I just think that this is beyond incredible. I also find it a bit bizarre that the justice system has the ultimate power to define truth. I can't help but think of Pilate's words, "what is truth?" Nonetheless, the Italian courts shall decide and perhaps we do need a miracle.
Did Jesus Exist? Italian Court to Decide
By Phil Stewart, Reuters
ROME (Jan. 4) - Forget the U.S. debate over intelligent design versus evolution. An Italian court is tackling Jesus -- and whether the Roman Catholic Church may be breaking the law by teaching that he existed 2,000 years ago. The case pits against each other two men in their 70s, who are from the same central Italian town and even went to the same seminary school in their teenage years. The defendant, Enrico Righi, went on to become a priest writing for the parish newspaper. The plaintiff, Luigi Cascioli, became a vocal atheist who, after years of legal wrangling, is set to get his day in court later this month. "I started this lawsuit because I wanted to deal the final blow against the Church, the bearer of obscurantism and regression," Cascioli told Reuters. Cascioli says Righi, and by extension the whole Church, broke two Italian laws. The first is "Abuso di Credulita Popolare" (Abuse of Popular Belief) meant to protect people against being swindled or conned. The second crime, he says, is "Sostituzione di Persona," or impersonation. "The Church constructed Christ upon the personality of John of Gamala," Cascioli claimed, referring to the 1st century Jew who fought against the Roman army. A court in Viterbo will hear from Righi, who has yet to be indicted, at a January 27 preliminary hearing meant to determine whether the case has enough merit to go forward. "In my book, The Fable of Christ, I present proof Jesus did not exist as a historic figure. He must now refute this by showing proof of Christ's existence," Cascioli said. Speaking to Reuters, Righi, 76, sounded frustrated by the case and baffled as to why Cascioli -- who, like him, came from the town of Bagnoregio -- singled him out in his crusade against the Church. "We're both from Bagnoregio, both of us. We were in seminary together. Then he took a different path and we didn't see each other anymore," Righi said. "Since I'm a priest, and I write in the parish newspaper, he is now suing me because I 'trick' the people." Righi claims there is plenty of evidence to support the existence of Jesus, including historical texts. He also claims that justice is on his side. The judge presiding over the hearing has tried, repeatedly, to dismiss the case -- prompting appeals from Cascioli. "Cascioli says he didn't exist. And I said that he did," he said. "The judge will to decide if Christ exists or not." Even Cascioli admits that the odds are against him, especially in Roman Catholic Italy. "It would take a miracle to win," he joked.
1.05.2006
12.23.2005
A Christmas Wish
This Christmas, the children at the Church of St. Paul & St. Andrew did something radical. In the spirit of the radical love we celebrate on Christmas, they dared to share their love with children in Bethlehem. On Halloween, as we were decked out in our costumes, we started to talk about the miracle of Christmas. We sent Christmas cards to show mow mcuh we love. On this Christmas, I hope that we all find the kind of love that children do not question. Share in this simple joy with this short video at http://www.umtv.org/newitems/Christmas_Cards_To_Bethlehem.htm. And yes, that's my voice asking "Who can tell me what happened in Bethlehem?" Those are the wonderful kids that I minister to who made me remember that the miracle of Bethlehem happens again and again and again.
12.21.2005
The Love of a Child
Not only did I used to live in Park Slope which spawns a whole other realm of affection, but I am touched and warmed by the love offered from our children. Perhaps we can learn something from young Miss Brantl.
ONLY THE LONELY
By JENNIFER BLEYER
The New York Times
December 18, 2005
Park Slope -- Park Slope is no stranger to luxuries, among them hot stone massages, artisanal cheeses and puppy manicures. Now it is home to a refuge for lonely dolls whose owners may be headed for the slopes of Vail or the beaches of St. Bart's.
The purveyor of this newest luxury is a rosy-cheeked 7-year-old named Elizabeth Brantl, who started the Home Away From Home doll care service shortly after Thanksgiving.
"Do your special dolls and cuddly stuffed animals need a home while you're away," asked fliers posted outside local doll-owner hot spots like the toy store and the veterinarian's office.
Sitting in her frilly pink bedroom the other afternoon, Elizabeth swept through the deluxe accommodations available to guest dolls at Chez Brantl. Although monogrammed robes are not available, dolls are changed into their own pajamas at bedtime, a service, one might note, not even offered at the Waldorf. They are then put to sleep next to Elizabeth's own favorite stuffed animals, Blue Teddy, a bear, and Lovey, a lamb.
Twice a day, they are fed a gourmet mixture of paper clips, Snapple bottle caps, miniature plastic hamburgers and invisible food from a domino case.
"A lot of people have a special doll," Elizabeth explained, noting, like a true concierge, that she "would love them as much as I love my other dolls."
Although she has yet to receive any clients, some of her second-grade classmates at Public School 321 sounded interested when she described the service.
Would she consider lowering the $1-a-day fee she is charging? In response, Elizabeth cast a confused look at her father, Bob Brantl. "She'd refer it to her business agent," Mr. Brantl replied.
12.20.2005
A Sermon for Christmas
Let’s start from the very beginning. Some might say that it’s a very good place to start. We think of the beginning as the very first thing. It’s what happened before everything else. It is “in the beginning.”
We tell this story with it’s own beginning. We tell this story from our faith as if the very first thing was the journey that Mary and Joseph made to Bethlehem. This story begins with a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a manger. Of all places, this story begins in a barn. No matter how unlikely, we are perfectly content to hold onto our story that begins in that barn in Bethlehem.
But, John is not so certain as he pens the words, “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.” John challenges us to rethink our beginnings. He wants us to read his words only to scratch our heads and flip back to those opening words in Genesis. John evokes the imagery of formless blackness but challenges us not to get stuck there.
In tune with the ancients, John understood time as something that was not marked by past, present and future. The present wasn’t just the here and now. It was everything in living memory. What would our present extend to if we included everything in living memory? How would our conception of time expand if we were to include everything in visible prospect? As daunting as this seems, John and the ancients would have understood the past and the future as truly daunting. These markers of time were God’s time. In this space between God’s time and our present is where the beginning resides.
“In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.” This is the same Word that created the world in seven days. But, as you know, this isn’t a past event. Instead, this beginning is in our present. It is part of our living memory as we continue to retell the story of a barn in Bethlehem. It is not enough for an angel to come and announce, “’and he shall be called Emmanuel,’ which means ‘God is with us.’” God is not only with us. God is in our present. God is part of our living memory. God is right here with us.
As many times as we retell the story of a barn in Bethlehem, this is not our beginning. This is not where it all began as God’s story continues to be a presence here with us. The formless blackness of creation still creeps into our present. In the seasons of our own darkness, we wonder if this can really be true. Our world so often seems dark. Our president continues to appear on frustrating televised press conferences. MTA and other unionized workers are scorned for their struggles toward safety and security on the job. Religious divides intensify as our nation quibbles over taking the Christ out of Christmas. And our troops are still overseas while here at home, we gather to celebrate our first holiday without the laughter of an uncle, the joy of a mother or the companionship of a dear friend. Our darkness seems hopelessly opaque even two thousand years later.
John reminds us that there is a light that shines in our darkness. It is the Word. It is the same word that created the skies and the earth. It’s this Word that releases the creative power of God’s revelation. It is this creative power that John calls us toward in our beginning. On the longest night of the year, we light four candles to remember that God is indeed with us. We light four candles of hope, peace, joy and love to overcome the darkness that threatens to overcome us. Two thousand years later, when we struggle to start from the very beginning, John offers us the metaphor of light. A light that shines in our darkness. Filled with this light, we celebrate that God will always be part of our present. This is our endless beginning.
We tell this story with it’s own beginning. We tell this story from our faith as if the very first thing was the journey that Mary and Joseph made to Bethlehem. This story begins with a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a manger. Of all places, this story begins in a barn. No matter how unlikely, we are perfectly content to hold onto our story that begins in that barn in Bethlehem.
But, John is not so certain as he pens the words, “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.” John challenges us to rethink our beginnings. He wants us to read his words only to scratch our heads and flip back to those opening words in Genesis. John evokes the imagery of formless blackness but challenges us not to get stuck there.
In tune with the ancients, John understood time as something that was not marked by past, present and future. The present wasn’t just the here and now. It was everything in living memory. What would our present extend to if we included everything in living memory? How would our conception of time expand if we were to include everything in visible prospect? As daunting as this seems, John and the ancients would have understood the past and the future as truly daunting. These markers of time were God’s time. In this space between God’s time and our present is where the beginning resides.
“In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.” This is the same Word that created the world in seven days. But, as you know, this isn’t a past event. Instead, this beginning is in our present. It is part of our living memory as we continue to retell the story of a barn in Bethlehem. It is not enough for an angel to come and announce, “’and he shall be called Emmanuel,’ which means ‘God is with us.’” God is not only with us. God is in our present. God is part of our living memory. God is right here with us.
As many times as we retell the story of a barn in Bethlehem, this is not our beginning. This is not where it all began as God’s story continues to be a presence here with us. The formless blackness of creation still creeps into our present. In the seasons of our own darkness, we wonder if this can really be true. Our world so often seems dark. Our president continues to appear on frustrating televised press conferences. MTA and other unionized workers are scorned for their struggles toward safety and security on the job. Religious divides intensify as our nation quibbles over taking the Christ out of Christmas. And our troops are still overseas while here at home, we gather to celebrate our first holiday without the laughter of an uncle, the joy of a mother or the companionship of a dear friend. Our darkness seems hopelessly opaque even two thousand years later.
John reminds us that there is a light that shines in our darkness. It is the Word. It is the same word that created the skies and the earth. It’s this Word that releases the creative power of God’s revelation. It is this creative power that John calls us toward in our beginning. On the longest night of the year, we light four candles to remember that God is indeed with us. We light four candles of hope, peace, joy and love to overcome the darkness that threatens to overcome us. Two thousand years later, when we struggle to start from the very beginning, John offers us the metaphor of light. A light that shines in our darkness. Filled with this light, we celebrate that God will always be part of our present. This is our endless beginning.
12.03.2005
We Should Be Dancing
Bopping down the street somewhere in the East Village (or perhaps somewhere in San Francisco, as the case may be), Rosario Dawson sings "Take Me Out Tonight." The streets are deserted. She has just gotten out of work -- and she's dancing. She is surrounded by a community that shares in the hardships of living with AIDS in 1989. But, she's dancing. What a great image to celebrate life!
There are so many times that I want to dance down the streets of the city. When a good song pops onto my iPod, there are times that I really want to bust out dancing. But, something always stops me. Am I afraid of what people will think? Am I really so constrained by what is socially acceptable that I resist this urge to dance?
For the love of God, we should be dancing. We should be dancing to celebrate the many that died of this disease. We should dance in their memory and cherish the blessings that they have offered us. We should dance for my friends Paul and Durrell. We should dance for the people that still dance when disease overcomes their bodies. We should be able to celebrate in all of the wonders of our human connection -- where two men kiss on the silver screen. We should dance in celebration of l'vie boheme. We should dance when the parents of two women can bless their union. There should be priests and ministers that are offering God's blessing upon Angel and all of those that have died. We shouldn't be afraid. We should be dancing.
10.25.2005
2,000 Dead
This morning, the first of many emails arrived in my inbox. It was the first of several of my activist emails that I am too quick to delete these days. It was the first to announce that the death toll of American troops had reached 2,000. While rain storms the city, 2,000 American women, men and children are dead today. Dead in a war that some of us never wanted. Dead in a war that I don't know how to deal with. Dead, like Rosa Parks. May they all rest in God's peace.
Does this mean it's the end of an era? Is the civil rights movement really over with the death of this courageous woman? Do 2,000 more need to die in the name of terrorism and freedom for us to realize the injustice? Is this really only the beginning of the end?
Tonight, I gathered with four of my fellow students and sang about hope. Perhaps out of season. Perhaps just a little too early. We lifted our voices to the God among us singing "Come O Come Emmanuel". The last verse of this hymn (rewritten by Henry Sloane Coffin) speaks the words on my heart:
O come, Desire of nations, bind
All peoples in one heart and mind
Bid envy, strife, and quarrels cease
Fill all the world with heaven's peace
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to you, O Israel.
Does this mean it's the end of an era? Is the civil rights movement really over with the death of this courageous woman? Do 2,000 more need to die in the name of terrorism and freedom for us to realize the injustice? Is this really only the beginning of the end?
Tonight, I gathered with four of my fellow students and sang about hope. Perhaps out of season. Perhaps just a little too early. We lifted our voices to the God among us singing "Come O Come Emmanuel". The last verse of this hymn (rewritten by Henry Sloane Coffin) speaks the words on my heart:
O come, Desire of nations, bind
All peoples in one heart and mind
Bid envy, strife, and quarrels cease
Fill all the world with heaven's peace
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to you, O Israel.
10.24.2005
Gospel Celebration?
Greeted by signs to validate parking and security rope at the entrance of the Brooklyn Tabernacle, I can’t help but wonder about sacred space. As I wonder up the stairs to the balcony of this theatre, I notice the murals on the walls. A black man baptizing a white child in a river is the first to strike my eye. Next t it, a white preacher preaches to a large auditorium. Walking through the doors, I realize that we are in an auditorium. This is truly a theatre. And again, I wonder about sacred space?
We were pushed (or guided?) to the far right of upper balcony to allow worship participants to fill in the space closer to the door. No matter how much I urge people to the front rows of the chapel to create that same space, I’m hurt by this weird sense of welcoming. I feel like I should be looking at my ticket for the right seat.
But, it seems that I should have a ticket. I would need one to be on the inside of this gathering. I would need a ticket to know that I’m in the right place. With the purchase of this ticket, I would know what I was getting into. I would be prepared for this kind of experience. My wanderings about sacred space are only compounded by a forced notion of praise. I had a wonderful morning, the kind of morning that makes me sing in celebration of the vocation that has chosen me. But, as I enter this space, I wonder about what would happen if I was having a bad day. What if I wasn’t ready to praise? What if I needed to lament? There was no space for this in the midst of the singing.
But then, I saw why. As the pastor introduced a couple that had lost their daughter last week to a brutal murder, there was only praise. There was only hope that this woman was with God. There was no space for these parents – or the deceased woman’s children – to feel any other human emotion. Grief was skipped over. Sadness was obliterated in joyous singing.
“How can I keep from singing?” This was a hymn that I heard played during the Introit at worship this morning. It is a song of joy and praise, unlike the songs that I heard belted from the Brooklyn Tabernacle. Perhaps music has the power to transcend words, but I don’t believe this to be true. As the choir sang, I felt explosions. I felt the bombs of spiritual warfare explode in my face. And I knew that I could keep from signing. I felt numb. As this music overwhelmed my mortal frame, I felt nothing but weakness. I wanted to curl up into a fetal position. I wanted to retreat.
But, as I looked around me, I saw the rest of the congregation singing along. I saw these worshippers lifting their hands to reach toward a God that is ever separate from their experience. I saw this congregation participate in the charade. And I couldn’t help but wonder, why? When I want to retreat from this place of intense spiritual violation, why are these people relishing in the experience? Or am I missing something? Do I lack the ability to be wrapped into the presence of the Holy Spirit in this place?
Or was the Holy Spirit even there? Was this anything more than a theatrical spectacular? The pastor referred to the congregation as an “audience.” He requested that the musician “play some music to divert attention from the noise on the steps” as the choir descended from the stage. The lights raised and lowered to focus our attention on certain aspects of the service. The pastor waited impatiently filling time with empty words “before we go to black,” while the choir returned to their seats. Like a spotlight directing our attention, the entire worship experience was oriented around providing us the proper guidance as to what we should be paying attention to in this space.
If music is what carries this congregation, then why can’t they keep from signing? What lifts their voices to be able to sign these terrible songs filled with brutal images of blood and empty images of Heaven? Does this music offer a saving experience or does it manipulate the congregation? Interspersed with film clips about saving stories about Born-Again Christians, these songs sing of a certain kind of faith. These explosive songs of Christian soldiers sing of a faith that is without any area of grey. These violent songs manipulate the emotional state of the congregation to create a particular response. Is this worship? Or is this theatre? Or is this just plain spiritual violation?
We were pushed (or guided?) to the far right of upper balcony to allow worship participants to fill in the space closer to the door. No matter how much I urge people to the front rows of the chapel to create that same space, I’m hurt by this weird sense of welcoming. I feel like I should be looking at my ticket for the right seat.
But, it seems that I should have a ticket. I would need one to be on the inside of this gathering. I would need a ticket to know that I’m in the right place. With the purchase of this ticket, I would know what I was getting into. I would be prepared for this kind of experience. My wanderings about sacred space are only compounded by a forced notion of praise. I had a wonderful morning, the kind of morning that makes me sing in celebration of the vocation that has chosen me. But, as I enter this space, I wonder about what would happen if I was having a bad day. What if I wasn’t ready to praise? What if I needed to lament? There was no space for this in the midst of the singing.
But then, I saw why. As the pastor introduced a couple that had lost their daughter last week to a brutal murder, there was only praise. There was only hope that this woman was with God. There was no space for these parents – or the deceased woman’s children – to feel any other human emotion. Grief was skipped over. Sadness was obliterated in joyous singing.
“How can I keep from singing?” This was a hymn that I heard played during the Introit at worship this morning. It is a song of joy and praise, unlike the songs that I heard belted from the Brooklyn Tabernacle. Perhaps music has the power to transcend words, but I don’t believe this to be true. As the choir sang, I felt explosions. I felt the bombs of spiritual warfare explode in my face. And I knew that I could keep from signing. I felt numb. As this music overwhelmed my mortal frame, I felt nothing but weakness. I wanted to curl up into a fetal position. I wanted to retreat.
But, as I looked around me, I saw the rest of the congregation singing along. I saw these worshippers lifting their hands to reach toward a God that is ever separate from their experience. I saw this congregation participate in the charade. And I couldn’t help but wonder, why? When I want to retreat from this place of intense spiritual violation, why are these people relishing in the experience? Or am I missing something? Do I lack the ability to be wrapped into the presence of the Holy Spirit in this place?
Or was the Holy Spirit even there? Was this anything more than a theatrical spectacular? The pastor referred to the congregation as an “audience.” He requested that the musician “play some music to divert attention from the noise on the steps” as the choir descended from the stage. The lights raised and lowered to focus our attention on certain aspects of the service. The pastor waited impatiently filling time with empty words “before we go to black,” while the choir returned to their seats. Like a spotlight directing our attention, the entire worship experience was oriented around providing us the proper guidance as to what we should be paying attention to in this space.
If music is what carries this congregation, then why can’t they keep from signing? What lifts their voices to be able to sign these terrible songs filled with brutal images of blood and empty images of Heaven? Does this music offer a saving experience or does it manipulate the congregation? Interspersed with film clips about saving stories about Born-Again Christians, these songs sing of a certain kind of faith. These explosive songs of Christian soldiers sing of a faith that is without any area of grey. These violent songs manipulate the emotional state of the congregation to create a particular response. Is this worship? Or is this theatre? Or is this just plain spiritual violation?
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