Paul was a city person. Where Christ's language rings with rural Aramaic, Paul writes fluent urban Greek. He uses Greek rhetorical devices from gymnasium, stadium, and work- his own work of tentmaking being itself an urban trade. He was such an urban person that he only ever describes the city, the wilderness, and the sea. He lacks the language for the productive Roman countryside. He seems not to see it.
Thus the Christian mission he embarked on seems an urban trend. He preached in flourishing Hellenistic cities. He was not alone in doing so; every city boasted a large and vigorous Jewish community- the country rarely had them. What we call Pauline Christianity was the urban trend of a broader religious movement, and just as city Judaism was, urban Christianity was the largest and most developed flavor of its faith.
In moving from rural Jesus-ism to urban Christianity, the following of Christ had to pass the most fundamental divide of its time- the breach between city and country, polis and province- and changed irrevocably as a result.
It did so at perhaps the most turbulent time of the Roman empire: at its beginning. As they transformed their domain from republic to empire, Rome's rulers used the city as an instrument of imperial power- as modeled by their hero Alexander. Each of their cities contained a citizen body, a governing council, and a gymnasium, all in good Greek fashion.
The Pax Romana occurred as part and parcel of this movement. Octavian's commonwealth of partially self-governing cities meant stability, security, and consistent justice. It allowed the hope for any justice at all. As the Roman empire spread east into provinces such as Judea, it shifted the relationships among persons and classes; Augustus put the system of patronage to good and full use.
Cities brought the chance, however slim, of economic and social mobility. Urban society became more complex. Cities attracted large groups of foreigners insistent on maintaing ethnic identity through religious cults and voluntary associations.
All of these changes happened in reaction to Roman authority and power. And they did not happen simply: not all rich supported Rome, anymore than all the poor opposed it. But cities were the places where everything happened, especially new cities which offered the most chances for new life.
The shared Greek language of urbanity meant to some degree a common Greek culture, the unity in the expanding Rome's diversity. Common culture meant shared commerce, especially maritime trade. Cities were the hubs of Roman travel, easier then than until the nineteenth century.
Travellers brought Christianity with them, just at they transmitted Rome's many pagan cults.
Next: four modes of social change in Roman cities
Friday, October 17, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Daily Prayer: Wednesday Dawn
Responsory
Although we know no hills, no country rivers,
Here in the jungles of our waterpipes and iron ladders,
Our thoughts are quieter than rivers,
Our loves are simpler than the trees,
Our prayers deeper than the sea.
Canticle
We have found, we have found,
the places where the rain is deep and silent.
We have found the fountains of the spring,
where the Lord emerges refreshed every morning!
He has laid His hand upon our shoulders
and our heart, like a bird, has spoken!
Although we know no hills, no country rivers,
Here in the jungles of our waterpipes and iron ladders,
Our thoughts are quieter than rivers,
Our loves are simpler than the trees,
Our prayers deeper than the sea.
Canticle
We have found, we have found,
the places where the rain is deep and silent.
We have found the fountains of the spring,
where the Lord emerges refreshed every morning!
He has laid His hand upon our shoulders
and our heart, like a bird, has spoken!
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
What are the Different Kinds of Monks?
Other than the curious? There are indeed several different sorts, depending on what they practice.
Cenobitic monks live in community. They believe in communal life, and they live together with other monks in a religious order, under a religious rule, or set of orders. They meet more than occasionally for prayer, and may or may not have contact with lay believers and the outside world. They began to live in communities because of the hardship and possible damage of the extremely isolated hermit life.
Most commonly cenobitic monks have lived in cells, which originally had much in common with the cells of Roman army barracks. St. Pachomius originated this monastic form, and inspired many others to follow after the 4th century of the common era.
The aforementioned hermits were the first monks, taking to the Egyptian desert during the Roman occupation of the Holy Land. Formally, they are called eremetic. Originally, these men and women sought to emulate the Hebrews wandering in the wilderness and Christ's time of trials. Eremetic monks seek to praise God and- through penance and prayer- lovingly serve humanity. They often live in natural caves or humble huts of their own construction.
Paul of Thebes was the first hermit in Egypt, and likely the first Christian hermit ever. He soon began the eremtic tradition of taking on followers and disciples; the practice later allowed some monks to become so honored that they lacked any physical solitude at all. Historically, their role has been flexible, with many of the early monks weaving baskets in exchange for bread, with medieval monks serving as gatekeepers or ferrymen, and with today's ermetic monks living under broader monastic orders.
Moreover, ermitic life is no longer necessarily a lifelong occupation- many monks seek a hermitage only for a period. Many others now serve under the direction of their local bishop.
This leads to the final variety of monk, the one living in skete. The Christian hermits who make up a skete worship in isolation, but come together for mutual support and safety. Typically, a skete consists of a common house of worship surrounded by individual hovels for its members. The skete has largely vanished in the West, but has more support in the Orthodox church.
I am not yet any kind of literal monk, though I've long held wishes.
Next question?
Cenobitic monks live in community. They believe in communal life, and they live together with other monks in a religious order, under a religious rule, or set of orders. They meet more than occasionally for prayer, and may or may not have contact with lay believers and the outside world. They began to live in communities because of the hardship and possible damage of the extremely isolated hermit life.
Most commonly cenobitic monks have lived in cells, which originally had much in common with the cells of Roman army barracks. St. Pachomius originated this monastic form, and inspired many others to follow after the 4th century of the common era.
The aforementioned hermits were the first monks, taking to the Egyptian desert during the Roman occupation of the Holy Land. Formally, they are called eremetic. Originally, these men and women sought to emulate the Hebrews wandering in the wilderness and Christ's time of trials. Eremetic monks seek to praise God and- through penance and prayer- lovingly serve humanity. They often live in natural caves or humble huts of their own construction.
Paul of Thebes was the first hermit in Egypt, and likely the first Christian hermit ever. He soon began the eremtic tradition of taking on followers and disciples; the practice later allowed some monks to become so honored that they lacked any physical solitude at all. Historically, their role has been flexible, with many of the early monks weaving baskets in exchange for bread, with medieval monks serving as gatekeepers or ferrymen, and with today's ermetic monks living under broader monastic orders.
Moreover, ermitic life is no longer necessarily a lifelong occupation- many monks seek a hermitage only for a period. Many others now serve under the direction of their local bishop.
This leads to the final variety of monk, the one living in skete. The Christian hermits who make up a skete worship in isolation, but come together for mutual support and safety. Typically, a skete consists of a common house of worship surrounded by individual hovels for its members. The skete has largely vanished in the West, but has more support in the Orthodox church.
I am not yet any kind of literal monk, though I've long held wishes.
Next question?
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Daily Prayer: Sunday Dusk
Justify my soul, O God,
from your fountains fill my will with fire.
Shine on my mind, "be darkness to my experience,"
occupy my heart with your tremendous Life.
Let my eyes see nothing in the world but Your glory,
and let my hands touch nothing that is not for Your service.
Let my tongue taste no bread that does not strengthen me
to praise Your great mercy.
I will hear Your voice and I will hear all harmonies You
have created,
singing Your hymns to find joy in giving You glory.
from your fountains fill my will with fire.
Shine on my mind, "be darkness to my experience,"
occupy my heart with your tremendous Life.
Let my eyes see nothing in the world but Your glory,
and let my hands touch nothing that is not for Your service.
Let my tongue taste no bread that does not strengthen me
to praise Your great mercy.
I will hear Your voice and I will hear all harmonies You
have created,
singing Your hymns to find joy in giving You glory.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Daily Prayer: Thursday Dawn
Antiphon
The fire of a wild white sun has eaten up the distance between
hope and despair.
Dance in this sun, you tepid idiot. Wake up and dance in the
clarity of perfect contradiction.
Lesson
There is a silent self within us whose presence is disturbing precisely because it is is silent; it can't be spoken. It has to remain silent. To articulate it, to verbalize it, is to tamper with it and in some ways destroy it.
Now let us frankly face the fact that our culture is one which is geared in many ways to help us evade any need to face this inner, silent self. We live in a state of constant semiattention to the sound of voices, music, traffic, or the generalized noise of what goes on around us all the time.
This keeps us immersed in a flood of racket and words, a diffuse medium in which our consciousness is half diluted: we are not quite "thinking," not entirely responding, but we are more or less there. We are not fully present and note entirely absent; not fully withdrawn, yet not completely available.
It cannot be said that we are really participating in anything and we may, in fact, be half conscious of our alienation and resentment. Yet we derive a certain comfort from the vague sense that we are "part of something"- although we are not able to define what that something is...we just float along in the general noise.
The fire of a wild white sun has eaten up the distance between
hope and despair.
Dance in this sun, you tepid idiot. Wake up and dance in the
clarity of perfect contradiction.
Lesson
There is a silent self within us whose presence is disturbing precisely because it is is silent; it can't be spoken. It has to remain silent. To articulate it, to verbalize it, is to tamper with it and in some ways destroy it.
Now let us frankly face the fact that our culture is one which is geared in many ways to help us evade any need to face this inner, silent self. We live in a state of constant semiattention to the sound of voices, music, traffic, or the generalized noise of what goes on around us all the time.
This keeps us immersed in a flood of racket and words, a diffuse medium in which our consciousness is half diluted: we are not quite "thinking," not entirely responding, but we are more or less there. We are not fully present and note entirely absent; not fully withdrawn, yet not completely available.
It cannot be said that we are really participating in anything and we may, in fact, be half conscious of our alienation and resentment. Yet we derive a certain comfort from the vague sense that we are "part of something"- although we are not able to define what that something is...we just float along in the general noise.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Cliff Notes: The Historical Jesus
The starting point of a liberating Jesus is the historical Jesus of Nazarath, his life, mission, and fate. This Jesus consists of both a historical element (Jesus) and a transcendental element (Christ). The recognition of this in faith is a gift from God. That is, one cannot simply accept that Jesus Christ was God; one must contemplate the details of the reality and its process.
That we must do so in the language of faith is difficult, as these limit-terms address transcendent processes that we must go through; faith is both word and walk, and one interprets the other. This is true for freedom, love, and life itself. For example, God became a liberator after leading the Hebrews out of Egypt- the term makes little sense before this.
So too did the first believers address the historical facts of Jesus's life- before they confessed him as Christ. Jesus is the way to Christ.
Yet the New Testament is not interested in portraying the historical Jesus, but only the Christ in Jesus. They are always already christologies, and not the materials for a study of Jesus Christ. That they themselves study Christ by going back to the historical Jesus is precisely our starting point as well.
And it has always been the starting point; early Christianity struggled above all else with the scandal of a human Christ. This is possibly because even the term Jesus Christ implies a split; Christ is an adjective, Jesus a noun. It has always been possible to worship a Christ that no longer describes the fact of Jesus of Nazareth.
We should not be surprised that this has happened because christology is, as is all else, a human process, and there exists in the very notion of Jesus Christ an unthinkable and scandalous novelty.
Yet we must make a crucial choice in talking about Jesus Christ, to say "Jesus Christ" or "Christ? He's Jesus." The New Testament says the latter. Thus, the best protection of Christ is to do what the Gospels do and return to the historical Jesus.
This concludes, under protest, this Cliff Notes series. Next I will be summarizing, in much more abbreviated form, a work on the formation of the early church.
That we must do so in the language of faith is difficult, as these limit-terms address transcendent processes that we must go through; faith is both word and walk, and one interprets the other. This is true for freedom, love, and life itself. For example, God became a liberator after leading the Hebrews out of Egypt- the term makes little sense before this.
So too did the first believers address the historical facts of Jesus's life- before they confessed him as Christ. Jesus is the way to Christ.
Yet the New Testament is not interested in portraying the historical Jesus, but only the Christ in Jesus. They are always already christologies, and not the materials for a study of Jesus Christ. That they themselves study Christ by going back to the historical Jesus is precisely our starting point as well.
And it has always been the starting point; early Christianity struggled above all else with the scandal of a human Christ. This is possibly because even the term Jesus Christ implies a split; Christ is an adjective, Jesus a noun. It has always been possible to worship a Christ that no longer describes the fact of Jesus of Nazareth.
We should not be surprised that this has happened because christology is, as is all else, a human process, and there exists in the very notion of Jesus Christ an unthinkable and scandalous novelty.
Yet we must make a crucial choice in talking about Jesus Christ, to say "Jesus Christ" or "Christ? He's Jesus." The New Testament says the latter. Thus, the best protection of Christ is to do what the Gospels do and return to the historical Jesus.
This concludes, under protest, this Cliff Notes series. Next I will be summarizing, in much more abbreviated form, a work on the formation of the early church.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Editorial: Upon My Trin-iversary
One warm May night more than five years ago, I sat around with my closest friends talking into the very small hours. We were graduating the next day. For the most part, we talked about how not to, how we could not possibly end this and go our separate ways. We talked about we could live together, intentionally, working as and when we needed to. Furthering our dreams. We planned. This could actually happen, we said. We can really do this. We can buy a house. We can pool our money for a property.
And we could have. All of it could actually have happened, down to the goat cropping grass in the lawn. But it didn't.
I don't doubt that I would have been happier in the intervening years, between 2003 and now, possibly excluding the last, when I have been well enough. I would have by neccesity grown closer to, and not further from, most of the friends that college gave me. I probably wouldn't have been fired twice and had half a dozen jobs in thee years, because I wouldn't have taken jobs I didn't want or need. I wouldn't live a thousand miles away from my family, a fate which seems more and more ambiguous. And above all else, a lonely soul might have lived, for a charmed longer while, a less supremely isolated life.
I would have lived in constant daily contact with other human beings, a fate which seems to me now so remote I can scarcely imagine it.
My solace, the only sense that I can make of this grand not-happening, this supremely pangy non-event, is that it wasn't meant to be. By that I mean that it would have been good, but it would have been a limited good. It would have been a good for me. It might even have been a good for all the rest of us. But I don't think it would have been good for everyone. It wouldn't have been good for France and China and Connecticut and New Jersey and D.C and Tennessee, all the places we eventually went. It wouldn't have been good for Minnesota.
And it wouldn't have been good for Gethsemane. I mean that. I cannot, fortunately I think, see whatever good that I actually do, but I can see that I am here. And that if I were not doing good, I would not be here, and would not be feeling good myself. There certainly have been plenty of opportunities for me to leave, and I certainly have considered them in my three years now, of living here.
But all of this is silly. I only mean that I was afraid that night, talking. I was afraid of everything that was about to end, all the best days of my-little-life-so-far running out like sand. I was afraid of my promise and my indirection and all the opportunities I'd missed so far. I was afraid, not of the future that would happen, whatever that was, but the future that might not happen, all the wants that would not come true, of the things I might not be able to pick up again.
I was not wrong to fear those things. The years since have seen several of them realized. And my motives, all our motives, were pure and good and based on the good we already had. There was nothing wrong with any of that.
But it was not entirely in our hands. It was certainly not in mine. And just because something was not wrong, was not in error, does not mean there is nothing to be learned. And I've learned that I am not my own, not my joy, not my sorrow, not my solace and not my grief. My treasures and time and talents are not mine to hold, anymore than the people I know are my possessions.
We, right now, are choosing our chuch. We are choosing what will happen to Gethsemane. Our future is no more certain now that mine was five years ago. We too face dissolution, not to put too fine a point on it.
What I'm writing to tell you is that you do not need to be afraid. This is a grand and august church, with a far longer history and with a far broader reach than my small group of friends. But no part of it is our posession. It is God's. We are stewards not only of the things we've spent the last month talking aboout, our resources and talents and opportunities.
Rather, we are stewards of this church, of this garden, of this idea of Gethsemane. Each and every one of us.
So it is not enough that we choose how to keep the doors open. It is not enough that we decide how to keep money flowing in and out of our accounts. It is not enough to consider our survival, anymore than it was enough for my friends and I to consider how to stay together.
Rather we must ask how we can be worthy of survival. God has far more options than Gethsemane. And we are only as good to God as we are good to this community. We must think more broadly, as I might have considered the good my friends and I could create wherever we decided to go. The work with the Drake Hotel is an excellent start, but it can only be a start.
Gethsemane Episcopal has a fine tradition. But it does not have a tradition of preserving its tradition. Rather it has a history of being part of Minneapolis, of being tethered to a hospital and an orphanage and Indian communities, of hosting a school and youth programs and counseling centers.
We confuse these things, I think, to say that these things were only possible when we were larger. Rather, I say that we were only larger because we said that these things were possible.
And then we did them.
That's why I decided to stay, about two years ago, when I got the chance to possibly go live with my friends again. Because I already see these things happening at Gethsemane, and I want to see them done.
Thank you.
And we could have. All of it could actually have happened, down to the goat cropping grass in the lawn. But it didn't.
I don't doubt that I would have been happier in the intervening years, between 2003 and now, possibly excluding the last, when I have been well enough. I would have by neccesity grown closer to, and not further from, most of the friends that college gave me. I probably wouldn't have been fired twice and had half a dozen jobs in thee years, because I wouldn't have taken jobs I didn't want or need. I wouldn't live a thousand miles away from my family, a fate which seems more and more ambiguous. And above all else, a lonely soul might have lived, for a charmed longer while, a less supremely isolated life.
I would have lived in constant daily contact with other human beings, a fate which seems to me now so remote I can scarcely imagine it.
My solace, the only sense that I can make of this grand not-happening, this supremely pangy non-event, is that it wasn't meant to be. By that I mean that it would have been good, but it would have been a limited good. It would have been a good for me. It might even have been a good for all the rest of us. But I don't think it would have been good for everyone. It wouldn't have been good for France and China and Connecticut and New Jersey and D.C and Tennessee, all the places we eventually went. It wouldn't have been good for Minnesota.
And it wouldn't have been good for Gethsemane. I mean that. I cannot, fortunately I think, see whatever good that I actually do, but I can see that I am here. And that if I were not doing good, I would not be here, and would not be feeling good myself. There certainly have been plenty of opportunities for me to leave, and I certainly have considered them in my three years now, of living here.
But all of this is silly. I only mean that I was afraid that night, talking. I was afraid of everything that was about to end, all the best days of my-little-life-so-far running out like sand. I was afraid of my promise and my indirection and all the opportunities I'd missed so far. I was afraid, not of the future that would happen, whatever that was, but the future that might not happen, all the wants that would not come true, of the things I might not be able to pick up again.
I was not wrong to fear those things. The years since have seen several of them realized. And my motives, all our motives, were pure and good and based on the good we already had. There was nothing wrong with any of that.
But it was not entirely in our hands. It was certainly not in mine. And just because something was not wrong, was not in error, does not mean there is nothing to be learned. And I've learned that I am not my own, not my joy, not my sorrow, not my solace and not my grief. My treasures and time and talents are not mine to hold, anymore than the people I know are my possessions.
We, right now, are choosing our chuch. We are choosing what will happen to Gethsemane. Our future is no more certain now that mine was five years ago. We too face dissolution, not to put too fine a point on it.
What I'm writing to tell you is that you do not need to be afraid. This is a grand and august church, with a far longer history and with a far broader reach than my small group of friends. But no part of it is our posession. It is God's. We are stewards not only of the things we've spent the last month talking aboout, our resources and talents and opportunities.
Rather, we are stewards of this church, of this garden, of this idea of Gethsemane. Each and every one of us.
So it is not enough that we choose how to keep the doors open. It is not enough that we decide how to keep money flowing in and out of our accounts. It is not enough to consider our survival, anymore than it was enough for my friends and I to consider how to stay together.
Rather we must ask how we can be worthy of survival. God has far more options than Gethsemane. And we are only as good to God as we are good to this community. We must think more broadly, as I might have considered the good my friends and I could create wherever we decided to go. The work with the Drake Hotel is an excellent start, but it can only be a start.
Gethsemane Episcopal has a fine tradition. But it does not have a tradition of preserving its tradition. Rather it has a history of being part of Minneapolis, of being tethered to a hospital and an orphanage and Indian communities, of hosting a school and youth programs and counseling centers.
We confuse these things, I think, to say that these things were only possible when we were larger. Rather, I say that we were only larger because we said that these things were possible.
And then we did them.
That's why I decided to stay, about two years ago, when I got the chance to possibly go live with my friends again. Because I already see these things happening at Gethsemane, and I want to see them done.
Thank you.
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