Biblical docetism

It's been quite a week, and I have next to nothing to show for it... so let's pick up where I left off.

Sometime around the discussion of Gnostic Christianity, I stumbled across Defeating the Dragons (courtesy of Slacktivist), who posted this:

There is a term for what happened in those two examples, and it has actually been referred to as “the evangelical heresy” (and no, I’m not talking about individualism). It’s called biblical docetism, and it is an extension of gnosticism, dualism, and Arianism...

And I wound up having to respond to it..

Best 101ing ever

The annotated version of this story runs as follows:

(She) I just realized my faith was kinda Gnostic. Wow. This changes things.
(He) Why do Christians worry so much about being heretical?
(Me) Because heresy leads to horrible consequences.
(He) I get that, but why are horrible consequences bad? Even liberal Christians seem to reject them for no good reason.

There's always a relevant xkcd.

 And by the time I finished responding, it was nearly sunrise the next day.

In the world, but not of it, but for it

During the rampage of theological gushing I went on this week, I passed through Slacktivist's "NRA: Not of this world," a kvetch about the author's interpretation of "worldliness."

It wasn't the best post in the series. I've followed Fred Clark's vivisection of L&J since its Typepad days, in fact since the first book. Where it shines brightest, to me, is where it's not just a takedown but a witness: where Fred, pointing to the darkness of the World's Worst Books, makes a statement about what it is to be Christian well. (There have been several, in the past. The last one I remember clearly was an aside in which he observed that Rapture theology leaves the church with no purpose, nothing to do.) And there wasn't really any observation like that today.

So when I found that I was gonna be a first-page commenter, I decided to add one in:

I'm not gonna knock the language of  "worldliness." Call me a Johannine fanboy, but I love that rhetoric of "the world," enough that I want to live it. I grok that we aren't to be of the world, even as we're in it over our heads. And I get why, too. It's right there in the unread followup to John 3:16. God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved. 

That's the beauty of the Johannine NT. We're called from the world so we can live in-and-out the story of its salvation. In the world, but not of it, but for it, in Christ's name and for Christ's sake.

And that's the horror of the World's Worst Books. That every Friday we witness anew L&J forsaking that. Believing, and assuming, and proclaiming that to be Christian is to be in the world, but not of it - but against it. Not to save, but to condemn.

That first-page comment I blockquoted up there? Got 20 likes and a response from a total stranger. I was stunned. The only post I've ever written that got that much response was a one-liner about Lex Luthor stealing 40 cakes in the same thread. That got 24 likes.

Fourth Sunday in Lent

The weather was fine today. Too fine; too warm. A month ago this Wednesday, I decided to give up driving to church on Sunday. I will finally succeed at this starting next week: the final NOOMA video ("Rich") was shown, and I no longer have to be there before 10:15. For the last two Sundays of the season, I'll be able to walk it with no problems. I was, in fact, tempted to walk it today; and I have mixed feelings about my decision not to.

The NOOMA film was predictable; the discussions about "God Bless America" and money, which led to... predictable results. (One of the eternally awkward parts of reading as much critical theory as I have: you can sit in a room full of committed progressives and still kvetch about how far to the left you are of the parish in general. It's not really a fair thing to complain about, but it's still a thing.) I was able to raise my voice this time, to remark on a thought about how Rob Bell juxtaposed "grace" and "deserving" at one point (and the greater three-part relationship between grace, dessert and mitzvot, although "grace" only came up once); asked to elaborate on that, I said I'd need a week or so.

(These last few days have had a lot of thoughts about grace. Not totally sure why.)

And so, an hour and a bit later, the 10:30 service started. It was amazing.

On confession

Originally posted here:
 
Each prayer of the Daily Office has a prayer of confession at the start; in theory you could say five a single day (plus litanies.) None of these are sacramental in the sense that James was talking about; and while we *do* have a rubric for Reconciliation, the refrain about it is that "Any can, some should, none must."

When their time comes, I'm sure that I'm not a murderer or a heresiarch. I'm sure that my sins are small stuff. I say the prayer of confession anyways. To confess is to humble ourselves, to own that we can be wrong. To confess is to word our weakness, to learn words to confront it as we must.

To confess is to create a time and space when we can learn to sorrow, to regret, to come before a God of mercy needing mercy. And that's ultimately why we do it: confession is the hard work of learning to appreciate grace. Pardon the cliché, but as long as I can confess my sins I can celebrate that Jesus died for them; that He is mine, and I am His.

When you write something that breaks you

It's the third week of my first Lent, and I'm feeling it. Oh, am I feeling it. This is a raw season, and I am going to come out of it a very different person than when I went in. It's a scary feeling, at once sobering and intoxicating, feeling myself dissolve in the chrysalis of time and waiting to see what will emerge when the stone is rolled away in three Sundays.

I've lost a bit of weight. More than that, I've been having moments. One after the next. Several of them back-to-back. And they're starting to get scary.

Take the one that happened last night, when I wrote this:

Neil's a softie. I'm a Christian here, and I *do* have problems with what you do in church. Because by the time somebody has to tell you to "keep it in church," your theology's gone very, VERY bad.

There were two likes, and one comment which I replied to, and that was that. Except that it wasn't.

Second week of Lent

In my last post, one of my Lenten fasts was from driving to church. Today marks ten days since Ash Wednesday (eight not counting the Sundays, as is proper) - I'm 20% of the way through the season. And I have not honored that fast once.

I tried, today. I even got off to a decent start, waking up at the right time to get out the door... and then promptly rolling over to go back to sleep. Dragged myself out, got into the shower, and was out the door... about fifteen minutes too late, so I hopped in the car to go...

...but as I was leaving, I was asked, very abruptly, if I could run across the street and pick up ten (10) rolls of paper towels and cranberry juice. Why didn't they get them last night, when they were at the grocery store? Bugger if I know, but it's never the day to argue this stuff.

So I ran the hell across the street, picked up the ten (10) rolls of paper towels, and eight-pack and two loose ones, and the bottle of cranberry juice, and made haste to church, letting them know that the change was in the bag.

By the time I arrived, I was fifteen minutes late. Just late enough to completely miss out on the video that was being discussed, and to sit in silence as my fellow parishioners discussed grace, the past catching up with us... prison. And I dwelled on the gracelessness of that night in Miami, when I came on vacation and left on probation.

For all that I contributed, I could've - should've - just walked it like I was planning to.

Lent 2013

Thanks to the Anarchist Reverend for providing a prompt. My writing here is an expansion of my comment there.

I grew up honoring Lent in the breach. It was the time to set aside bad habits, or try to, or pretend to, or want to really hard. It was a selfish thing, or I was selfish and made it so, or I was clueless and didn't pick up that it wasn't supposed to be. It was so long ago I don't really remember now. 2002 was the last time I became anything more than an obligatory Christmas-and-Easter churchgoer, and with that Lent fell by the wayside too, unnoticed and unmissed.

Last year, the year of constellations, was the year that saw me back to church - but I still managed to miss Lent. (I actually came back on Pentecost, and started seriously attending on Trinity Sunday.) This is easily the 23rd Lent of my life, certainly of the life I can remember; but this Lent is different from the ones that came before. This is the first Lenten fast of my adult life. This is the first Lent since I grew into my baptism; my first as an Episcopalian; my first where I understood why I was fasting.

This Lent is going to be special.

Breakfast for dinner

I have celebrated Mardi Gras a few times before. Until last night I'd never celebrated Shrove Tuesday.

I've had more than my share of pancakes in church, granted. It was part of the understanding by which my Boy Scout troop could use the church facilities; we'd do brunches after church a few times a year. Last night was also the first night I've had pancakes and sausages in a church building.

An entire room, half-empty, a number of people I don't know, introversion, what to do? Gamer wisdom kicked in: Sit with my back to a wall. And so I did, as best I could. (Gamer wisdom is actually sit with your back to a corner. There weren't nearly enough.)

I chose an empty table. Simply by showing up I'd left H. stranded at the health office; not having anybody directly sit next to me would give me an excuse should I suddenly need to excuse myself. So of course it filled up incredibly quickly.

Shrove Tuesday dinner was quite enjoyable. The only hitch came in turning off the fire alarm at the end; I'm not sure if the church was able to before the fire department arrived.

Standing vigil for the dying

Standing vigil for the dying
Comes a time past rhyming when
There are no words to say

So weary and worn away
Are litany and commendation
Standing vigil for the dying

And no toil and no trying
Can yield them a worthy creation
There are no words to say

Then lexicons betray
They dawdle in the time of desperation
Standing vigil for the dying

When comes the time of crying
Unprepared are words of consolation
There are no words to say

All the time to pray
But waiting for the last amen
Standing vigil for the dying
There are no words to say.

Darkonian funeral prayer

Powers dark that no-one knows,
Hear our petition that you might
Now grant our dead their blessed repose.

Unending stillness now impose,
And rest unending, as is right,
O Powers dark that no-one knows.

In summer sun and winter snows,
In longest day, in Darkest Night
Now grant our dead their blessed repose

For peace beyond their dying throes,
For those that live, grant this respite,
O powers dark that no-one knows.

And as their sightless eyes we close
Accept, we ask, this offered rite
And grant our dead their blessed repose.

May liturgy and prayers and prose
Be satisfying in your sight,
Powers dark that no one knows:
Now grant our dead their blessed repose.

It was seven days delayed

I don't recall the last time I signed in
Before this afternoon. I should have known
That there would be a message in the bin,
Unanswered long enough to be a sin.
So, breathing tight and zeroed at the bone,
I clicked as though the message was a stray
And armed explosive shell. You were alone
And on the train, and missed me; on your phone
You said as much, and sent it on its way
A week ago.

I started to reply,
And wrote you all that I could think to say
Before remembering that half a day
Of time lag separated you and I,
Deleted my response and wrote a poem
To pass the time and let my sleeper lie.

Baked potatoes

Shortly after the groom-to-be left the premises, the rest of us realized that we had no plans for dining that night - and all of us were hungry. To prevent any dithering, R. quickly suggested a baked potato bar. And so we did.

Idaho potatoes, wrapped in foil, baked for half an hour... and then another ten... and then maybe another ten, to be sure the biggest ones were completely cooked through. Sour cream, shredded cheese, chopped scallions in the absence of seasonal chives... and bacon, per R.'s request (although I suspect that he was the only person to actually have any, or maybe he and the bride-to-be.) Probably a bit too fattening, but altogether satisfying.

I didn't know the baked potato bar existed before that night. I'll have to remember it for the future.

Burger, cider, yogurt, Coke

It was the first time I had seen her in just under a year. The first time any of us had seen her in that time; for some of us, maybe for even longer. Too long for all of us. Too long for her.

So of course the first course of the night was burgers.

Once I had hope

to the tune of "I Dreamed A Dream"

She spent a year across the sea
A year I waited to be near her
And now she's here, so close to me
But it's so very hard to hear her

For I'm always AFK
Her computer lies in pieces
And we only have a day
'til we're parted once again...

I'll try to write her every day
To tell my love how much I miss her
But there are no words I can say
No words to write that let me kiss her

Once I had hope my life could be
A life spent lived, and not just waiting.
But I will find a way to cope...
...and last the year without that hope.

Third Sunday of Advent

I awoke this morning to something I never thought I'd see: snow. As light as caster sugar, until it turned to sludge under the brush as I wiped it off the windshields. The sky was gray, the ground clear, the air cold as death.

Two Sundays ago the land took my mind to a world of horror. Today I knew that I had arrived.

This week in Andalusada, 12/8/2012

Sunday, 12/2/2012

After a derpy comment to R. last night, my first edit of the day was an expansion, and then a rearranging, of the 8.8mm page.

• This led to an edit of ACP, to mention that 8.8x53mm ACP was now a cartridge...
• I also planned to link the Black Friars into the mythos of the Palace of Granada, but while I was doing so I accidentally reverted it to a draft. Since I wasn't sure what it was called, I renamed it "the Winchester Alhambra," which is now its new URL.
• Once that was done (and all the links to it were corrected), the next thing on my to-do list was to fill out the Black Friars themselves. Which was done, linking them (again) to the palaces of Granada.
• Next up on the editing list: the Second Mahdist War, to establish that al-Mahdi dies on April 5th, 182?. Once that was done, the next thing to edit was (unsurprisingly) April 5th.
• After that, my next edit was to the Occidentals, filling out some details about their relations with the Mozarabs and inventing a small number of them that emigrated after the Sodalite Revolt.

Having filled that in, I posted my one new post of the day: the Sodalite Revolt itself. It's still very WIPpy, but that's to be expected.

• Which called for a significant cleanup of the Sodality itself.
• And, in turn, an expansion of the post on Dystopian Catholic France to mention the Bastard Prince, and the occasion of his bastardy.

And so to bed.

Lost my wallet

First thought to cross my mind when I remember being fully awake: fuck. What time was I meeting with P. again? And so I showered, shaved, toweled off, dressed up, hopped in the car, pulled on my coat, and made for the center of town as fast as I possibly could.

I remember looking at my watch and realizing it was 12:30-12:40ish. I also remember looking at the sign on the library door, CLOSED - and feeling like a fool, for forgetting that it wasn't even open until 1:00. And so, since I had the time, I decided to take a walk. I wandered to one end of town, and put this year's last overseas letter to the Love in the mail; I stopped at a few places en route to the other side of town, wondering if they had any college-ruled paper to refill my supplies, much depleted from the start of the school year by averaging 10+ pages of correspondence each week.

Then I realized that I couldn't find my wallet. I furiously backtracked, as fast as I could - no luck. Scoured the car, turning both of the seats up - not there. Got down on all fours and ducked my head to look under the cars in the parking lot - not there either.

So I drove back home and furiously searched my coats, my shirts, my pants. Not there. And on that note, I made back for the center of town as fast as I possibly could, for the appointment with P.

And the appointment with J. after that.

And then I drove back home again, and resumed the search. Cleaned the floor - nothing. Rearranged the stacks of books - nothing. I called Mom to angst about it, repeatedly, and to sort out my plans for the morrow, when I would get all of the cards replaced.

And then, at 7:30ish, I got a call from a number I didn't recognize. It was AAA, calling to let me know that somebody had reported my missing wallet, and they gave me the number to call her back. And so I did.

It turned out she'd found it at 12:30ish, within minutes of it being lost.

First Sunday of Advent

Kathy Escobar mentioned that this marks the start of one of the Refuge's darkest seasons. After the events of last night, I can second that. After the events of this morning, I can second that again.

How there was any light at all in the stained-glass windows, I will never know. The sky was as gray as William Gibson's proverbial dead channel, the ground was wet, the snow crunchy, the commons silent, still, and deathly chill. The mist took me to Ravenloft, in mind if not in body.

Every Sunday of Ordinary Time, or at least the ones I made it to, started with a processional hymn, accompanied by organ music. Today was the first exception, and the longest to date - there was no accompaniment at all, and the processional wound through the church two or three times as we sang the Great Litany. It was beautiful - right up to its jarringly abrupt ending.

In the Episcopal Church, the liturgical color of the season is blue. Even though it was visible and I had only to behold, it didn't register until it was told to me. I was startled. I was always startled, today.

The Gospel was Luke 21:25-36:

"There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see "the Son of Man coming in a cloud" with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near."

Then he told them a parable: "Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.

"Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day does not catch you unexpectedly, like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man."

Signs, foreboding. Wars and rumors of wars. As we celebrate Advent, the readings are dark, because our celebration of the first coming flows seamlessly alongside our expectation of the second. Not for nothing was Christmas set to the days after the winter solstice: the darkening is part of the season.

As the first Sunday in Advent, today also marks the turn to Year C of the Revised Common Lectionary. Maybe that was why I had no idea why I spent this year consistently wrong about what readings were coming up next week.

This fortnight in Andalusada, 11/24/2012

This was supposed to be a weekly post (these things usually are), but due to Thanksgiving weekend I got rather derailed by stuff... so here goes.

Saturday, 11/17/2012

I didn't post anything particularly new on Saturday. Instead, I filled out a number of other things instead - starting with a significant expansion of Don Musa. His dates were settled upon (1796-1887), and his service with Caliph Yusuf was pushed back a few years because Yusuf I hired his father first (which means that I need to introduce that father for a bit, if only to kill him later.) He's also been made into a dirty old man; his first wife (who also needs introducing) predeceases him, so his wife can bear him Don Ibrahim without being nearly 60 herself; and, unlike the rest of Andalusada, his old age and death have been written in.

• After that, a bit of editing was done for Yusuf I: his dates were written in (1772-1839), and mention of Abu Musa was made.
• Don Ibrahim's birth year was pushed to 1860, and his formative years have been colored in more than anyone else's in Andalusada. His details - his relationship with his mother, his memories of his father, how that relates to Yusuf III - makes for the first family dynamics I've written anywhere in the blog.
• Yusuf III also got a considerable expansion of his own.

And so to bed.