My book is now available on Amazon.com (as well as at Lulu.com).

Search for MANY ROOMS, MANY WINDOWS... or Wayne McLaughlin.

Buy it...read it...It may bless you or it may not.
But it will bless my bank account.

Audacity to Believe

It must have been three decades ago that I read a book that moved me and influenced the way I think. Audacity to Believe by Sheila Cassidy, an English physician, who was working in Chile in the early 1970s. During a military coup she was arrested with thousands of others and put in a prison camp. She underwent excruciating physical and mental torture.

 

She almost gave up on life. But one day a new thought came to her. Instead of battering on the bars of her prison she decided to hold out her "empty hands to God, not in supplication but in offering." She said:

 

I would say, not 'Please let me out' but, 'Here I am lord, take me. I trust you. Do with me what you will.' In my powerlessness and captivity there remained to me one freedom: I could abandon myself into the hands of God.

 

Cassidy said that from that moment on a gradual change took place in her attitude and she felt strengthened and full of courage.

 

She used this analogy: Like a bird in a cage we can choose to exhaust ourselves by battering our wings against the bars—or we can learn to live within the confines of our 'prison' and find, to our surprise, that we have strength to sing.

 

After Sheila Cassidy was finally released, she went on to help many people find healing.

 

Faith does not keep us from suffering. Sometimes for no reason we get 'locked up' in trying circumstances. Like the bird in the cage we decide either to batter against the cage or to accept the reality of the situation and learn to sing in spite of it.

 

Battering our wings—or sing? Which will it be?

Baby God

Let's remember that the Christmas season is about a baby God in a diaper.
And let's not be confused.
He/She doesn't need changing--it's me and you that need changing.

Jay-Z and King David

I've never like rap music (if it can be called music). It irks me. In fact, I hate it. But I've tried, and I'm still trying, to appreciate it. An English professor has written a book called Book of Rhymes: The Poetics of Hip Hop. The professor, Adam Bradley, sees his book as a manifesto to his fellow academics, urging them to see Hip Hop as genuine poetry and to study it and critique it as any other poetry.

Bradley, along with Andrew DuBois (another English professor), has also published a 900 page compendium of lyrics entitled The Anthology of Rap. It includes 30 years worth of rap lyrics. But a more popular book has just come out, written by the rapper Jay-Z, called Decoded. It's part biography, part commentary of rap lyrics, and part philosophizing on rap—and of course a collection of lyrics.

I've not read any of these books; I've just read about them in The New Yorker in an article by Kelefa Sanneh entitled, "Word" (December 6, 2010). I learned a lot about the history of hip hop from her article. I don't think I can ever really appreciate rap because I can't place myself in the shoes of those who create it and love it. I'm a middle class white guy. I can no more understand hip hop than an affluent American can really understand the Book of Revelation (which is written for people undergoing persecution).

But one insight did come to me while reading the article. Jay-Z says that his own stories of hustling drugs that show up in his lyrics are not violent in any literal sense. He says, "I don't think any listeners think I'm threatening them. I think they're singing along with me, threatening someone else. They're thinking, Yeah, I'm coming for you. And they might apply it to anything, to taking their next math test or straightening out that chick talking outta pocket in the next cubicle."

I can relate a little to that. It's like reading the Psalms. The Psalms are full of talk about striking down their enemies, or asking God to do the favor. Extremely violent. But one strategy for reading those kinds of Psalms is to hear them as Jay-Z suggests his rap can be heard. When the Psalmist says, "Lord, break my enemies teeth out," we can pray along with him by imagining the 'enemy' of cancer or bigotry or depression or even militarism. By performing a literalistectomy on the Psalmist's lyrics we can turn the violent passion into a positive, healing direction.

If you listen to the lyrics of rappers you can hear some amazing word play and beautiful rhythmic artistry. There is talent and creativity involved. But try as I may, I can't enjoy it. That doesn't mean I can't appreciate the pain and alienation from which it comes. People who have been disenfranchised or exiled will naturally sing some violent feelings. Just look at the ending to Psalm 137.

##

My New Book

My new book is now available for purchase. You can find it at Lulu.com.


Search either by my name or the title:


    Many Rooms, Many Windows: An Inclusive Perspective on Faith


It's a 230 page paperback. It is being processed now for Amazon's site also. So, probably before the end of December it will be available at Amazon.com.


I think it's a pretty good book. It will make you ponder your beliefs; it may be an encouragement to you; it will certainly make you laugh at various points; it may make you cry; (well, probably not—unless you want your money back).


You can help this old minister's retirement fund by buying more than one. Give one to a friend—or an enemy.

In this book I reflect on many subjects, such as: nuns, waffles, jazz, politics, Lincoln, depression, bugs, salvation, Book of Revelation, football, Oral Roberts, Tim Tebow, Tiger Woods, Jews, forgiveness, etc.

I probably got something wrong—I don't claim infallibility. But I urge the reader to become less dogmatic and more open to the movement of the Spirit.


After you read it, I welcome your comments or ideas. Right now I'm collecting and editing stories from my relatives about my grandfather and grandmother. It will become a small book to be published early next year. I'm also working on a kind of 'daily devotional' book that I began a couple of years ago. I'm not sure how long it will take to finish.


May God's peace slap you in the face every morning and wake you up to the wonders of life.

New Yorker Bible

You know it must be getting near some sentimental baby-faced holiday when The New Yorker magazine has an ad for Bibles. Yes, you can buy the King James Version with imported European leather covers. From $175 to $200. Rock of Ages press! This is obviously an ad aimed at well-to-do, culturally sophisticated people who don't know one end of a Bible from the other.

Here is what the Rock of Ages website says:

Rock of Ages Press was conceived from the notion that contemporary gifts can be spiritual, classic, clever and chic. ROA flaunts a sacred, stylish and sassy line of products that promises to delight even the most fashionably discriminating individuals.

I'm having trouble seeing how 'clever and chic' relate to 'spiritual.' I'm having even more difficulty seeing the relationship between the 'stylish and sassy' and the sacred.

I'm trying really hard to remember where it is in the gospels that Jesus tells his followers to be chic or stylish or sassy. In my humble opinion, when it becomes chic and stylish to follow Jesus, I'm pretty sure the actual message of Jesus has been lost. If wealthy people buy a $175 imported leather Bible and actually read what Jesus had to say so often about the spiritual danger of wealth, I think they will either get rid of their expensive Bible or get rid of their wealth.

Now, now—I know we need wealthy people in order to create capital and run businesses that give people jobs. I'm aware that the economic environment of Jesus' day is not like ours. Between his time and ours capitalism has been invented, an economic system that didn't exist in his day. Capitalism depends on some people being wealthy—having capital. But Jesus places great responsibility on the shoulders of those who have the capital. And he warns the rich that they are always on the cusp of the abyss of hell.

One more thing: Jesus would not recommend the King James Version of the Bible. He would go with the New Revised Standard Version, the Contemporary English Version, the new Common English Bible, or the Inclusive Language Bible. They are much more sassy.

 

 

 

 

The Coronation

Last Sunday morning two former Baptists, now Presbyterians (Pat and I), went to church with Glory, Jim and Norah at All Saints Episcopal to listen to a Roman Catholic composer's music: On Christ the King Sunday, members of the Alabama Symphony were there to play throughout the service parts of Mozart's "Coronation Mass." It was a splendid service; the church was packed. There was some chaos at the serving of the Eucharist (having so many people meant setting up an additional serving station, and directions were not completely clear; also the children had just come back into the service, and there were scads of them—a quite fecund congregation). Norah was pretty good through the whole service; she got to stand up on her daddy's lap and watch the musicians.

I, being out of the ecclesial loop, didn't even realize it was Christ the King Sunday until we got there (which means next Sunday is Advent). The priest seemed to be hurrying through some of the liturgy, which I understand – I used to feel like I had to hurry through a service when it was going to be longer than usual and there were many visitors. No sermon, since the music proclaimed the gospel. A good worship was had by all.

In the afternoon I watched a little NFL. At 4:00 I went to Independent Presbyterian Church to hear Alan Morrison give an organ concert. He played a piece by Henri Mulet; then variations by Johann Christoph Bach, J.S. Bach's uncle. Then a contemporary piece by Harold Stover based on Shaker tunes. And ended with Symphony IV by Louis Vierne.

When I get to the end of my life, if I have the chance, I will thank God for the gift of life, for love and family—and for the gift of music. All kinds of music. But you can't get any better than majestic organ music.

In January the Independent Presbyterian Church will take out its pipe organ and begin building a new pipe organ at a cost of 2.25 million dollars. Is it worth it? Yes, yes, yes. They will have to abandon their sanctuary for nine months while it is being built. They take their music seriously.

I took organ lessons back in the 80s. I was able to play for some services when our organist was ill. I loved going out the door of my study and sitting at the organ bench to practice in those days. Playing a pipe organ is a thrilling experience. You can make so many different sounds. It's almost like being God—creating something beautiful and moving. I envy my friends who can really play the organ well. I've been lucky to have wonderful organists during my pastorates, like Steve, Bob, Tom, Karen, Victor, Karisa, et al. May God bless them.

The Bird

 

 

WHAT YOU SOW

I heard a bird

Singing a variety show.

What kind of bird I did not know.

Loud, pure notes

Like arias for the air,

Trills to thrill and fill the sky,

Ecstatic melodies which require

More than two wings by far,

Wide internals rapidly bridged,

Intricate bebop flights of chirp,

A whole medley of melodies

Flung to the sky.

Who is this guy? I say

To myself.

 

Then—sighted when not flighted

I see a long-tailed impressionist:

         a mocking bird.

A one man show

Imitating birds of feather

Who don't flock together.

With great versatility

And wondrous chirpability

My feathered guy

Soloed so high

On the wings of the morning

That the great golden egg

Shining down on the world

Rose up and applauded

With bright approval.

 

Earth-bound reader,

Open your eyes and see

In the skies,

Flocks and flocks and flocks.

Open your ears

And hear the piercing

Bird who mocks, mocks, mocks.

Everything or Nothing

Rupert Shortt (yes, 2 t's) writing in the Times Literary Supplement has some valuable comments. He is reviewing Tracey Rowland's book Benedict XVI. Shortt asserts that Benedict is "the first pope in centuries to be a thinker of the first rank." But he does have criticisms: Benedict doesn't address the Holocaust tragedy as it should be; the Pope has promoted "his own model for church government"; he hasn't been open to the ideas of reform-minded theologians.

Shortt is good at highlighting the themes of Benedict's own theological perspective. In one book Benedict tells the reader that belief in God has much in common with love; that is, if you never give yourself to it, you will never understand it. Benedict offers this bit of reasoning: "Anyone who makes up his [sic] mind to evade the uncertainty of belief will have to experience the uncertainty of unbelief, which can never finally eliminate for certain the possibility that belief may after all be the truth." 

Furthermore, Benedict argues that secular reason is not wholly reasonable, because it fails to reckon with the fundamental and inclusive context of meaning that only religion supplies. In other words, if reason and science ignore the spiritual dimension of life, their reasoning isn't big enough.

Shortt thinks that Benedict's approach to other religions is too narrow. Shortt says, "Religious exclusivists have little to offer those outside their own loop. Christians with a more open sense of the holy Spirit's mission will see the subject in a broader light." I agree.

Benedict's interaction with the father of atheism, Frederich Nietzsche, is interesting. Benedict thinks Nietzsche understands a great deal about the human condition, but doesn't offer the right solution. "Either everything means something or nothing means anything." It is the first half of the previous sentence that is correct, according to Benedict.

That is a statement to meditate on. Let me repeat it:

         "Either everything means something,

              or nothing means anything."

##

Retirees Luncheon

(I'm putting this in large print for any old people who might be reading this blog.)

I just attended my first retirees luncheon. There were about 25 in attendance (some were spouses), even though this presbytery has around 100 retirees. I think I was the youngest one there (since I just took early retirement). The oldest was celebrating her 100th birthday today.

The Board of Pensions representative was there to cheer us on. He said that our retirement fund has $6.5 billion dollars in it and is secure. The Lutheran pension/medical system is broke. So, I'm glad to be Presbyterian. He explained that we might not be getting a 'raise' (apportionment) for a couple of years or more because of the way the economy is. But don't worry, he said. 

As for the medical aspect of the Fund, we are in good shape, but the changing rules about health care plans are in flux right now and the Board does not know exactly how it will affect our medical plans. However, he said, don't be surprised if there is no medical plan at all for our denomination in 2014! The medical exchanges that will be set up beginning that year may force our denomination (& all religious denominations) out of the medical insurance business. But don't worry, he said.

The medicare supplement that the Board of Pensions offers is a very good one, he said. But then again, it might not be there beginning in 2014.

I sat at a table with a female minister from Oregon who seemed to like the Oregon Ducks (# 1 right now); she just finished serving a Lutheran congregation that was dying. The other female minister at our table is serving a small church. I met another retiree who moved from Ohio (family here in AL). 

My wife will not believe this, but I ate the greens they set in front of me. They weren't bad. Also chicken, salad, something else (some kind of vegetable mix), and an apple dessert.

The Executive Presbyter asked me if I am willing to serve an interim pastor position that might be opening up soon. I said 'yes.'

I don't really like to be around old people too much; they remind me too much of myself. But then again, there is something refreshing about old people too: many of them don't give a damn about trivial stuff in the church that they used to worry about.


##

Blog Book

Whew!
Whew!
Sigh...


It's done -- I've uploaded the book I've been trying to finish for months. The actual writing and editing has taken over three years. I feel like a heavy sack has fallen off my back. When I get my proof copy and approve it I will announce the title, the ISBN number, etc. It is a paperback, 187 pages. I deleted many blogs, rewrote several, and edited, edited, edited. I hope it comes out alright.

For my last two books I used iUniverse as the printer/distributor.
That cost me a few hundred dollars. I broke even on the first book, but lost money on the second one. Of course this is not meant to be a money-making project for me.

This third book will  be printed by a company called Lulu. There is no cost, unless you want to purchase their editing or cover design packages, or special distribution or advertising packages. But the quality of print and binding should be on par with other printing operations.

I'm so excited to finally have this behind me. Now I can concentrate on the Daily book that I've; it will take a long time to complete.

I find that I cannot stop writing. Since I no longer preach/speak, I feel the need to write even stronger. It's like something has to come out of me.

I've birthed a book!
Whew.

free verse

THE COST OF VERSE

 

poems sometimes rhyme

but not all the time

some are free verse—

don't cost a thing

except blood, sweat and tears

of the poet who bears

her soul and works like hell

to find the rite word

(without being clichéish)

in order

to evoke music

on the page—

to play the cello

with a pen

so that Dear Reader

might hear meter

as lyrical miracle...

changes language into wine—

gladdening the heart

with fermented Art

from patient Time

sans Rhyme—

free verse is never free

something must be crushed

inspiration not rushed

sun rains rays

moist clouds break dry days

luscious sounds picked by hand

bottled, labeled, unique brand

of poe tree juice

ready to be uncorked

and drunk

with sound mind

Makeup

I just read an article in TIME magazine about the trend among males to use makeup. Joel Stein reports that since 1997 guys have increased spending for skin-care products from $40 million to $217 million. By skin-care products he means not only aftershave but also eye gels and wrinkle erasers.

A company called Menaji sells concealer and foundation for men which come in Chap Stick-style containers. None of it is called 'makeup.' They call it skin care. They come in packaging that looks like old cigar boxes. Tim McGraw uses Menaji products. Lisa Ashley is a makeup artist who sells eye cream to men like Charlie Sheen, Howie Long and Terry Bradshaw to use at home.

I don't believe in using makeup. But I might change my mind. We all need help with our looks. Just the other day our granddaughter Norah was playing with my wife's powder brush, putting powder on her own face. (Pat had let her use it.) She tried to put some on my face, but I told her that men do not use makeup. As usual she said, "Why?" (That's her omnipresent question these days.) I started to answer her, but I couldn't think on the spot what the correct answer should be. So, I said, "It's not a custom for men to wear makeup."

I've had an ongoing debate with myself about the cosmetic industry. It's a billion dollar industry. All the women I know buy lots of makeup. So, here's the question: Why do women wear makeup? It seems that women all over the world from various cultures wear makeup of some kind. Or at least they decorate themselves.

Is that what makeup is all about? Is it just decoration? If so, I guess that is consistent with Christian theology. The human body is to be treated with reverence. And decorating the body seems like a good thing as long as you don't go to extremes.

But I still wonder if female makeup has more to do with sexuality. Women want to look younger and sexier. Isn't that the rationale for makeup? You wipe away wrinkles and dark spots and blemishes. You add good smelling fragrances to lure men in your direction. You put earrings on to—well, I don't know why you put earrings on. You make your lips redder. That certainly seems like a sexual come-on: blood-red arousal of one of the two pairs of lips that women own.

I think it's all about sex. Of course one could argue that women have just been enculturated, that makeup is simply an unquestioned custom. But I don't think so. I think it's all about sex.

It's ironic that the makeup industry pushes its products as instruments of looking 'natural.' If you really want to look 'natural,' let your hair become gray, leave your wrinkles alone, allow your lips to be pale, tolerate the loss of eye lashes. Which leads one to also consider the idol of Youth and the denial of death.

I don't know what to think about all of this. I guess it's natural to deny death, to want to be sexy, and to look in the mirror frequently. Personally, I like looking old. I am old. But I don't like looking overweight. And makeup can't help me with that problem.

Just some thoughts. No makeup exam.

The Equipment

The other day I took Norah to play on 'the equipment.' That's her name for a place with playground equipment for children. This particular equipment happens to be at the elementary school that she will attend when she gets to that age. I heard her tell her dad not long ago that someday she would go to the school that belongs to the equipment (rather than the school that owns the equipment). Clearly, the 'equipment' is more central to her than the school right now.

On the day Norah and I went to The Equipment, three older girls were also playing there. They were probably a couple of years older than Norah. And of course they could do things that Norah can't yet. She was enthralled by the older girls. She watched them closely. She wanted so much to be part of their group—and to be able to perform the movements on the equipment that they were able to do. As a two and a half year old, she is obsessed with getting bigger and taller and stronger. It's the I-am-a-big-girl syndrome. Quite natural. I kept reassuring her that as she grew bigger she would be able to do what those other girls were doing.

What Norah is going through is a positive part of human development. It is a positive impulse to want to be bigger and better and stronger. Without such an impulse the human race would have become extinct. God has created us with a natural desire to excel. Perhaps the Olympic Games are the basic metaphor for this human trait.

But what begins as a natural impulse somehow gets warped. We find ourselves as adults still trying to live up to the skills and talents of others instead of accepting ourselves as we are. We have to eventually accept the ceiling of our skills and our personal traits. One of the Seven Deadly Sins is Envy. And one form of envy is the desire to have the powers and looks of others, which is at the same time a lack of acceptance of our own uniqueness.

Children have positive forces at work within them. Even some behavior that we adults see as destructive or inappropriate turns out to be healthy if we look deeply into the natural growth processes at work. Jesus gives us the key to the affirmation of the wild nature of children. He says that the Kingdom of God—the family that God gathers together—is made up of people who allow the wild forces of joyful play to be manifest in their lives. Or as he put it: You will enter God's Kingdom if you become like children. (Which is sort of like being born all over again.)

Norah also likes to go to the Equipment at the city park and at the Railroad Park and any other place that has slides and swings and other playful things. St. Paul, in the fourth chapter of the Letter to the Ephesians says that the role of Pastor is for the purpose of 'equipping' the church for service. As I look back at my years in pastoral ministry I wish I had been more playful and less serious.

Rectangle of grass

Ruth visits her mother's grave in the California hills.

She knows her mother isn't there but the rectangle of grass

marks off the place where the memories are kept…

 

Those are the first lines of a poem by Tony Hoagland entitled, "Wasteful Gesture Only Not." In my years as a pastor officiating at scores of funerals and spending quality time in cemeteries, I've heard various opinions spoken by family members about death, grief, grave sites, funeral rituals, etc. I've come to appreciate those men in overalls who stand to the side with their shovels waiting for the ceremony to end and the drifting away of family and friends so that they can get to their work of covering up the hole. I've known people who never go back to that place after that day. And I've known people who go back to visit often—sometimes too often. Mostly what I've heard is, "She is not there; she is in heaven (or—she is in my heart); I have no need to go back there." So, the grave remains unvisited, a lonely clump of earth, with no earth-bound friends.

I like Hoagland's description of the grave: the place where the memories are kept. We humans need tangible 'places' to help us be in contact with invisible realities. Perhaps that is why the great majority of Christian churches in the world are of the sacramental type. Sacraments are tangible things: you touch, smell, taste, feel, and hear the water, the wine, the bread, the oil, the hands, the rings. Sacraments are 'places' where we feel the divine Presence. We remember Jesus. We remember the table and the wine. We remember the Jordan River. We remember the healing touch. But it is a remembering which re-members: it puts the members back together again. It reconnects us with the Body of Christ (the Church), with the members of our family, the members of the body, and recreates an organic union.

When we are in grief, the most helpful thing is to remain connected. Sure, there is a necessary 'letting-go,' but not a total disconnection. The grave marks the spot where we can remain in contact with memories and realities. Of course "she isn't there." But the rectangle of grass provides a geometric geography of earthy space that keeps us grounded in reality—the reality of loss and the reality of love.

Maybe that is why Jesus said, "I go to prepare a place for you." We all need places, even if it is just to grieve.

October 14, 2010

Thursday October 14, 2010

Didn't want to leave the apartment today. Was feleing melancholy, lonely...but went to Homewood Library…to Lulu site to update my book project. Had to look up formatting requirements.

Pat and I to apartment party in Mt. Brook – free pizza and drawing for prizes. I saw an old man with white beard – older than me – and a couple of women (one from India) about our age – so everyone in these apartments is not younger than we are.

To Walmart – bought new trash can for kitchen, a red one.

Also, online, read some history of Germany. I'm trying to grasp the ups & downs, ins & outs of that history, especially in regard to the Jewish people.

I've been thinking lately that my view of 'God' is similar to Jefferson's, Lincoln's, and Einstein's: not an interventionist, but source of Order, Harmony, Design, and Justice. Not so much 'a being' as the atmosphere of existence itself. God is to existence/universe as oxygen is to us.

Cello in the library

Sitting in the public library

on a Sunday afternoon

(the day for the rest of us).

I hear the espresso machine

whining and whirling

in the corner of this large room

(yes, it's the 'plaza' room where

readers and laptoppers

can eat and drink while they study

or leisurely take in words).

The big screen TV is

mutely tuned to

the NFL game—Colts and Chiefs

(yes, the men in blue are winning).

I am reading the New York Times

Book Review section.

And I am doing what I really came

to do—listening to a young woman

play the cello.

She is very good.

She begins with a Bach piece,

then goes on to play a variety

of styles, including a piece

that sounds like a Shaker song,

and one that is totally plucked.

It's a free concert.

The live cello music

is very meditative

in spite of the TV where no. 18

leads his team to victory

and people walking through the room

and a group sitting around a table

doing some project together

that entails much discussion

and the smell of fresh coffee

wafting through the cello strings.

I close my eyes and let the music

take me places…

I feel the wind blowing through

my balding hair

and see the sea gulls

riding on waves of air…

I smell the ripe apples

on the trees

feel the warmth

of the yellow circle

in the sky…

After an hour of celloing

the musician ends her concert.

As she pulls back her long brown hair

we all applaud.

It's not every day you get to

hear live music

while watching football

and reading book reviews.

I wish I had learned

to play the cello

when I was a kid—

instead of the trumpet.

I was a good trumpeter,

but my embrasure was not great,

and it broke down after I finished

high school.

But if I had taken up

the cello

I could still be playing.

I heard Yo-Yo Ma play

in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

It was a marvelous experience.

But I'm glad my name isn't Yo-Yo.

I mean, can you imagine

the taunting you would get as a kid?

"Hey, Yo-Yo, you feeling up or down today?"

"Hey, Yo-Yo, are you strung out today?"

"Yo! Yo-Yo!"

I don't know what the library cellist's

name is.

It must have been very difficult

for her to concentrate on the music

while people were walking through

the room,

and the NFL was being watched,

and the coffee machine

was grumbling or whistling

and talking was emanating from the corner.

But I can relate.

I remember many Sundays

when I concentrated on what I was saying

from the pulpit

while a child cried

or an old lady had a coughing fit,

or a weary parishioner snored away.

It's a skill you learn over time.

After the library performance

Pat and I went to the 5:30 service

at All Saints Episcopal.

About twenty-five people there.

The older part-time priest

was in charge.

The music was led by an acoustic group—

three guitars, a mandolin, and a vocalist.

Not a praise band, mind you,

but an accompaniment group.

It was a nice liturgical service

following the Episcopal form.

The sermon was okay:

it made some good connections

to life (though I could have corrected

a couple of points).

We were not sitting in the front

because I never sit in the front

at an Episcopal or Catholic service;

I want someone else in front of me

whom I can follow

in case I stand up or sit down

or kneel at the wrong place

in the service.

Two pews in front of us

was a man and his wife.

They seemed to know what

they were doing.

But at one point in the service

when we were all standing,

there was a moment of silence;

that's when the woman tooted.

(Toot is a nice way of saying, fart.

Toot is the word we use with our

granddaughter; we never say 'fart.')

The woman tooted.

Not a loud toot, just a nice solid one.

I looked at Pat.

We were getting ready to say

the Apostles Creed

(which wasn't written by the apostles—

it didn't even appear in its present form

unto the 8^th century).

Neither Pat nor I laughed.

We continued to look sanctimonious.

But all through the Creed I kept hearing

that toot.

(born of the virgin Mary—toot—descended

into hell—toot—the holy catholic church—toot—

amen—toot).

It gives a new meaning to 'smells and bells.'

Anyway, it was a good Sunday.

Sleeping-in in the morning,

concert in the afternoon,

and worship in early evening.

I think that's the way

Jesus meant it to be.

 

Belong

We all have longings.

Some longings are beyond

our reach; some are graspable.

Buddhist philosophy teaches

that longings are to be surrendered

in order to be happy.

The Army reminds us that

we can become all we're meant

to be.

To 'be' what we are supposed to 'be'

is a basic longing we have.

Part of the answer to our

longing-to-be

is to 'belong.'

To belong is to 'be' with, among,

a part of.

To belong is to have our longing

satisfied.

We who have all fallen short

want to be long.

We all long

    to belong.

Without meaningful relationships

we beshort.

When others open their hearts

to us

and we to them,

they stretch our being,

and we be-long.

To be lonely

is the opposite of

belongly.

To belong

or not to belong—

that is the query.

To be human is to long.

To be fully human

is to belong.

The Buddhist who joins

the Army

will never be happy.

Meditate on this.

But not alone.

Be joined.

Like Adam and Eve—

cleave.

I wasn’t shot

(written on September 16, 2010)

 

A knock on the door.

The man says they have come to

put our windows in.

When we moved into our apartment

back in early May

they said all our windows would be

replaced in about three weeks.

We've learned that three weeks means

three or four months.

A couple of months ago

they came and put in four windows,

but didn't have the other three.

They said it would be about three weeks

until the other three came in.

That was two months ago.

But there they were this morning—

with our windows.

They said it would take about

two hours.

When I left this morning they were

starting their work.

I had decided to get the heck out

of there

away from the noise and all

so I could work on my blog book.

I decided to go to Panera and get

some coffee and a pastry

and write on my netbook.

When I got to Panera I mistakenly

pulled into a parking space at Starbucks

(which would mean that I would have to

walk a ways to get back to

Panera).

As I realized what I had done

I sat there for a moment

before backing out.

I waited a second too long.

A car stopped right behind me

and I couldn't get out.

It looked like an older model car,

maybe an '88 or a '95 (I know nothing

about car models anymore; when I

was a kid I could look at any car

going down the street and tell you

the model and the year; but now I don't

study cars or keep up with them; there are

just too many kinds).

This car was a pale yellow sedan.

A man jumped out of it,

and immediately I saw the badge

and the gun; he was a detective.

He pointed my way,

and suddenly a police car pulled up

beside him

and three more police cars came from

every direction, closing off exits.

Policemen got out of their cars and

began walking toward my car.

I've seen this sort of thing in movies

and TV shows hundreds of times,

but I had never been in the middle of it

before.

I froze.

I put my hands up on the steering wheel

in full sight.

The law men came to the passenger side

of my Saturn.

That's when I realized that they were

after car next to mine.

A man and woman, about 25 years old each,

were sitting in the car to my right.

The police asked them for their ID and told them

to get out of the car.

I noticed that in one of the police cars

there was a woman hand-cuffed in the back seat.

Maybe she snitched on these two.

Anyway, I was prepared to duck down in my

seat if anyone started shooting.

Luckily no one did.

A friendly police officer noticed that I was

blocked in and moved his car so I could leave.

There are truly nice people in this world.

I got out of there

and parked in the Panera lot,

went in and got a nutritious pastry

and some coffee.

When I got home late in the afternoon,

I saw that the men had put two new windows

in our kitchen.

But the one bathroom window had not

been replaced.

I guess two hours means two days?

Anyway, I'm home safe and sound.

I wasn't shot; I have no pain.

Just a few panes short.

 

The Arrow

You walk into a field.

In the distance you see something

leaning against a tree.

On closer inspection you see

a target leaning against an old oak tree.

And in the target is an arrow,

not in the bull's eye,

but close--one circle outward.

A hawk circles in the blue sky

above the trees behind

the concentric red designs.

You look all around; no one

in sight.

The arrow has brown feathers

on the end,

the color of sparrows that fight

for seeds in your feeder at home.

You think about pulling the arrow out

to inspect its point--

to see if it is like the ancient Cherokee

flint ones that you used to find

on your grandfather's farm

in Kentucky.

But you let it go.

What's the point?

It's hard for you to believe

in the existence of bows,

though you guess it's possible.

But definitely not the Archer.

The breeze feels good on your face

under the scorching sun.

No rain clouds in sight.

The weather man has broadcast

an error again.

Computer models aren't perfect.

You turn to leave and notice a doe

at the edge of the tree line.

She is staring at you with

big eyes.

She has just come up out of

the creek, mouth still dripping with water.

She has satisfied her panting.

A shared dream

During our recent vacation, Pat dreamed one night that she had given me a large check to deposit, but that it hadn't been deposited.

The same night I dreamed that I was at the credit union trying to

deposit a check, but kept messing up the procedure.

Isn't that weird? It's like the plot of her dream jumped from her head

over to mine, and I continued the story.

That's spooky. But we were celebrating our 40th anniversary.

Perhaps our lives have become so enmeshed that our subconsciences overlap. It's not uncommon for both of us to say the same thing simultaneously, or to discover that we had been thinking about the same thing simultaneously.

Maybe there is some psychic net that connects us all, but is only turned on when people get psychically intimate.

In this world there are levels of sharing. The relationship of marriage must be the deepest level of what the New Testament calls koinonia (fellowship, partnership, sharing).

Last Sunday the preacher gave the Trinitarian benediction from the last verse of 2 Cor. 13, but instead of ending with "the fellowship of the Holy Spirit," she said, "the radical bonding of the Holy Spirit."

Martin Luther King, Jr. said he had a dream. God has a dream too. Perhaps the closer we get to God, the more we can share in God's dream for the world.

(I took the photo at Lake Susan, at the Presbyterian Conference Center in Montreat, NC)

40 years!

Pat and I are back from several days in the mountains of Ashville, NC. to celebrate
our 40th wedding anniversary.
Forty Years is a significant number in the Bible.
The Jews were in the wilderness 40 years as they traveled toward
the Promised Land.
Marriage is a journey.
In fact, we don't 'get married,' we 'become married.'
It takes time to really get wed together.
The two shall become one, the Bible says.
But not on the day of the wedding.
The oneness of marriage
comes only after years of testing and growth.


Pat and I are fortunate.
A long and healthy marriage takes both work and luck.
In so many ways we are different; we hardly have any
hobbies or interests in common.
But we have found ways to support each other's interests,
and to allow each other the space to pursue
our own thing.
At the same time we have tried to cultivate
some common activities and pursuits.


It's all about give-and-take.
Compromise contains promise.
As Paul wrote in 1 Corinthians 13, "Love seeks not its own."
Another translation puts it: "Love does not insist on its own way."
The acceptance of the other as different,
and the acceptance of their uniqueness
is part of the process of a successful relationship.


We drove up the Blue Ridge Mountain Parkway
and had a picnic at 5000 feet,
keeping a lookout for bears.
But what we noticed more than anything
was the silence.
Almost complete quietness.
We took it in.


But you can't remain above it all for long.
We have to come back down to the nitty gritty
and keep working amidst the noise of ego and desire.


The next forty years promises even more intimacy,
weddedness, and delight.

(photo taken at Montreat Conference Center)

blue flower

At the Botanical Gardens in Birmingham.

archi-presby-movie

We met with architects again on Friday. Made some changes. Things are moving along.

The Presbytery of Sheppards and Lapsley examined me on Thursday. Only one 'no' vote; so, I'm transferred into this presbytery.

I watched the movie "The Road" last night (based on the novel by Cormac McCarthy). Very dark and intense. But I recommend it for its message.

gregorian sighs

FAT CHANTS

narrow notes
will never do--
sing full rounded ones
full-throated prayers
without airs
rise to vaulted skies
anorexic choirs
never acquire
plump praise
but acquiesce to
thin-skinned sinful singing
the cardinal feels lucky
chirps church
all sunday long
until the fat lady sings

recent progress

Recent progress:

...We met with the architects and reviewed floor plans for our cottage. We were pleased with their concept of differing ceiling heights throughout the house, and a brick tower that encloses a reading nook.

...I met with the presbytery's Committee on Ministry this week. They examined me and will recommend to the presbytery that my membership be transferred to this presbytery. The presbytery meets next week, and anyone can ask me questions from the floor before they vote.

**

Freeing verse

Ever since I visited Professor Murphy at the Sewanee Writer's Conference I've been thirsty for more understanding of the historical development of poetry and the styles of certain poets. I am definitely not a poet; I don't have the sense of language that is required. My thinking is too rationalistic. I don't 'see' like a poet. But I like fooling around with words. 

So, I've been reading a lot of poetry lately. Nourishment has come from a simple book: Risking Everything: 110 Poems of Love and Revelation, edited by Roger Housden. (He edits other books of poetry.) From this book I have been fed by Mary Oliver, Naomi Shihab Nye,Fleur Adcock, Czeslaw Milosz, Robert Bly, Galway Kinnell, Pablo Neruda, E. E. Cummings, Rumi, David Whyte, Rainer Maria Rilke, and others. 

Reading and rereading these poems has given me a sense of the Presence. Poets assist us in breaking through the veil. They take us beneath the surface of the ordinary. They breathe hope into our lungs.

Now I'm chasing Wm. Wordsworth and Tennyson. At this location in my journey the Romantics and the Transcendentalists resonate with my longings. I checked out a book on Wordsworth--essays on his writings. I love his feeling for the 'motion and spirit...that rolls through all things'; and for his sense of the sublime. 

I think that for people who feel alienated from organized religion, poetry can become a source of strength and revelation. 

##

Faith Journey

FAITH JOURNEY STATEMENT

E. Wayne McLaughlin

 

I grew up in a fundamentalist Southern Baptist Church in Louisville, KY. I was active in every aspect of the church's life; I believed in the inerrancy of Scripture, felt the heavy responsibility of saving souls from hell, and was immersed in the study of the Bible. At age eight I professed Christ as my Savior and was baptized. At age ten I publicly announced my 'call to preach.'

Ironically, it was in a liberal arts Baptist College that my mind was opened to a more realistic view of Scripture and a more ecumenical understanding of faith. My teacher, Glen Stassen, and a mentor, John Claypool, challenged me to focus on the prophetic tradition of the Bible and the central place of grace in God's purposes. In a Baptist seminary I continued to grow in theological understanding, reading the same texts as the Presbyterian seminarians not far from our campus, with the exception of matters of polity and sacraments.

Feeling the tightness of my 'Baptist shoes,' I began to consider alternatives. I settled on the Presbyterian Church and jumped through the hoops to receive a call in 1978. I suddenly felt at home. During the previous couple of years I had been reading liberation and feminist theologies and finding them speaking to my heart. I also discovered the writings of the monk, Thomas Merton, and the psychologist, Albert Ellis (Rational Emotive Behavioral Therapy). Their writings became sources of spiritual nourishment.

During college I began having panic attacks, depression and anxiety. This became a source of embarrassment to me, and I struggled with the spiritual meaning of these debilitating experiences for many years. Through much education, therapy, and with the help of medication, I finally came to a place of self-acceptance, which to me was a great experience of the grace of God.

As I served pastorates in Indiana and Ohio, I attended numerous seminars on Jewish-Christian dialogue; I began to study Buddhist philosophy and practice meditation off and on; I was helped by the theology of the Catholic writer Karl Rahner; I took an interest in Interim Ministry as a specialty and took the training at Montreat; my theological perspective becoming more liberal; and I served an ecumenically yoked parish consisting of Presbyterian and Lutheran congregations.

Along the way I have found keeping a journal a means of prayer and self-discovery. Being part of a monthly clergy support group for several years was an experience of honest feedback and affirmation that helped me discern God's will.

The main spiritual issues for me have been self-acceptance and fear of death. Being a very rationalistic and analytical person, I have had to continually open myself up to the Mystery at the heart of life. In Christ's death and resurrection I have found hope and grace and rest.

On January 1^st this year my wife (Pat) and I took early retirement so that we could move to Birmingham and be near our daughter (Glory), son-in-law (Jim) and granddaughter (Norah). Little Norah who is 2 ½ years old said to me the other day as I left her house, "Goodbye, you funny guy." I do have a sense of humor, which is also part of the grace of God at work in my life.

My statement of faith

FAITH STATEMENT

E. Wayne McLaughlin – written June 2010

 

I observe ants on the ground carrying out their well-organized projects; I watch bees pollinate flowers, playing their significant role in an organically interconnected system of life; I look at photos of distant galaxies on NASA's website; I feel cold chills go up and down my spine, and I sense the holy mystery of life. I trust myself to this Holy Mystery that the Church has come to know as Father/Son/Spirit.

In the first century C.E. a Jewish man 'went about doing good, empowered by the Holy Spirit.' A movement gathered around this man Jesus. My framework for finding life's meaning has been within this movement—the Church. From the beginning the Church has ritualized God's birthing Womb in baptism and the continuing aliveness of Jesus in the Lord's Supper.

In the narrative of Holy Writ I hear the voice of God calling us to love all people, to take care of the created world, to bring people together, to heal the wounds of the world, to visit the sick, to comfort the dying, to protect and nurture children, and to plant the fecund seeds of the gladdening Word throughout the world.

I experience the Holy One in many ways. I believe life is sacramental. The Spirit speaks to us through the Bible, sermons, novels, movies, theater, poetry, comedy, friendships, religions, crises, tragedies, therapy, music, dreams, thoughts, pets, science, and many other ways. In God we live and move and have our being.

Through my study of Scripture I have come to believe that gays and lesbians, if called by God, should be eligible for ordination. I believe that gays and lesbians, if they have the vocation of marriage, should be allowed to marry like anyone else. My study of the Bible has also led me to believe human personhood begins at birth, and that women have the right to choose what is best for everyone concerned in regard to their pregnancies.

I believe in free will because I have no other choice. I believe that sometimes you have to set aside your principles and do what is right. I believe that when the book and the bird disagree you should believe the bird. I believe I am accepted in Jesus Christ, and that nothing can separate me from the love of God.

Having been born in Bowling Green, KY, which is approximately midway between the birth places of Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis, I believe I am called to a ministry of reconciliation.

Having been raised as a fundamentalist Southern Baptist and having journeyed to the other end of the theological spectrum, I understand how people's minds can change and how minds can be stuck in one place. I have indwelt both conservatism and liberalism. I find that the shoe of liberalism fits me, therefore I wear it in the service of Jesus. I believe that since humans have limited and relative perspectives, we need to learn from one another. I could be wrong about some things. I need to keep learning from my colleagues; all of you are my teachers.

For me the bottom line is this: I put my life in God's hands—the God I have come to know through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. John the Dipper was right: Jesus is the Lamb of God who has taken away the sin of the world. Paul the Apostle was right: those who are plunged into Christ are part of a new creation; the world looks different; love reigns; there is hope. Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. Thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.


  
##

Can Buddha help?

Like many people in our modern, scientific world, Paul Knitter has trouble making sense of some traditional Christian beliefs: like a God who is one, yet three; like an everlasting hell; like talking to an invisible Big Person in the sky. Knitter is a Catholic theologian who taught for many years at Xavier University in Cincinnati. He also has studied Buddhism for decades and practiced Buddhist forms of meditation. His most recent book is entitled, Without Buddha I Could Not be a Christian.

This book is not for everyone; but it will be helpful for many of us. Knitter tackles the theological problem of 'dualism'—which makes the Christian God seem far away and disconnected to the real world. He emphasizes the symbolic nature of all words and all language. He encourages the use of the 'sacrament of silence' as part of the Christian practice.

I think his explanation of the Buddhist notion of 'mindfulness' as acceptance is profoundly helpful. He doesn't back away from controversial doctrines. He writes:

I simply don't believe in hell because I simply can't. The square peg of eternal punishment just doesn't fit into the round hole of God's love.

Knitter goes on the reinterpret the Atonement and the Resurrection. At each step he describes how putting on 'Buddhist glasses' helps him see these beliefs in a different way—a way that makes more sense to him. He keeps coming back to Galatians 2.20:

It is no longer I who lives, but Christ who lives in me.

What is of utmost importance for Knitter is being awakened to the unity between all people and God. To experience God is more important than theorizing about God. He quotes John Cobb, Jr.: "Jesus is the Way that is open to other Ways."

In the last part of the book he discusses the role of anger in violent behavior; and he struggles with the call to complete non-violence.

Paul Knitter's book does not call us to become Buddhists. But he shares with us his experience of gaining insight from Buddhist practice that helps him be a better follower of Jesus.

Christians who are drawn to a more mystical type of Christianity will probably enjoy reading Knitter's latest book. Christians who are literalists will not be able to make any sense out of this publication.

 

 

 

 

Mud

Oh, the joy of squishing your toes in the mud! That's Norah's toes in the photo. Pat had taken her to Glory's back yard to play in the little wading pool. Soon Norah was filling a little cup full of water and pouring it on the ground to make mud so she could step in it.

The business of children is to have fun. The trick is to let them have fun in the right way and the right place. Not long ago Norah began showing us how she had learned to 'spit.' Every new skill is an adventure. We congratulated her, but told her not to spit on anyone, and not to spit in the house. Well, she's a two-yr-old, for goodness sakes. You might as well be talking to a wall.

One day when she was being a little rambuctuous I picked her up and said, "How would you like to go outside and spit?" Oh, that excited her. So we went out to the deck and leaned over the railing and spit as hard as we could for about five minutes.

It's too bad adults have lost the ability to enjoy squishing their toes in mud. Getting down and dirty is part of life. It's a shame when we get so obsessed with cleanliness and purity that we miss out on some of the pleasures of life. A certain amount of cleanness is good. But we are made of dirt. To dirt we will return. Maybe that's why we are afraid of dirt: it reminds us of our destiny, our mortality.

In Christian baptism we get splashed or dunked. Washing seems to be a ritual in all religions. Long ago it may have had hygienic purposes. We Christians talk about being cleansed from sin, not by water, but by the blood of Jesus. Now that's a strange idea. Doesn't blood stain? But our religious metaphors say things that can't be said in any other way. By 'blood' we mean the power of life. God's life given to us in love, gives us life. The dirt--the mortality--is not taken away. But the dirt is given meaning. Squishing our toes in the mud may remind us that we are not God. We are humans--made from humus; which invites humility.

church strategy

I took this photo down the street from our apartment. In the background (which you probably can't make out) is the front sign for a United Methodist Church. The signs in the foreground are at the corner of the church property.

I am intrigued by the fact that it appears that the church is saying there is only "one way" only on Sundays. I guess they preach and teach an exclusive gospel on Sunday mornings; then during the week they practice an inclusive ministry. That's being flexible, I guess. I'll have to talk to Phil about this new Methodist strategy.

Faith statement

Well, I met with the Stated Clerk of the presbytery here about transferring my membership from Miami Valley. She was very helpful. My next step is to contact the Committee on Ministry chairperson about my desire to transfer, along with my PIF and a one-page Statement of Faith.

Well. Writing a statement of faith at this point in my faith journey will be interesting. My faith is in transition. Ever since retiring I have been reassessing what I believe and how to communicate that. I guess this requirement to write a statement is a blessing in disguise; it will force me to focus on what is important to me now, and I will see what my faith vocabulary looks like.

Words are a problem when it comes to faith and theology. They crack; they don't hold (holy) water; they point at best. So much of what I 'believe' can't be put into words. These days my faith is more felt that thunk.

Perhaps my statement of faith should be something like: "Wow! Oh! Hmmm. Really? Man alive! Bam! Whew. (Sigh.) Jesus!"

Rust

Well, we finally got the license plate for Pat's car. But her old plates have been on so long that they are rusted shut. We sprayed with WD-40 twice, but they won't budge. If I was feeling like it and had all my tools on hand I could probably knock the old screws off or saw them in two. But I'm under the weather. So, I suggested she play the part of the helpless little woman and go to the auto garage just down the street and tell them she just moved to the South and needs some help with her screws. She'll have new plates on that little red car in no time flat.

(I'm finding that the older I get the more I'm tempted to rust.)

Smile or die

I love this quote I found in an article about Leonard Cohen.
W. B. Yeats said about one of his friends:


"Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy which sustained him through temporary periods of joy."


That quote makes me smile for some reason. It also relates to Barbara Ehrenreich's new book, Bright-Sided: How the relentless promotion of positive thinking has undermined America. I admit I like the British title better: Smile or Die: How positive thinking fooled America and the world.


I hate 'positive thinking.' And so does Ehrenreich. She traces the history of the Positive Thinking movement back through Mary Baker Eddy's invention of Christian Science, along with Phineas Quimby's New Thought movement; and on to Norman Vincent Peale's The Power of Positive Thinking; and on to Rhonda Byrne's The Secret, who blames the poor, the unhappy, the diseased and the unemployed for not thinking the right thoughts.


Ehrenreich points out that data shows that optimism does not prolong life. Support groups do not affect the course of cancer. And among older people who lose a loved one, pessimists are less likely to become depressed than optimists.


I like Ehrenreich's approach to life. Personally, proponents of positive thinking make me sick. They are arrogant psychological elitists who don't understand me and thousands like me. All is not light. The darkness cannot be denied without lying. Too much light hurts the eyes. And my "I" has been hurt by thoughtless preachers of optimism and purveyors of 'smile or die' drivel. 


Don't get me wrong. I believe that hope springs eternal in the human breast. But even at the human breast, life sucks.

Holy Energy

"Quantum Spirituality" is the name of

an article by William J. O'Malley in America

magazine (May 10, 2010).

O'Malley reflects on the relationship between

science and faith.

I'm interested by his suggestion that we 

substitute the word 'Energy' for 'Spirit'

in the Bible and see what a difference it makes.

Our world is made up of energy.

In Exodus 3.14 God tells Moses the divine

name is Ehyeh asher ehyeh, "I am who am" --

the pool of existence out of which everything draws its "is."

O'Malley asserts that God is not 'out there' somewhere,
but is embedded in nature and the process of the
evolving world.


He quotes the Irish theologian Diarmuid I'Murchu
who says that the Hebrew term for God's 'word'
is best translated as "an irresistible creative energy
exploding into prodigious creativity."


And being the author of 'Amazing Grays,' I like
this sentence by O'Mallery:

The quantum principle of complementarity tolerates ambiguity, approximation, probability and paradox.

What O'Mallery is saying is that spirituality and science
are both about the Energy that pervades the world.
Matter is not basically solid.
E = mc2 means energy (E) is the same as mass (m)
times (c)  the speed of light, squared.
That is, energy is mass; mass is energy.
There is nothing 'solid' -- everything is moving,
a form of energy.
Spirituality is the search for meaning.
Who are we?
Why are we here?
O'Mallery says: Our lives are either speckles of
light against infinite darkness
or smudges of gray within finite Light.
We are here to discover our shining (see Mt. 5.14).
 

Papal power

Garry Wills is a liberal historian
and a Catholic.
In a recent article in The New Republic (May 27, 2010)
he discusses the sins of the Catholic Church
and why he remains in that Church.


He criticizes the Church's "policy of keeping things
within the family" and its warped view that 
priests have been the victims of the media's
obsession with scandals.
(Priests--the victims?)


Several years ago Garry Wills wrote a book
entitled Papal Sin.
He says that the idea for the book
was spurred on by  researching Lord Acton's
collected historical writings.
Acton was a lifelong Catholic.
He was a harsh critic of Vatican I (1870)
which was the occasion for proclaiming
Papal Infallibility.
In 1887 Acton wrote a review of 
Mandell Creighton's book, The History of the Papacy,
criticizing Mandell for whitewashing papal crimes.
Mandell responded with his criticism
of Acton's review.
That led Lord Acton to write a letter back
to Mandell which contains the famous quote:

Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Until I read Wills' article I wasn't aware
that Lord Acton's famous line
was related to Papal power.


Wills goes on to express his view that
Catholicism cannot be equated with the Pope.
He says quite frankly, "The [office of] Pope
is a freak of history."
Peter was not a Pope. 
There are no priests in the New Testament.
Paul criticized Peter for not understanding
the message of Jesus.
Wills notes that in the early history of the Church,
bishops were not selected by the Pope,
but were elected by the people in the pews.
But in the Middle Ages the Pope took on
the role of a monarch, with his own territories
and armies.


So, Wills says he remains a Catholic
because he is a disciple of Jesus,
and the Church belongs to Jesus,
not to the Pope or the hierarchy.
He urges other Catholics to stay in the Church
and try to reform it.
Wills refers to Matthew 25.41: "Whatever
you did to any of my brothers, 
even the lowliest,
you did to me."
That means, says Wills, that the priests
abusing the vulnerable young 
were doing that to Jesus, raping Jesus.


##