Wandering Elder

Some years ago, I wrote an unwieldy article for a particular journal.   In that article I offered an interpretation of the Apostle Paul’s statement in Galatians 6:17, “From now on let no one cause me trouble, for I bear on my body the marks of Jesus.”   The term “marks” in the Greek is “stigmata.”   My mind went to odd places, and I argued that Paul might mean (and I may have written that he did mean) the word literally. Now, many people would say that the marks of Jesus come from his being shipwrecked, beaten, hit with rocks, etc. in the course of his ministry.   In other words, his scars are the marks he has received in the work of Christ.   That certainly makes sense. But what I argued in that article was that maybe he didn’t mean it that way.   Maybe Paul meant that he had what is more commonly thought of as the stigmata – the bleeding hands – that demonstrate a powerful and mystical connection with Christ. [1]   I bring this up only because I recently read a quotati

I find that I am becoming war weary.   We seem to be becoming so used to warfare, that we no longer understand how to live without it in our lives in some fashion.   I have to wonder sometimes that if our perpetual wars are to blame for the increasing lack of civility in our country.   Political rhetoric is becoming so polarized that no one can voice opinions for fear of being labeled a radical or a traitor.   Presidents are being called ‘liars’ by state representative.   Vitriol is the currency on the radio, the web, the television stations.   The more obvious the hate, the more ‘clear’ the message. It troubles me.   It troubles me that people are killing people for Xbox One deals and celebrating that they got the last one while another shopper is dying from stab wounds.   Perpetual warfare makes us de-value life.   Not video games, not music.   A world where people can kill and be killed by drones, wars, terrorism – this is a world that no longer holds human life in high estee

Advent, as a season, is often overlooked by our fast paced world where Christmas season takes place months before Christmas (in actuality the Christmas season begins after Christmas), even before Thanksgiving and often just after Halloween.   Despite what the stores and the television commercials would have you believe, it isn’t Christmas yet.   In fact, the Christmas season doesn’t begin until December 25 th .   We are, instead, in the season of Advent.   Advent is something of an unusual time.   On the one hand it is the time of preparation for Christmas and the stories of the nativity, Joseph, Mary, the birth of John the Baptist and the birth of Jesus.   On the other hand, Advent is a time of reflection and anticipation for the second Advent, or the second coming of Christ.   In that respect it is a time of not merely remembering the first Christmas, but looking forward in hope for the fully realized Kingdom of God.   As such, Advent is a time of reflection and preparation

According to Proverbs 17:5, "He who is glad at calamity will not go unpunished."  Actually, the entire proverb reads, "Whoever mocks the poor insults his Maker; he who is glad at calamity will not go unpunished."  While I find both statements to be insightful, it is the second half of this proverb that I find poignant.  I find that in some ways it has to do with revenge.  Or at least it has to do with the indulgence of the idea of revenge.  Now, let me say that this can be interpreted to be a proverb against laughing at people who slip on banana peels just as much as it could be about revenge.  I hesitate to think that it is about criticising those who laugh when people get hurt or embarrassed, although that might very well be the heart of it.  Think of the show AFV.  How many of the laughs come from people getting injured - especially if a guy receives some kind of injury to his genitalia.  What makes those funny?  Are we glad at calamity? Here I was thinkin

I can’t precisely remember when I first heard Pink Floyd’s album The Wall.   I do know that the first time I heard it in its entirety was with a friend of mine named Bishop.   He and I listened to the tape late one night in his room.   The songs were obviously a narrative, but a narrative of what exactly we couldn’t tell.   And with much rewinding and turning the volume as high as we could to hear what strange things were being said in the background hiss between songs, we created a story to match the music.     It was, of course, completely wrong.   But the effort was one that prompted me to think of music as narrative – as having meaning beyond the straight lyrics and finding influence in guitar riffs and bass lines, syncopation and even volume.   And I found out that our story was wrong when I saw the movie version of the Wall.   Three friends and I watched it one Saturday night.   By the time the first fifteen minutes had passed, two of my friends were fast asleep.   The