of Christ—Liz Garrigan-Byerly and I used to play with this question: The salvation that comes through the cross, does it come because of what we do in response to what we’ve learned in witnessing the cross and resurrection; or is it something God did, has done, continues to do, in the mystery of the cross? And at her ecclesiastical council, when those gathered, having read her ordination paper, might now question her on certain aspects of it, I asked the inevitable atonement question. There’s always one, in every council, someone who asks the dreaded atonement question. “How does the cross save us? It’s not that the blood of Christ is what God required in order to slake God’s wrath. That was our answer once—for about a thousand years; but now we know better. So, does the salvation come of what we do in response to what we’ve seen and heard? Or is it something God has accomplished in Christ and the church?” I asked it, and she smiled back at me knowingly: this was coming. Her answer: “Yes.”
Imagine: an either/or question whose answer is yes.
Okay, so the disciples didn’t understand. Clearly, the more things change the more they stay the same. But they at least had the chance to ask follow-up questions; they at least could have asked Christ, “Could you say that again, and this time slower?” That they didn’t out of fear softens my judgment in their regard. That they didn’t ask because they were afraid to ask has me feeling some compassion for them. I’ve been there. A math teacher stands at the chalkboard and says, “A² + B² = C²,” and I sit at my desk and nod my head because, you know, whatever. Fear comes because I know I have no hope of understanding, and the test is coming up, and this is probably going to be on it.
Jesus, for his part, seeing that the disciples haven’t learned from his teaching, arguing as they were moments later about greatness, decides to give it another go. “Show, don’t tell” is some common wisdom, and so he does, taking a little child and putting it among them—this powerless, voiceless, vulnerable scrap, probably dirty, perhaps disowned. Here is the guest of honor.
It makes a huge difference to me, at least, in whose name I join a group—in whose name and by what spirit. It matters, probably more than it should, in whose name and by what spirit I join in. Alain de Botton has invited us to a meal; so has Jesus. I’ve been to meals of the sort de Botton has in mind. They do nothing to address the cravings that are always at war within me, and (I sort of hope) are always at war within and among us all. (I don’t want to be alone in my insecurities.) They, in fact, tend further to stoke such internal conflict: to tell the funniest story or to listen graciously while awaiting your turn, to amuse and sparkle in conversation or to try to blend in with the wallpaper, to impress or to come across as someone who really couldn’t care less. I’ve also been to the meal Jesus had in mind—been to it in sanctuaries of stone and stained glass, been to it kneeling at an altar and sitting in a pew and standing at the table myself breaking the bread, been to it in conference rooms at annual meetings and in this plain sanctuary of restrained beauty. It always addresses that which is at war within me and us—the things James’s letter means to address and Jesus’ self-giving and servanthood do clearly address. It addresses it by spelling out and laying bare just exactly who I am (frail, foolish, in need of confession) and having me at the table anyway. It addresses it by saying implicitly if not outright, “Come as you are; serve as you can; eat as you need; taste and see that the Lord is good.”
If you can get that self-emptying spirit into a restaurant dedicated to a secular agape meal, then God bless it. Take it away, Alain. But if you can’t, then we’re here. Just look for the sign of the cross and you’ll find us.
Thanks be to God.
11. McThenia, “A Missionary Vocation.”
12. de Botton, Religion for Atheists.
13. de Botton, “Religion for Everyone.”
14. Woods, “‘Religion for Atheists.’”
15. The agape meal, sometimes also called a love feast, comes to us from early Christianity. The first “followers of the Way” would gather for meals that were distinct from the Eucharist yet were free and open to all.
16. Woods, “‘Religion for Atheists.’”
17. de Botton, “Religion for Everyone.”
What Awe Serves
Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain apart, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them. And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were talking with Jesus. Then Peter said to Jesus, “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” He did not know what to say, for they were terrified. Then a cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud there came a voice, “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!” Suddenly when they looked around, they saw no one with them any more, but only Jesus. (Mark 9:2–9)
Phil Zuckerman is a sociologist aiming to give awe its due.
I don’t imagine we here would have it any other way. I don’t imagine any here would prefer that awe be ignored or discounted. “It’s just a chemical blip in the brain.” “It’s a dopamine burst.” No, I imagine we’re all fans of awe, appreciators of its reality and hold on us.
As fundamental to the human experience, to human creativity and curiosity; as perhaps one of the qualities and capabilities that makes us human: awe. Who wouldn’t uphold this as an experience worthy of further exploration and appreciation?
Come to think of it, one of my favorite characters in one of my favorite pieces of contemporary literature or theater or performance art, or whatever it is, is Trudy, a homeless woman in Lily Tomlin’s one-woman show The Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe, written by Tomlin’s now-wife Jane Wagner. Trudy wanders New York, speaking to what she calls her “space chums,” showing them around while they visit from another planet or another plane.
One night, under the dim stars of the city sky, she suddenly finds herself in awe.
But it doesn’t stop there. It goes on: “Then I became even more awestruck at the thought that I was, in some small way, a part of that which I was in awe about. And this feeling went on and on and on. . . . My space chums got a word for it: awe-infinitum. Because at the point you can comprehend how incomprehensible it all is, you’re about as smart as you need to be. . . . And I felt so good inside and my heart so full, I decided I would set aside time each day to do awe-robics. Because at the moment you are most in awe of all there is about life that you don’t understand, you are closer to understanding it all than at any other time.”18
Right? Awe as gateway to insight, to wisdom—what calls us to worship (quite literally this morning, in the Call to Worship). I’m not about to call that into question.
But Zuckerman’s intention around his experiences of awe goes astray, to my mind, when he speaks of “aweism.” He does so in his recent book Living the Secular Life: New Answers to Old Questions, a book I haven’t read and (to be honest) don’t intend to. I learned of it, and a bit of its contents, from an article on Religious News Service by religion reporter Kimberly Winston. She seems to give it a fair hearing.19
