Sunday, May 13, 2007
Blooms (A Series) - Week 2
"Expectant Openness"
Content by Ken Tennyson
First off let me come clean, I am a guy who likes flowers. Indeed, I really like flowers. So much so that I have intentionally surrounded myself with flowers in every home that I have lived in. Our current home was a rare find for a horticulture addict as myself, as it was owned by another flower lover who systematically planted blooming plants of all kinds during her 25 years of residence. I only half jokingly say that I bought the house for the yard! Maranda and I continue to find new flowering plants that we had never noticed before, its like a continual botanical adventure in our backyard.
As I have thought about flowers over the past couple weeks, I have asked myself why I enjoy them so much? My knee-jerk response is that, well, they are beautiful. But I hesitate to stop at such a simple answer. There are many forms of beauty in our world, and many other beautiful things that I appreciate, yet flowers seem to hold a special place. What is it about flowers that causes me to be so intentional about their inclusion in my life? As I pondered a little more, I wondered if it was their amazing colors that capture my mind? The brilliant crimson or pink blossoms of an azalea in spring always lifts my spirits, the purple and yellows of fall asters gives me a sense of peace. Flowers bring so much color into a backyard garden, a city park, or a high mountain meadow. Certainly the richness and variety of color is a big part of what entices me about flowers, yet this seems incomplete.
For one thing, some of my favorite flowers have very little bright color, such as a green orchid variety or a white rose. Many times I am put off by flowers that are too flaunting in color (although I make an exception for azaleas!) These flowers are too overdone, so in your face and full of their own beauty that they leave no room for the imagination. I leave these flowers at the plant nursery and instead come home with blooms that are more subtle, yet for me, far more magnificent.
So color seems too simplistic an explanation for why flowers are so meaningful to me. I wondered about other aspects of a flower’s beauty, their often amazing symmetry, their intricate architecture, their wonderful fragrance. Each of these aspects does capture some of what I appreciate about flowers, but I still had the sense that I was tip toeing around something bigger, something deeper with more significance. So I continued my contemplation.
Suddenly it occurred to me that perhaps I am limiting myself by only considering a flower’s visual beauty. Perhaps there is something more intrinsic to a flowers very being that resonates so much with me. As I began to explore this line of thought it became increasingly clear that flowers represented much more to me. The first thing that came to mind was that a flower represents fertility. Indeed, a flower’s primary function is to receive or transmit pollen. When I see a cherry tree or blueberry bush covered in blossoms it reminds me that the world is a good place, that life is happening all around me.
As I thought more about fertility I began to realize that a flower’s fertility is a very passive act. Instead of heading out into the countryside to find a mate, like many animals, insects, and Common Table bachelors do, a flower simply opens its bloom and waits. This open state of waiting really struck me. It is such an expectant state, a state of quietude and openness. Flowers don’t do anything, they don’t work or strive, yet in their act of becoming they ensure the survival of their species.
This expectant state of openness foreshadows something to come, something that is expected. Which of course is the arrival of the pollinator. The pollinator has a very special relationship with the flowers it pollinates, with some insects having evolved very unique and dramatic ways to reach a flowers nectar. Sam Doan told me of a moth in Madagascar that was discovered with a mouth piece a full foot long. Scientists were convinced that a unique flower existed that required such an apendage, but it wasn’t until many decades later that a night blooming orchid was discovered in the tops of the trees that had such a long, tubular body that only the this particular moth could pollinate it.
The relationship with the pollinator is critical for the plant’s survival, as without the appropriate pollinator no seeds will be produced to form new plants. This is such a quiet reality that most of us probably never stop to think about its importance. Perhaps you have recently heard that the honey bee in North America has been rapidly disappearing, up to 70% in some areas. In fact, a senate hearing was recently convened to hear testimony regarding the massive implications of this turn of events. A full 30% of food grown in the US is threatened by this turn of events, suddenly the simple honey bee is at the fore-front of US economics.
Just as pollinators are critical for flowers, trees, and plants to survive, in a similar fashion, I suspect that human beings also require a kind-of spiritual pollination to maintain our vitality, our love of others, indeed, our very humanity. What then is the pollinator of our hearts? For some, it may be the touch of a loved one’s hand, the beauty found in a painting, a profoundly touching poem, serving the poor, or a simple prayer. What gives each of these events profound significance is the expectant openness of our hearts. If we are closed, we will prevent the deeper act of spiritual revitalization, just as a closed bloom cannot be entered by the honey bee.
This type of expectant openness is very hard at times, especially for those of us who have been spiritually wounded. I know that this describes me most of the time. Becoming spiritually vulnerable may be the hardest task that many of us face. It allows the possibility for additional wounds, so we are strongly tempted to close up and protect what remains. Yet risk can never be fully removed from this state of expectant openness, just as a flower is never guaranteed to survive the harsh sun or the freezing temperatures before dawn. Indeed, it is the act of taking this risk that makes beauty possible. As an admitted flower lover, it is most certainly a risk worth taking.
::: Poetry Slam :::
+ israel +
+ liz +
+ Mike C + Mike S + P3T3 +
Content by Ken Tennyson
First off let me come clean, I am a guy who likes flowers. Indeed, I really like flowers. So much so that I have intentionally surrounded myself with flowers in every home that I have lived in. Our current home was a rare find for a horticulture addict as myself, as it was owned by another flower lover who systematically planted blooming plants of all kinds during her 25 years of residence. I only half jokingly say that I bought the house for the yard! Maranda and I continue to find new flowering plants that we had never noticed before, its like a continual botanical adventure in our backyard.
As I have thought about flowers over the past couple weeks, I have asked myself why I enjoy them so much? My knee-jerk response is that, well, they are beautiful. But I hesitate to stop at such a simple answer. There are many forms of beauty in our world, and many other beautiful things that I appreciate, yet flowers seem to hold a special place. What is it about flowers that causes me to be so intentional about their inclusion in my life? As I pondered a little more, I wondered if it was their amazing colors that capture my mind? The brilliant crimson or pink blossoms of an azalea in spring always lifts my spirits, the purple and yellows of fall asters gives me a sense of peace. Flowers bring so much color into a backyard garden, a city park, or a high mountain meadow. Certainly the richness and variety of color is a big part of what entices me about flowers, yet this seems incomplete.
For one thing, some of my favorite flowers have very little bright color, such as a green orchid variety or a white rose. Many times I am put off by flowers that are too flaunting in color (although I make an exception for azaleas!) These flowers are too overdone, so in your face and full of their own beauty that they leave no room for the imagination. I leave these flowers at the plant nursery and instead come home with blooms that are more subtle, yet for me, far more magnificent.
So color seems too simplistic an explanation for why flowers are so meaningful to me. I wondered about other aspects of a flower’s beauty, their often amazing symmetry, their intricate architecture, their wonderful fragrance. Each of these aspects does capture some of what I appreciate about flowers, but I still had the sense that I was tip toeing around something bigger, something deeper with more significance. So I continued my contemplation.
Suddenly it occurred to me that perhaps I am limiting myself by only considering a flower’s visual beauty. Perhaps there is something more intrinsic to a flowers very being that resonates so much with me. As I began to explore this line of thought it became increasingly clear that flowers represented much more to me. The first thing that came to mind was that a flower represents fertility. Indeed, a flower’s primary function is to receive or transmit pollen. When I see a cherry tree or blueberry bush covered in blossoms it reminds me that the world is a good place, that life is happening all around me.
As I thought more about fertility I began to realize that a flower’s fertility is a very passive act. Instead of heading out into the countryside to find a mate, like many animals, insects, and Common Table bachelors do, a flower simply opens its bloom and waits. This open state of waiting really struck me. It is such an expectant state, a state of quietude and openness. Flowers don’t do anything, they don’t work or strive, yet in their act of becoming they ensure the survival of their species.
This expectant state of openness foreshadows something to come, something that is expected. Which of course is the arrival of the pollinator. The pollinator has a very special relationship with the flowers it pollinates, with some insects having evolved very unique and dramatic ways to reach a flowers nectar. Sam Doan told me of a moth in Madagascar that was discovered with a mouth piece a full foot long. Scientists were convinced that a unique flower existed that required such an apendage, but it wasn’t until many decades later that a night blooming orchid was discovered in the tops of the trees that had such a long, tubular body that only the this particular moth could pollinate it.
The relationship with the pollinator is critical for the plant’s survival, as without the appropriate pollinator no seeds will be produced to form new plants. This is such a quiet reality that most of us probably never stop to think about its importance. Perhaps you have recently heard that the honey bee in North America has been rapidly disappearing, up to 70% in some areas. In fact, a senate hearing was recently convened to hear testimony regarding the massive implications of this turn of events. A full 30% of food grown in the US is threatened by this turn of events, suddenly the simple honey bee is at the fore-front of US economics.
Just as pollinators are critical for flowers, trees, and plants to survive, in a similar fashion, I suspect that human beings also require a kind-of spiritual pollination to maintain our vitality, our love of others, indeed, our very humanity. What then is the pollinator of our hearts? For some, it may be the touch of a loved one’s hand, the beauty found in a painting, a profoundly touching poem, serving the poor, or a simple prayer. What gives each of these events profound significance is the expectant openness of our hearts. If we are closed, we will prevent the deeper act of spiritual revitalization, just as a closed bloom cannot be entered by the honey bee.
This type of expectant openness is very hard at times, especially for those of us who have been spiritually wounded. I know that this describes me most of the time. Becoming spiritually vulnerable may be the hardest task that many of us face. It allows the possibility for additional wounds, so we are strongly tempted to close up and protect what remains. Yet risk can never be fully removed from this state of expectant openness, just as a flower is never guaranteed to survive the harsh sun or the freezing temperatures before dawn. Indeed, it is the act of taking this risk that makes beauty possible. As an admitted flower lover, it is most certainly a risk worth taking.
::: Poetry Slam :::
+ israel +
Orchid
Moth
truth
beauty
touch of a loved one
sun rays bathe an orchid pedal
Ken's backyard
Ken's backhoe
Mon on Ken's backhoe
Me riding Ken's backhoe
Me tearing up earth
Me uncovering chunks of grass
submerged under other chunks of grass
sunlight bathing the chicken coup
Keiran grabbing the chicken wire mumbling something about something
beauty
truth
experience
existence
breath
breathing
appreciation
awareness
alive
thankful
stress leaving
calm coming
expectancy
drooping shoulders
deep breath
calm coming
stress leaving
pensiveness leaving
mind relaxing
being
not doing
being
and being ok
enjoying being ok
just ok
sun setting behind Ken and Maranda's house
orange
blue white
red
beauty
truth
swinging on Ken's garden swing
Ken's from the Pacific Northwest
I'm from the Pacific Northwest
Maranda's from the Pacific Northwest
Is this what the
Ken's from the Pacific Northwest does to a person?
Why did his description of nature resonate so much?
I become a transparent eyeball
Emerson
Thoreau
Doing ceases
Being comes into focus
Becomes the focus
+ liz +
always a new beginning
sucker for hope
God provides
at what cost
who’s hope
who’s despair
faded flowers
new life
This is just to say, I picked the flowers in your garden.
I guess you wanted to keep them for decorations
I’m sorry – but they were so beautiful and smelled so sweet until they died.
Here are the seeds.
+ Mike C + Mike S + P3T3 +
Labels: Bloom, Expectance, Openness
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Blooms (A Series) - Week 1
Content by Mike Stavlund
This coming Wednesday I will celebrate the birthday of my two beloved and long-awaited kids. And the following Saturday will mark 8 months since the passing of my son. (I’m not so angry as I used to be, but I still feel old, and weak, and ask ‘why?’)
Many people suffering a loss like mine, or the grief that follows it, or the mild depression that hangs over my head would likely have a difficult time getting out of bed in the morning. Questions might swirl around our sleepy heads, like, Why should I go on? What should I do? What could be worthy of my effort when so much has been taken from me?
But not me. Before I can get philosophical in the morning, I face a very pragmatic call to action: the grinning face of my daughter, and her whole-arm wave as I pry open my eyes. Before I can even think about it, I get up at first light every single morning, just b/c she needs me to. She is up and awake, eager to share a fat diaper of one kind or the other, and to find something to quell the pang in her stomach, and to satisfy the look of mischief on her dimpled face.
Now, there is nothing heroic about my service to her. I force myself to smile back at her, and groan as I move my old bones out of the bed and wordlessly carry her to the kitchen. There, she graciously allows me to pursue Priority #1 each day: Coffee. Standing in her playpen, she watches me heat the water and ready the pot. She tracks the beans as they move from cupboard to coffee grinder, then sings along as it makes its monotonous music. She watches me as I stare at the water, willing it to boil. Finally, she sees the cloud of steam when ground coffee meets hot water and the lid goes on the pot. Sometimes, as we’re waiting for the magic to happen, she’ll grow anxious. Some petulant whining, or perhaps some shouts of protest will leave her mouth. Coffee’s spell is temporarily broken, and she loses her composure.
At which point I will bust out my secret weapon: a simple song that includes pantomime and drama, tragedy and triumph, hardship and resolution, suffering and redemption. She might not know the words, but she seems to enjoy my dancing around the kitchen as I tell the age-old story:
The itsy-bitsy spider
Crawled up the water spout
Down came the rain,
And washed the spider out
Out came the sun,
And dried up all the rain
And the itsy-bitsy spider
Crawled up the spout again
It usually takes a couple of turns, but eventually, like the rain, her tears are chased away by my sunny-faced performance, and we can move toward the time when she finally gets some breakfast.
I know that someday, when she’s older, this little remedy will lose its effectiveness. By sheer repetition, she’ll grow bored of my little trick. Plus, I’ve peeked ahead in the parenting books, and know that there will be a time in her life when questions will be the center of our conversations. When the ‘why?’ will be thrown down at every opportunity, and I’ll be scrambling for age-appropriate explanations.
And I wonder what ‘why?’s she might ask of this story. Why did the spider crawl up the spout? Why did the rain come? Why did the sun come?
And, with my proclivity toward theology, I wonder, will I break out the God-talk just then? Will I say, “God brings the rain,” and try to expand on the goodness of rain to minimize it’s disorienting and displacing effects on our friend the spider? If enough farmers and food-eaters get a benefit from the rain, doesn’t that offset the rain’s detrimental effects on the spiders and playground attenders of the world?
Will I say, “God brings the sun,” and talk about how God is the source of all goodness in the world, and that God wants to help the spider by drying out our poor friend’s home? In which case, she should rightly ask ‘why’ the rain comes back, just as it does as I repeat the song again and again.
(And, if she asks why the spider lives in a downspout, will I rail about systemic injustice in the world, including homelessness, human trafficking, and economic disparity?)
Or, will I follow the lead of some parents and theologians and split the equation? Will I say that the rain just happens, but that God brings the sun? Will I engage in some fiery flourish of fundamentalism and suggest that the Devil sends the rain, but God brings the sun (and that someday, The Son will Reign over the Devil!). Or, will I speak as some TV preachers: God brings the rain as the punishment that we all deserve, and God brings sun as pure mercy (since we all deserve eternal punishment). And we’d better be good, and we’d better be thankful for the sun, or else we’ll get even more rain (which we deserve!).
At which point, I imagine my incessantly questioning girl will ask a few more questions, perhaps unintentionally pointing out that both the rain and the sun each possess both positive and negative traits: they work together to bring beautiful flowers, for example, and green grass and mint and Christmas trees. Too much of one means drought and melanoma, and too much of the other means flooding and grumpy spiders with eight soggy feet.
Theologians, of course, have had a lot of time to ask ‘why?’ and so have developed some theories and philosophical constructs. The one which the poor spider might cite is often referred to as theodicy. This is a formulation of thought that describes the following tension: if God is good, and if God is powerful, then how do we account for all of the pain and suffering in the world?
For generations, those who think about God and yet who at the same time live in this world of death and divorce, and earthquakes, and tsunami have tinkered with these ideas, and suggested some ways to relieve the tension. Some have said that God doesn’t exist, which may certainly be true, and which certainly solves the problem. Others have suggested that God’s goodness or power may be muted in some ways, or brokered or mediated imperfectly, such that the fullness of these realities aren’t evident to us creatures. Maybe God can’t, or won’t act, or maybe we can’t or won’t see what God is up to, or maybe we can somehow prevent God’s goodness or power from happening. Of course, the challenge faced by most of these thinkers is to not malign God, or to speak ill of God as they face this conundrum. Most everyone is eager to stay in a safe range of speculation – the kind of ‘right belief’, often referred to as ‘orthodoxy’-- so that they can avoid being labeled a heretic.
But recently, I came across a refreshing catholic philosopher who isn’t quite so constrained. In his book, “The Weakness of God,” Jack Caputo boldly suggests that God is good, but God is in fact not powerful, or at least not powerful in the way that we’d often like him to be. To the spider, and to my daughter, I imagine Caputo bending down, smiling, and saying, both the rain and the sun just happen. It’s not exactly fair to God to blame him or praise him for every little thing that happens in this great big world. From homeless spiders to parking spots, from shooting sprees to tsunamis, it’s just not right to ask the question, ‘where was God?’. Using Caputo’s philosophical terms (borrowed from physics), God is not a strong force, but a weak force. Instead of picturing God as a giant with his sleeves rolled up, reaching down to move and tweak and shape the world, we might better view God as an underlying, pervasive, weak force that brings goodness from the bottom up. God is just as big and just as powerful (maybe bigger and more powerful!) because God is almost endlessly diffused throughout the universe, rather than localized in any one realm. We live in, and walk through, a God-soaked world that is being inexorably reshaped and reborn into the fullness of God.
Which might seem a little scary and uncertain, but which adds new freshness to Bible passages like 2 Corinthians 12:
1I must go on boasting. Although there is nothing to be gained, I will go on to visions and revelations from the Lord. 2I know a man in Christ who fourteen years ago was caught up to the third heaven. Whether it was in the body or out of the body I do not know—God knows. 3And I know that this man—whether in the body or apart from the body I do not know, but God knows— 4was caught up to paradise. He heard inexpressible things, things that man is not permitted to tell. 5I will boast about a man like that, but I will not boast about myself, except about my weaknesses. 6Even if I should choose to boast, I would not be a fool, because I would be speaking the truth. But I refrain, so no one will think more of me than is warranted by what I do or say.
7To keep me from becoming conceited because of these surpassingly great revelations, there was given me a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. 8Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. 9But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. 10That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
And in a more general sense, as Paul points to the upside-down and completely unexpected nature of God’s interactions with the world:
1 Cor. 1: 18For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. 19For it is written:
"I will destroy the wisdom of the wise;
the intelligence of the intelligent I will frustrate."[c]
20Where is the wise man? Where is the scholar? Where is the philosopher of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? 21For since in the wisdom of God the world through its wisdom did not know him, God was pleased through the foolishness of what was preached to save those who believe. 22Jews demand miraculous signs and Greeks look for wisdom, 23but we preach Christ crucified: a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, 24but to those whom God has called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. 25For the foolishness of God is wiser than man's wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than man's strength.
26Brothers, think of what you were when you were called. Not many of you were wise by human standards; not many were influential; not many were of noble birth. 27But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. 28He chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things—and the things that are not—to nullify the things that are, 29so that no one may boast before him. 30It is because of him that you are in Christ Jesus, who has become for us wisdom from God—that is, our righteousness, holiness and redemption. 31Therefore, as it is written: "Let him who boasts boast in the Lord."[d]
So it is strength, yes. But it is a different kind of strength. Broad, rather than localized. Diffused, rather than focused. Unexpected, rather than predictable. But exponential, and overwhelming, when you think about it. God is powerful, and God is not, all at once.
Doesn’t Jesus suggest as much? In our accounts of his teaching, he’s always talking about tiny seeds that grow into huge plants, and to invaluable treasures that crop up in the most unexpected places. He spouts off economic nonsense about leaving 99 sheep to pursue a solitary lamb, and about a crazy father ignoring his loyal, dutiful son to wait in agonized vigil for his hell-raising, rebellious punk-kid. Jesus talks about daylilies that enjoy and provide unspeakable splendor, and about ubiquitous birds that somehow, some way, always find something to eat.
Which might seem inconsequential in our world of fusion and genetic engineering and information ad infinitum, but I ask you: Can we in all of our ingenuity create a flower or a tiny bird? Can we count them all? Can we even calculate the required resources and organization involved with feeding and growing all of the lilies and sparrows in the world?
Jesus describes a Kingdom, but it is not what his followers expect it to be—- they wait eagerly for him to grab the reins of power and lead a rebellion, and he provides the ultimate disappointment, a shameful display of weakness: an embarrassing and ignominious death on a cross. No, Jesus’ Kingdom is one of daylilies and sparrows, of widows and orphans: the powerless overcoming the powerful forces set against them, even if it takes millennia for the whole system to be overturned one pebble at a time.
I was thinking about this last Friday, a day very different than today--a day of April showers that was dreary and dark. I looked out the window and watched the rain fall. On a day like that, spiders hunker under leaves, little girls have to wear hats, and bedraggled teachers and caregivers need to entertain children indoors. But I also realized that same rain nourished the flowers and green grass we see today, and created the stunning palisades at Great Falls, and even the Grand Canyon. It’s just rain, yes, but it is powerful when it is consistent and pervasive.
I looked out that same window, and thought of my son. I miss him, of course, and would give anything to share another day with him, whether sunny or rainy. One would expect that thinking about a weak God would foster negativity, hopelessness, Nihilism. But somehow, deconstructing my expectations of God creates hope and optimism. Adjusting my expectations of God’s interventions, and of the nature of God’s work in the world reduces my anger at him for not reaching down to change our fortunes.
And it gives me strength, even if it is only the strength of a daylily.
This coming Wednesday I will celebrate the birthday of my two beloved and long-awaited kids. And the following Saturday will mark 8 months since the passing of my son. (I’m not so angry as I used to be, but I still feel old, and weak, and ask ‘why?’)
Many people suffering a loss like mine, or the grief that follows it, or the mild depression that hangs over my head would likely have a difficult time getting out of bed in the morning. Questions might swirl around our sleepy heads, like, Why should I go on? What should I do? What could be worthy of my effort when so much has been taken from me?
But not me. Before I can get philosophical in the morning, I face a very pragmatic call to action: the grinning face of my daughter, and her whole-arm wave as I pry open my eyes. Before I can even think about it, I get up at first light every single morning, just b/c she needs me to. She is up and awake, eager to share a fat diaper of one kind or the other, and to find something to quell the pang in her stomach, and to satisfy the look of mischief on her dimpled face.
Now, there is nothing heroic about my service to her. I force myself to smile back at her, and groan as I move my old bones out of the bed and wordlessly carry her to the kitchen. There, she graciously allows me to pursue Priority #1 each day: Coffee. Standing in her playpen, she watches me heat the water and ready the pot. She tracks the beans as they move from cupboard to coffee grinder, then sings along as it makes its monotonous music. She watches me as I stare at the water, willing it to boil. Finally, she sees the cloud of steam when ground coffee meets hot water and the lid goes on the pot. Sometimes, as we’re waiting for the magic to happen, she’ll grow anxious. Some petulant whining, or perhaps some shouts of protest will leave her mouth. Coffee’s spell is temporarily broken, and she loses her composure.
At which point I will bust out my secret weapon: a simple song that includes pantomime and drama, tragedy and triumph, hardship and resolution, suffering and redemption. She might not know the words, but she seems to enjoy my dancing around the kitchen as I tell the age-old story:
The itsy-bitsy spider
Crawled up the water spout
Down came the rain,
And washed the spider out
Out came the sun,
And dried up all the rain
And the itsy-bitsy spider
Crawled up the spout again
It usually takes a couple of turns, but eventually, like the rain, her tears are chased away by my sunny-faced performance, and we can move toward the time when she finally gets some breakfast.
I know that someday, when she’s older, this little remedy will lose its effectiveness. By sheer repetition, she’ll grow bored of my little trick. Plus, I’ve peeked ahead in the parenting books, and know that there will be a time in her life when questions will be the center of our conversations. When the ‘why?’ will be thrown down at every opportunity, and I’ll be scrambling for age-appropriate explanations.
And I wonder what ‘why?’s she might ask of this story. Why did the spider crawl up the spout? Why did the rain come? Why did the sun come?
And, with my proclivity toward theology, I wonder, will I break out the God-talk just then? Will I say, “God brings the rain,” and try to expand on the goodness of rain to minimize it’s disorienting and displacing effects on our friend the spider? If enough farmers and food-eaters get a benefit from the rain, doesn’t that offset the rain’s detrimental effects on the spiders and playground attenders of the world?
Will I say, “God brings the sun,” and talk about how God is the source of all goodness in the world, and that God wants to help the spider by drying out our poor friend’s home? In which case, she should rightly ask ‘why’ the rain comes back, just as it does as I repeat the song again and again.
(And, if she asks why the spider lives in a downspout, will I rail about systemic injustice in the world, including homelessness, human trafficking, and economic disparity?)
Or, will I follow the lead of some parents and theologians and split the equation? Will I say that the rain just happens, but that God brings the sun? Will I engage in some fiery flourish of fundamentalism and suggest that the Devil sends the rain, but God brings the sun (and that someday, The Son will Reign over the Devil!). Or, will I speak as some TV preachers: God brings the rain as the punishment that we all deserve, and God brings sun as pure mercy (since we all deserve eternal punishment). And we’d better be good, and we’d better be thankful for the sun, or else we’ll get even more rain (which we deserve!).
At which point, I imagine my incessantly questioning girl will ask a few more questions, perhaps unintentionally pointing out that both the rain and the sun each possess both positive and negative traits: they work together to bring beautiful flowers, for example, and green grass and mint and Christmas trees. Too much of one means drought and melanoma, and too much of the other means flooding and grumpy spiders with eight soggy feet.
Theologians, of course, have had a lot of time to ask ‘why?’ and so have developed some theories and philosophical constructs. The one which the poor spider might cite is often referred to as theodicy. This is a formulation of thought that describes the following tension: if God is good, and if God is powerful, then how do we account for all of the pain and suffering in the world?
For generations, those who think about God and yet who at the same time live in this world of death and divorce, and earthquakes, and tsunami have tinkered with these ideas, and suggested some ways to relieve the tension. Some have said that God doesn’t exist, which may certainly be true, and which certainly solves the problem. Others have suggested that God’s goodness or power may be muted in some ways, or brokered or mediated imperfectly, such that the fullness of these realities aren’t evident to us creatures. Maybe God can’t, or won’t act, or maybe we can’t or won’t see what God is up to, or maybe we can somehow prevent God’s goodness or power from happening. Of course, the challenge faced by most of these thinkers is to not malign God, or to speak ill of God as they face this conundrum. Most everyone is eager to stay in a safe range of speculation – the kind of ‘right belief’, often referred to as ‘orthodoxy’-- so that they can avoid being labeled a heretic.
But recently, I came across a refreshing catholic philosopher who isn’t quite so constrained. In his book, “The Weakness of God,” Jack Caputo boldly suggests that God is good, but God is in fact not powerful, or at least not powerful in the way that we’d often like him to be. To the spider, and to my daughter, I imagine Caputo bending down, smiling, and saying, both the rain and the sun just happen. It’s not exactly fair to God to blame him or praise him for every little thing that happens in this great big world. From homeless spiders to parking spots, from shooting sprees to tsunamis, it’s just not right to ask the question, ‘where was God?’. Using Caputo’s philosophical terms (borrowed from physics), God is not a strong force, but a weak force. Instead of picturing God as a giant with his sleeves rolled up, reaching down to move and tweak and shape the world, we might better view God as an underlying, pervasive, weak force that brings goodness from the bottom up. God is just as big and just as powerful (maybe bigger and more powerful!) because God is almost endlessly diffused throughout the universe, rather than localized in any one realm. We live in, and walk through, a God-soaked world that is being inexorably reshaped and reborn into the fullness of God.
Which might seem a little scary and uncertain, but which adds new freshness to Bible passages like 2 Corinthians 12:
1I must go on boasting. Although there is nothing to be gained, I will go on to visions and revelations from the Lord. 2I know a man in Christ who fourteen years ago was caught up to the third heaven. Whether it was in the body or out of the body I do not know—God knows. 3And I know that this man—whether in the body or apart from the body I do not know, but God knows— 4was caught up to paradise. He heard inexpressible things, things that man is not permitted to tell. 5I will boast about a man like that, but I will not boast about myself, except about my weaknesses. 6Even if I should choose to boast, I would not be a fool, because I would be speaking the truth. But I refrain, so no one will think more of me than is warranted by what I do or say.
7To keep me from becoming conceited because of these surpassingly great revelations, there was given me a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. 8Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. 9But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. 10That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
And in a more general sense, as Paul points to the upside-down and completely unexpected nature of God’s interactions with the world:
1 Cor. 1: 18For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. 19For it is written:
"I will destroy the wisdom of the wise;
the intelligence of the intelligent I will frustrate."[c]
20Where is the wise man? Where is the scholar? Where is the philosopher of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? 21For since in the wisdom of God the world through its wisdom did not know him, God was pleased through the foolishness of what was preached to save those who believe. 22Jews demand miraculous signs and Greeks look for wisdom, 23but we preach Christ crucified: a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, 24but to those whom God has called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. 25For the foolishness of God is wiser than man's wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than man's strength.
26Brothers, think of what you were when you were called. Not many of you were wise by human standards; not many were influential; not many were of noble birth. 27But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. 28He chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things—and the things that are not—to nullify the things that are, 29so that no one may boast before him. 30It is because of him that you are in Christ Jesus, who has become for us wisdom from God—that is, our righteousness, holiness and redemption. 31Therefore, as it is written: "Let him who boasts boast in the Lord."[d]
So it is strength, yes. But it is a different kind of strength. Broad, rather than localized. Diffused, rather than focused. Unexpected, rather than predictable. But exponential, and overwhelming, when you think about it. God is powerful, and God is not, all at once.
Doesn’t Jesus suggest as much? In our accounts of his teaching, he’s always talking about tiny seeds that grow into huge plants, and to invaluable treasures that crop up in the most unexpected places. He spouts off economic nonsense about leaving 99 sheep to pursue a solitary lamb, and about a crazy father ignoring his loyal, dutiful son to wait in agonized vigil for his hell-raising, rebellious punk-kid. Jesus talks about daylilies that enjoy and provide unspeakable splendor, and about ubiquitous birds that somehow, some way, always find something to eat.
Which might seem inconsequential in our world of fusion and genetic engineering and information ad infinitum, but I ask you: Can we in all of our ingenuity create a flower or a tiny bird? Can we count them all? Can we even calculate the required resources and organization involved with feeding and growing all of the lilies and sparrows in the world?
Jesus describes a Kingdom, but it is not what his followers expect it to be—- they wait eagerly for him to grab the reins of power and lead a rebellion, and he provides the ultimate disappointment, a shameful display of weakness: an embarrassing and ignominious death on a cross. No, Jesus’ Kingdom is one of daylilies and sparrows, of widows and orphans: the powerless overcoming the powerful forces set against them, even if it takes millennia for the whole system to be overturned one pebble at a time.
I was thinking about this last Friday, a day very different than today--a day of April showers that was dreary and dark. I looked out the window and watched the rain fall. On a day like that, spiders hunker under leaves, little girls have to wear hats, and bedraggled teachers and caregivers need to entertain children indoors. But I also realized that same rain nourished the flowers and green grass we see today, and created the stunning palisades at Great Falls, and even the Grand Canyon. It’s just rain, yes, but it is powerful when it is consistent and pervasive.
I looked out that same window, and thought of my son. I miss him, of course, and would give anything to share another day with him, whether sunny or rainy. One would expect that thinking about a weak God would foster negativity, hopelessness, Nihilism. But somehow, deconstructing my expectations of God creates hope and optimism. Adjusting my expectations of God’s interventions, and of the nature of God’s work in the world reduces my anger at him for not reaching down to change our fortunes.
And it gives me strength, even if it is only the strength of a daylily.
Labels: Bloom, God, Pain, Weakforce
