The Frontiers of Religion
by Rev. Catherine Fransson
April 25, 2004
The Reverend Catherine Fransson's Sunday sermon is one of the most beautiful and powerful messages I've heard. Her eloquent words express a worldview that touches me deeply. May what she says come to be. I pray this in the name of love ...
= SkySpiritElohim (David Enroth)
The Frontiers of Religion
Isaiah 2:2-5
My first profession was in public education where, it seemed, religious differences could be honored. We carefully scheduled the annual fall open house away from Yom Kippur; we were sensitive to our young fasting Muslims during the winter Ramadan. Muslim prayers were made in a tiny room off the nurse's office where prayer rugs could be rolled out. Students offered oblations to Allah every day. Not very many Roman Catholics took Good Friday as a holiday but we honored it, nevertheless. Not so in churches. When I followed my call to the ministry it began to dawn on me I was stepping into a crucible, a place not safe and hot with controversy.
As a twenty-six-year-old teacher I walked into Garfield High School (Seattle, WA) in the late sixties and took a deep breath as I approached, for the first time in my life, a group of African American male students blocking the long narrow hallway on the way to Room 308. I passed through them, noncommittally if not convivially, and spent the next three years in close proximity and conviviality not only with them, but the pimps posturing on Alder waiting for their girlfriends, newly-arrived Chinese who wrote their papers in characters first, and then translated to English, Sephardic Jews whose parents refused to let them ride in a German-made car (I drove a Volkswagen), and white liberals, children of local attorneys and journalists who were reverse-busing to improve the racial climate of that beloved and challenged school.
This was the introduction of this cloistered Everett Baptist to the family of humankind and the quest for a common humanity among a colorful population of teenagers. Like them I was also learning to know who I was as separate from, and yet a part of such a conglomerate of peoples. That quest continued until I retired, when most Seattle high schools were filled with Somalis, Eritreans, Philippinos, Mexicans (some legal, some not), Chinese, Vietnamese, Chom, Laotian, and Hmong.
When my proximity with peoples of the world ended, the quest did not. Here in a mostly white church I sometimes reminisce about a world I know that is worlds away from these four walls, yet just blocks away.
I miss it. I miss its challenges and its riches. I miss the daily encounters that called me to a great depth of prayer to respond humanly, humanely, to principles that transcend race, culture, and religion. In a word, to Christian ways of living and loving. Christ did not say love humanity, of course. He said love your neighbor. And that neighbor can be anyone just ahead of you in line, in your way at the grocery shelf, living in the next apartment or worse, the floor above, or driving slower than you when you're late for a meeting. Loving your neighbor is much harder than loving a concept.
One morning At Roosevelt I sat with a small Eritrean woman robed in a chador exposed only from her eyebrows to her chin. A woman who had seen her son, Asmelash, through trials I could only imagine on their way to the United States. She spoke intently in soft, worried words to the interpreter who translated for me. Her son sat there too, stony faced: Asmelash, Ash, for short, was a handsome, smart young man on the verge of being thrown out of school. School was what he needed to survive. On occasion I offered through the interpreter what seemed puny and irrelevant words to the anguished parent, hoping Ash heard me and would find some wisdom that transcended the differences between his mother's culture and his new world.
After his close friend was shot dead at the Public Market early one morning in 1996, I wrote him an impassioned letter about the choices he faced, imploring him to use his considerable talents for good and not for revenge. I don't know where he is or how he is doing now.
But I know God surmounts the barriers of language, culture, and, yes, religion. Steve said last week that God must always elude our labels and our boundaries, else God would not be God. As early as the fifth century Saint Augustine said, "If you have understood, then what you have understood is not God." The single greatest dimension of my growth in seminary was an explosion of my images of God, and those images badly needed to be exploded. Maybe yours do, too.
What better place to do it? We Baptists traditionally enjoy the freedom to interpret scripture for ourselves, and though the majority of Baptists across the country have settled for narrow and colorless dogma, that needn't limit us, though it challenges our powers of tolerance and forgiveness. One of the graces of conversation in our new association of Greater Seattle churches is people coming to terms, one at a time, with views unlike their own. And like my own inner earthquake when I first walked into a group of black male students at Garfield in '68, when Christians first encounter those of us who don't habitually call God "Father," or who profess a deep faith in spite of -- or because of our sexual orientation, there are inner earthquakes. Fear. We encounter strangers if not where we live and work, at the grocery store, the gas station, the doctor's office. If strangers appear to believe different things from us, whether it's nothing or it's fundamentalism, aren't we somehow threatened? Maybe they'll think our beliefs are wrong. Or, were we to say anything, maybe we'd realize ourselves we're wrong about something.
So we feel threatened. And to counter our vulnerability we lash out in defense of our way of life. We distance ourselves, and reject what we don't understand; we condemn, we criticize, we fight back as if we have been confronted. In our own ranks here we do not all agree. Some of us think we're so liberal we never share our views lest others be shocked. Others of us are trying to hang onto everything we know and love from the last 25 years. People are on both sides of the question of whether to follow the Christian lectionary or choose scripture from week to week. We are the "free church," after all. We can do almost anything we want, given our own consensus and how we agree to worship together. That's no small thing.
If we experience dissonance even here where our progressivism is such a banner, how on earth do we handle the dissonance we encounter in the world outside? Given the one faith we try to practice daily, there is simply not time to study any other faith as well, or know it as well as our own. Thursday night here there was a standing-room only crowd that raised the roof for a number of performances likely never heard here on Sunday mornings. Shocking. Wonderful. That's a crowd that falls under the label multifaith. How do you know who is who? How do you know whom to trust? There were Druids, Wiccans, Presbyterians, Jews, Catholics -- few Baptists, I think.
Have you read The DaVinci Code? [Dan Brown, 2003] This popular novel describes a conspiracy to hide the contributions of women, particularly Mary Magdalene, in the shaping of Christianity after Jesus' death. The author's questions are a good thing. So is all the recent scholarship about the Gospels of Mary and Thomas, and the other writings found in Egypt [the Nag Hammadi Library] that reveal views of the early church we have never read or heard before.
In her book on the Gospel of Mary Karen L. King writes, "Here is where the recent discovery of early Christian writings from Egypt is so utterly crucial... The Mediterranean world in which Christianity appeared was in a period of rapid social change and religious experimentation... What if there were not unity and certainty at the beginning but Christians differed in their views and experiences and sometimes came into conflict and division? What if the earliest Christians don't model for us a fixed and certain path, but instead call us to emulate their struggles to make Christianity in our day?" [The Gospel of Mary of Magdala: Jesus and the First Woman Apostle. Karen L. King, 2003. Pp. 157-158] King concludes, "The clearest contribution of the recent discoveries is in providing a wealth of primary works that illustrate the plural character of early Christianity and offer alternative voices." [ p. 160] "'the plural character of early Christianity'" The plural character.
We are living in a plurality in 2004 none of us has ever experienced before. And is it like the pluralism of the first century? Isn't it ironic that the discovery of these ancient texts comes to us when we are beginning to feel overwhelmed and threatened by the global village of religion? Especially fundamentalists of the other religions? And can't this early diversity inform us now as we seek to live alongside Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Jews, and a slew of other religious? If humanity has done this before, we have an opportunity to do it better.
Marcus Borg's newest book clarifies for us that as late as the seventeenth century when Christians began to feel threatened by the secular world, they began to insist on the absolute truth of Christianity. It was only in the nineteenth century that Protestants began to affirm the Bible's infallibility and Roman Catholics affirmed papal infallibility. So these are not doctrines that each back to our written beginnings. They're only one or two hundred years old.Borg and what he calls "new paradigm" churches are not threatened by the world religions we rub elbows with today. We see all religions as "sacraments of the sacred," human creations responding to experiences of the sacred over many years in many countries and cultures. Borg suggests all enduring religions share the goal of seeking "to inform, engender, and nourish a transforming relationship to" Mystery. [The Heart of Christianity. P. 213]
A transforming relationship. Transformation is what religion is about. None of us human beings, when we assume total authority over our lives and refuse to consider a higher being, do very well at the business of life especially when it concerns the millions of marginalized people in the world. But even we religious, if we are not open to risk, to growth and to change, don't do very well at the business of life with many of the very threatening dangers with which we live. Religion must be about empowering us to step beyond our narrow selves to see as God sees, to reach the foreigner set upon by thieves, the neighbor beaten by her partner, the unemployed without work and health insurance.
All those of us committed to transformation have that opportunity when we encounter women wearing hijab, or men wearing a turban wrapping around hair that is never cut, or a yarmulke, the respectful cap on the back of the head. We wake up to our ignorance. We then engage: enter into conversation seeking to know more, recognizing that the person in question has higher loyalties just as we do. To be citizens of a global religious village, if we are not simply going to contribute to the powder kegs that threaten to blow us all up, we need to grow more comfortable with differences and with our understandings of what they mean. And rather than waiting for encounters, perhaps we ought to be going out to find them and inviting them in.
Karen Armstrong, in her recent autobiography, and Diana Eck, director of the Pluralism Project at Harvard University, both explain that the word, credo, translated as "I believe," does not signify just a head trip, nor a merely intellectual assent to a list of propositions such as I believe in God, the Father Almighty, creator of Heaven and earth. A credo is an expression of a heart's commitment. It means I give my heart to this. Armstrong comments that the original word beleven [believe] meant to love, and claims that we "must first live in a certain way, and then [we will] encounter within a sacred presence [...] which monotheists call God, but which others have called the Tao, Brahman, or Nirvana. [ The Spiral Staircase pp. 292-3]
Diana Eck describes how pluralism requires a respect for differences and for religious dialogue. [Encountering God 1993] Religious pluralism requires we engage with others to learn to understand them; and it assumes we each also have real commitment to our own heart beliefs. Sharing deeply held beliefs needn't draw us off center but could affirm us and the other. A relativist would say, Oh, whatever... but a pluralist says, yes. I understand how you and I differ, and I respect our different, and deep commitments. It is not unlike learning to live with the ones we covenant with, whether a single relationship or a congregation. We grow as we learn about ourselves in relation to the other -- if we keep the conversation going, if we hold both realities and neither submit to the other nor live at arm's length. In psychology this is called differentiation. And it is required for each of us to grow as human beings and followers of God.
Armstrong was struck by the profound similarities of the three Abrahamic faiths. "...none of them had a monopoly of truth. Working in isolation from one another, and often in a state of deadly hostility, they had come up with remarkably similar conclusions. This unanimity seemed to suggest that they were onto something real about the human condition." And so Armstrong concludes that the one real test of valid religious ideas, doctrine or devotion, is practical compassion. "If your understanding of the divine made you kinder, more empathetic, and impelled you to express this sympathy in concrete acts of loving-kindness, this was good theology." [293]
Compassion is the litmus test: seeing the faces of God within and in all others. All others. Gandhi said, "Truth, or God, cannot be the exclusive possession of any one people, but is the very transcendence of ourselves that calls us into relationship with others." The very survival of our world depends upon our recognition of the transcendence we share in common with all the peoples in the world faithful to a higher power to whom we attribute creation itself. We need to be about doing what Jews call Tikkun Olam, "the mending of the world." And in what other spirit could I have prayed my Christian prayers in the face of Muslims who did not share even my language? All the forces of Light must join hands and work together. If light does not begin to link up with light, how can our light overcome the darkness in the world? Isaiah describes a vision we have tended to see as ours alone: the Holy City, the New Jerusalem, the Kingdom of God come together with Abraham and all the saints, Jesus and St. Paul, in a final resolution of our lives. What if that vision is not merely Christian? What if the God Isaiah names is not only the God of Jacob but also of Ishmael? What if the kingdom is not only of the Christian church, but the realm of all the peoples and prophets of compassion known to God on the planet? All those who walk with Mystery under their own rubrics, loving kindness, doing justice, and walking humbly with their God? We are only as powerful as we are united in bringing the light, whatever its name, into the world together.
And they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.
"And then all that has divided us will merge,
And then compassion will be wedded to power
And then softness will come to a world that is harsh and unkind
And then both men and women will be gentle
And then both women and men will be strong
And then no person will be subject to another's will
And then all will be rich and free and varied
And then the greed of some will give way to the needs of many
And then all will share equally in the Earth's abundance
And then all will care for the sick and the weak and the old
And then all will nourish the young
And then all will cherish life's creatures
And then all will live in harmony with each other and the Earth
And then everywhere will be called Eden once again."
[Untitled poem from "The Dinner Party," Judy Chicago]
May it be so.
[Rev Catherine Fransson is a pastor of the Seattle First Baptist Church, Seattle, WA.]
