanly in two, the rocks are split, the tombs open, and the bodies of saints rise. It is in this scene that Matthew has spent his entire year’s theatre budget. There is a smoke machine, and they had installed these new flashy lights, and even hired a composer to provide the perfect musical backdrop. The kids run chaotically across the stage. In Golgotha, it is dark, and the terrain is now rutted and uneven, and the soldiers are terrified. The centurion and those with him hunker together as if they’re all in on some secret that not a one of them has said aloud. This is no longer the environment of a boy’s club and terrified still, they cry out: “Truly this man was God’s Son!”

The spell has been broken. The centurion and those with him begin to comprehend the gravity of what they have done; they have killed the Son of God. The children in the auditorium have done so as well. Some walk away that evening, muttering words like “macabre” and phrases like “fire that beast of a director” and “psychological counseling.” They have not been changed, and they will go on to crucify Jesus over and over again. As for the others, this death of the man Jesus has changed them. The soldiers begin to trudge home, confused. They sit on their swing sets until their wives call them in for dinner, just trying to make sense of it all in their heads. The schoolchildren are somber as well as they climb into their parents’ minivan for the ride home. Both the soldiers and the children ponder their loss of control in their dramas. They had been the main characters; they had mocked and abused Jesus until he died that day on the cross. The real question that lingered, though, is how they could have killed the Son of God and walked away, unharmed, to tell their story.

Truly, when we humanize these soldiers and the chief priests and the bandits, we are able to see that they are not monsters, but they are like us. They mocked God just as we mock God. They exploited the weak just as we exploit the weak. We understand. Although we would never tell our friends that we understand this, we do. We may substitute their standard issue Roman soldier capes for our own standard issue clothing of corporate America, but at the end of the day, how have we made a mockery of God and how have we made a mockery of the weak among us?

There is good news in this passion narrative, though. Although we don’t usually think along these lines, there is cause for much rejoicing found in this story as well. Ironically, as they hang Jesus on a cross and put a charge atop his head that reads, “This is Jesus, the King of the Jews,” the soldiers enact God’s truth. Jesus is the King of the Jews. He is the King of the Gentiles as well. They have ironically enacted God’s divine drama, in which God turns this irony on its head by the means of God’s mercy. The soldiers’ actions of killing Jesus serve to secure the mercy that is then paradoxically extended to them. Mercy has trumped mockery. The soldiers are not in charge; God is in charge. When they kill the Son of God, they are not struck down by the spiraling heat of God’s wrath; rather, they walk away. God has extended mercy to them. The apostle Paul echoes this kind of scenario when he writes in 1 Timothy 1:13: “Even though I was once a blasphemer and a violent man, I was shown mercy because I acted in ignorance and unbelief. The grace of our Lord was poured out on me abundantly, along with the faith and love that are in Jesus Christ.” Both the soldiers and the apostle Paul were confused and they were grateful and they could only walk away to live in that mercy that had been extended to them. Let us, then, as a deplorable lot that is mired in our own ignorance and unbelief most of the time, be confused and grateful, and let us go now to live in that mercy that is offered to us as well. Amen.

---

[1] My envisioned audience for this sermon is a typical crowd in Goodson Chapel who would understand this not as a vulgar reference, but as a joke shared between friends when a level of comfort has been established.

[2] M. Eugene Boring. “The Gospel of Matthew.” In The New Interpreter’s Bible. Vol. VIII. (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1994), 488.

[3] Hans Wolfgang Heidland, “o;xoj.” Pages 288-289 in vol. 5 of Theological Dictionary of the New Testament. Edited by G. Kittel and G. Friedrich. Translated by G. Bromiley. 10 vols. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1976).