Mysterium Fide

I have heard it said that when Peter first made his confession of faith, "You are the Christ," he didn't really understand what he was affirming. Jesus’ death was still in the distant future and certainly his resurrection was a surprise to the disciples.

Perhaps on the day of Pentecost, preaching his first sermon, Peter could see a bit more clearly what it meant to say that Jesus is the Christ but still he did not know the full demand that confession would make upon his life.

I have heard it said that when Peter was dying on a cross because of his confession, he still did not see the full picture. But certainly, by God’s grace, he saw it more clearly then than he did in the beginning.

The first time I made this confession was when I was baptized. I was 11; before much of life had confronted me, and I made it for a really bad reason. I am grateful that God honored that confession despite my ignorance.

The last time I made this confession was on Saturday when I participated in the Eucharist at my best friend’s wedding.

Like Peter, when I first made my confession, I did not understand what I confessed. By God’s grace, I see more clearly now than I did then, but anyone who knows the state of my heart will quickly see that my understanding is still incomplete.

My prayer is that I can continue to make this confession until I see fully.

Hope Lives On

Every day on my way to school (whether I’m driving myself or taking the shuttle), I pass by the abandoned textile mills along Highway 29. Not too long ago, these buildings represented industry and productivity; prosperity for the community. They've been closed down for years, though, and are long since abandoned. Whatever they were, they still take up a huge stretch of the road. Empty buildings, once full of employees, life, and busyness, are now barely more than wasted space.

Since moving to the area, I’ve heard a lot about the mills and how, when they closed down, people essentially lost hope. The town is depressed, economically and emotionally (pardon me if I’m projecting [but then again, what is this blog beyond my personal projections?]). And there the mills sit: looming, haunting reminders of a time when things were different. Driving by them must be torture for some people, the ones who thought that it could never end, the ones who put all their hopes and dreams into the success of the mills.

They’re being torn down, you know. Someone told me that each of those buildings had about a million dollars’ worth of recyclable material in it. A million dollars sounds like a lot of money but in comparison to all the people who lost jobs and investments, a million dollars is a drop in the bucket. Soon the empty buildings will be gone forever—like the jobs and the hope are gone forever—and the only thing left will be an empty field. The reminder of lost hope will be gone, and maybe that’s for the best. When you’ve lost all possibility for what you hoped for, then is it better to just let the memories fade away? Is lost hope better than no hope at all?

I’m sure you’re all familiar with the Greek myth of Pandora’s Box. An overly nosy girl is told, “Please don’t open this box; you’ll regret it” and what does she do? She opens the box. Out fly Death, War, Sickness, Fear, Poverty, Pain, and any number of terrible things that should’ve remained shut up forever. As Pandora sits crying on the floor (regretting it), one last thing comes flying out of the box—Hope. As a child, I was told that hope is the best thing in the box, the one thing that makes the others tolerable. But what if that’s wrong? What if Hope was locked in the box not as a sort of consolation prize for death and sickness and pain, but because it is so dangerous? What if Hope is the most dangerous thing in the box, locked away to protect us from a very unique sort of pain?

These are the thoughts circling through my mind as of late and if you’re thinking, “Wow, that’s depressing,” you’d be right. It’s only half the story, though. The people living in the greater Valley area are renewing their hope because of new industry and because of the university’s move. We are playing a part in renewing their hope and that is such a powerful image of God. It’s scary; we don’t know what will happen. Will this transition be successful? Will we hammer out a place in this town and with these people (it reminds me of two newly married people trying to blend individual families into one) or will our presence be a cause for dismay? There’s a lot of potential here—for them and for us—but there’s also a lot of risk. Hope IS dangerous, don’t forgot, and it was put in the box for a reason. However, and this is important, every tragedy has potential for a new triumph.

The mills are being torn down, but the university is building. And hope lives on.

Life in the Middle

You are born, you live, and you die in the middle. Certainty is hard to come by and even harder to hold on to. You come from the deep south; morality is black and white: if you claim to be a Christian (and who doesn’t, down here?) then your life will look a certain way. You won’t drink—alcohol is verboten. Boys are only after one thing and as a girl, you can’t give in. If you do, you’re a slut and your partner gets a firm admonishment… and a wink and a smack on the butt in the locker room. And if you get pregnant? There’s a place for people like you: alternative school. Cursing is another no-no. Homosexuality is wrong, a sin of the worst order, and if you think you might be gay? Then prepare yourself for the life of an outsider. Only bad people do drugs—but if you made some mistakes in high school, then we’ll be prepared to forgive you as long as you don’t mind parading your dirty laundry in front of younger kids as a warning against following your path. Only bad people do drugs—and if you’re still doing them now then there will be no grace. You’re a Republican, of course. Those Democrats believe in killing babies and they might even be communists.

And theology is equally black and white. You’re a Christian, because you’re a Republican. You believe in the separation of church and state (as long as everyone acknowledges that the United States was founded on Judeo-Christian principles and that the founding fathers were Christians just like you). The biggest debate in your life is creationism versus evolution. You scoff at global warming. The Bible is a literal, historical document, the infallible word of God, inspired by the Holy Spirit. You might play at being a liberal Christian. You might read books to annoy your parents like Is It Okay to Call God Mother? and Theology in a New Key: Responding to Liberation Themes and maybe you even incorporate some of what they say into your walk with God.

But then you go to college and make friends with a man who has a husband and a hobby of cross-dressing. You start befriending people who exercise their right to drink lots of alcohol. Your professors admit to believing in a non-literal creation story. You find yourself crushing on a man who confides to you his history with sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll. And who freely admits to his experimentation with the full gamut of illegal substances with little to no remorse. You room with a girl who is probablymostlikely sleeping with her boyfriend and who has no shame about it. Another girl on your hall says, “Yeah, I’m having sex with him but we’re married in God’s eyes so it’s all right, okay?” And you’re flirting with your personal favorite addiction again.

And you attend a Bible college.

You sit with him in Bible classes and listen to your professor read the Sermon on the Mount: “You are the light of the world.”

You laugh with her in the caf and in the coffeehouse.

You cry with her in private and share the hurts of your heart with her and you listen to hers.

You sit with him in chapel.

You worship next to him, you take communion with her, and you love them.

You are born, you live, and you die in the middle, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You live in a world of shades, a world where black and white fade into unnameable hues. You try to contain this awful gray within what you know about God. “God is light and in him there is no darkness at all.” You lose yourself in the middle ground. You lose yourself in between what you’ve always thought to be right and what your experiences teach you. You lose yourself in between your cut and dry morality and the murky gray you live in.

People are simple, says your friend, and you want to believe him, but you can’t see the simplicity for all these hellish contradictions.

Experience Doesn't Make This Easier

Experience doesn't make this any easier and perhaps that's because we've lessened the meaning of our first death—everyone knows it's not final and unrelenting. If we don't like it, we don't have to continue, a personal resurrection of sorts. Like Christ, we choose to go to our deaths. We choose submission, an end of choice, an end of us, and the death of everything we love and cherish—all our ambitions, dreams, and plans. 

We die in imitation of Christ and in our dying, share his death. In sharing his death, we also share his resurrection—we don't stay underwater and, what's more, “Christ was raised from the dead and we know he cannot die again. Death has no power over him.” Through our death by water, we die to ourselves and allow Christ to kill what makes us “us” —the good alongside the bad. Through our resurrection, we take part in his resurrection and we know we cannot die again!

And so our experience doesn't make it easier. We didn't realize it would be necessary to use our experience to make our second death easier on ourselves and those around us. Those of us down here on earth know all about its and relentless nature. We have become “so attached to these bodies.” We're familiar and comfortable with them. This death—not our choice—kills what makes us “us” —our very self is under an indefensible attack, not from without but from within. Resurrection this time is a lot less certain and clearly must involve more than bursting up from the water soaking wet and gasping.


This is faith. Believing and living the belief that “Christ means everything to me in this life and when I die, I'll have even more.” Believing that, “I can't lose... alive, I'm Christ's messenger; dead, I'm his bounty.” Believing that what we want this time—a little longer here on earth—will take a backseat to what he wants this time as it has in the past. Because we have experience and experience makes it easier.