Theology of the Tempest

Hurricane Sandy photographed by satellite on October 25.

I'm sitting here barricaded in the St. Clement's rectory, waiting for Hurricane Sandy to hit the city and feeling much gratitude that this ramble of buildings will serve as a reliable bunker against the tempest.  Now, this may seem like an odd time to wax theological, but I'm always preoccupied by a natural event such as this, because in the aftermath, people raise difficult theological questions.  Natural disasters, such as hurricanes, tornadoes, tsunami, earthquakes, and forest fires, often precipitate crises of faith.  Suffering people quite understandably ask, "How could a just God allow so much destruction and loss of life?"  "Where was God in Hurricane Katrina?"  "Doesn't God care about us?"  These questions are troublesome, because they lead people to some really distressing conclusions. 
"If God has the power to intervene, but doesn't, then He must choose not to, because he doesn't care what happens to us." OR "If God doesn't intervene to save us, then maybe it's because he isn't all-powerful, in which case, God ceases to be God.  Or maybe he never existed in the first place."  Either way, it's pretty depressing.

So, how can natural disasters--or cancer or birth defects or any other natural cause of human suffering--be part of a divine plan constructed by a benevolent and loving Creator?  I confess that I don't have a tidy or uplifting answer, but perhaps a useful insight.  As a Christian and a theist, I accept as a foundational premise that God is all-powerful, and yet I also believe that God has granted to the created order the power to act, to create and to destroy.  Stars are born and die.  Planets, moons, and other interstellar bodies orbit, collide, and remake each other without God interfering.  Earthquakes, volcanic eruptions and tsunamis reshape the face of the earth and the life that inhabits it.  Microorganisms, plants, animals, and humans engage in the procreation and propagation of their species.  God conferred on humanity, moreover, the special gifts of existential self-awareness and free will, which expand the scope of its agency within the created order.  If human beings have agency through free will, how might the rest of the natural world likewise exercise agency independently of their Creator?

Coconut palms sprouting in volcanic soil in Hawai'i.

Roman Catholic theologian, Elizabeth Johnson, has proven very useful to me in tackling this question.  In Quest for the Living God: Mapping Frontiers in the Theology of God (2007), Johnson points to the providential character of chance that God has embedded within the natural order.  The presence of random chance, she claims, allows the natural world to avoid the death of stasis and to evolve toward richer forms of existence, granting the universe some autonomy from the Almighty Creator.   I would argue then that chance accords to nature the independent agency that in humanity is made possible by free will.  In both cases, the divine imprint may be difficult to discern.  “Unpredictable upheavals might be destructive,” Johnson admits, “but they have the potential to lead to richer forms of order.  In the emergent evolutionary universe, we should not be surprised to find divine creativity hovering very close to turbulence.”   Chance and free will can equally lead to nurturing or destructive outcomes, but regardless of the moral valence we attribute to these results, we must conclude that autonomous agency is likely part of God’s divine plan for Creation.

Damage from the Indian Ocean tsunami, Dec. 26., 2004.

Now, this is not to say that God wants an Indonesian village to be swallowed up by a tsunami, or for a person to get cancer, or for a child to be born with a debilitating disease, or for people to be maimed, killed, and dispossessed of their homes and livelihoods.  This is not to say that bad things that happen to good people are fair, after all.  I believe that God suffers with us in adversity, that He does care when life is not fair.  But fair's got nothing to do with it.  What I am suggesting is that randomness and chance in nature may be part of God's plan, just as human free will is, and that in each case, the outcomes can be good or bad, life-giving or destructive.  God, though all-powerful, has given humanity and nature the autonomy to act for themselves, without interfering in the results.  I acknowledge that such a theory may not be comforting, or popular, or pastoral, but at least it gets us away from thinking that God doesn't exist, God doesn't care, or God is actively working against us.  What I have posited, of course, is not without its problems and weaknesses.  And there's another part of me that believes that God does intervene miraculously in human events in response to our prayers and cries.  So, we must continue to pray as the storm approaches.  Good Lord, deliver us. 

Praying is Not the Same as Saying Prayers

I've noticed that my prayer list has gotten much longer lately, so much so that I actually have to jot the names down on a slip of paper before I say mass and evening prayer.  Most of the people asking for my prayers have health issues.  My former sister-in-law, Amber, has been fighting ovarian cancer for three years; my friend, Luke, had major surgery last Friday on his Achilles tendon that will have him bedridden and in pain for weeks; my dear colleague, Mother Henry, underwent knee replacement surgery this morning; and my former co-worker in pediatrics, Eileen, is bravely facing the final days of her husband's battle with terminal cancer.  I try to remember each of these persons' names as I pray for their healing, release, or comfort.  Yet it's only now that I have really internalized Fr. Bob Orpen's incisive observation to me when I was a seminarian doing my Clinical Pastoral Education. "Praying," he said to me, "is not the same as saying prayers."  I sort of understood at the time what he meant, but now it has sunken in in a much deeper, embodied way.   Prayer, especially corporate prayer, can take on a rather perfunctory and formulaic character when it's done the same way often, so it's important that we make the effort to personalize these prayers and make them meaningful.  Prayers need to be more than mental notes; they need to stir the heart.

When I say that my praying has become more embodied, I'm not suggesting that I've started raising my hands charismatically in the air--not that there's anything wrong with that.  In fact, I really admire people so willing to share with others their experience of the urgings of the Holy Spirit within them.  What I mean is that this darn broken hand has blessed my prayer life in an unexpected way.  That's a strange statement, so let me describe my physical therapy appointment this morning to explain what I'm getting at.  When I walked in, I saw the same set of patients seated at the table where I get my fingers stretched and bent, my incisions cleaned, and my bandages changed.  We see each other struggling to move impaired parts of ourselves.  We frequently witness each other in pain.  It is a very intimate experience.  We often root for each other, share our excitement when something stiff finally moves, and empathize with each other when things hurt.  It's especially this last one that means the most, I think. In a very real sense, we pray for each other in these moments, taking within ourselves the physical pain and discomfort of our other sisters and brothers gathered around the table.  It is a very moving experience of embodied, human solidarity.

"Crushed by the Cross" by Adolfo Pérez Esquivel

As a Christian, this reminds me of one of the central concepts in Latin American liberation theology: the image of Jesus Christ as co-sufferer.  Jesus is not some distant and abstract figure sitting on a cloud indifferent to the sufferings of human beings, but shows great compassion for our pain and distress by taking them within himself, by empathizing and suffering alongside us.  It is a sign of the human Jesus' solidarity with humanity, the same solidarity that caused him to offer himself up on the Cross for our sake.  There is a holy thing going on at the physical therapy table when, like Jesus, we empathize with each others' pain and suffering.  Prayer is in part about reaching out with our hearts and bodies to those alongside us who hurt.  I feel a great convergence of authentic prayer as I travel repeatedly between the physical therapy table and the altar, calling upon God's power for the living and the dead, as I hope people in turn are calling upon God's power for my own healing and well-being.  This broken hand has certainly been inconvenient and painful, but I am grateful that it has taught me something vital about deepening my prayer life.  The Lord be with you.  Let us pray . .  . not just say our prayers.

A Response to Bruce Reyes-Chow on Social Media Use by Clergy

A few days ago, progressive Christian blogger, Bruce Reyes-Chow, published "An Open Letter to Pastors About the Dangers of Using Social Media," highlighting some of the pitfalls he believes clergy have experienced in trying to stay current and participate in social media platforms, such as blogs and Facebook.  It is an interesting and intelligent piece, and yet I found it unsettling.  Although Bruce's observations are useful as cautionary notes, I am concerned that they may serve to discourage or frighten clergy from expanding their ministry beyond the bounds of the parish to other places it may be needed.  Episcopal clergy are informed by the bishop at ordination that we are to participate in the larger Councils of the Church, as well as to care for all people through our engagement with the world, which may take the form of community activism, education, a regular column in the Huffington Post, and yes, even updating our status on Facebook.  What follows is my response to Bruce, but as I say to him, I encourage you to disagree if you think I'm off base or delusional.  It's been known to happen ... on occasion.

**********

Dear Bruce,

I am a new priest in the Episcopal Church, and although I appreciate the dangers to which you have alerted us--which are very real--I think that your letter is a bit more alarmist than it may need to be.  A lot of what you talk about hinges on perceived distinctions between the ordained person's pastoral identity and his or her "real" identity, as well as between the cyber-community and the specific congregation to which the minister has been called.

I'm glad you used the word "integrated," because I hope that I live out my ministry in a way that integrates my parish ministry within my larger vocation and my professional identity within my larger self.  My own experience is that many of the people with whom I engage on Facebook, YouTube, and my blog are already members of my parish, and those beyond our parish membership are often folks from neighboring Episcopal congregations and other Anglicans around the world, among other important personal networks.  Perhaps one might say that members of my parish are nested in the center of a series of concentric circles that emanate from my fundamental work in the parish. 

So, in many ways, the core to whom I minister online are already my own parishioners (or denominational tribe), and so I can teach, reflect theologically, encourage, foster amity and community, take risks and be creative, and a whole range of things I don't have the space or time to do in my traditional role in the church, such as in preaching or the liturgy.  And as for the bifurcation of my professional/private self(ves), my hope is that social media allows me to model more faithfully for my parishioners that clergy, like all people, are complex beings that resist idealized stereotypes and one-size-fits-all thinking.  Before I sign off, one small confession.  I have vented online from time to time, and in retrospect there were moments when I was undoubtedly in error, but the experience of being networked through social media platforms has been instructive, because I have been called on my mistakes by well-meaning people and have thereby grown more responsible in what post and share online.  I always try to make space for people to disagree with me or correct my errors. 

Again, thanks for your call for all of us to be vigilant and self-reflective as members of the online community and to avoid common pitfalls.  I don't think we can or should avoid social media, but I think we can do it better.  And, in keeping with that sentiment, here's a link to a recent video I made on why I think the Church needs to be on YouTube. 

Your brother in Christ,
Ethan+

The Rev. Ethan Alexander Jewett
Curate, St. Clement's Episcopal Church, Philadelphia

A Visible Witness of God's Love

Blessing a rosary for an Outfest attendee.

Yesterday started out cold and rainy, and I worried that our glossy brochures and promotional items for Outfest would end up a soggy, pulpy mess.  Fortunately, Marc Coleman very cleverly set up a tent over our table to keep us dry, and the rain subsided by about one o'clock.  Within the first few hours of the event, I walked up and down the streets looking for churches participating in this big gay street festival, but found only five.  And I didn't see any other identifiable clergy there, although they could have been there incognito.  The most visible and vocal religious presence were anti-gay protestors with signs and a megaphone spewing biblical verses and hate speech at the crowd, which engaged them and defiantly screamed back.  Several people came up to us and thanked us for being there, as they gestured at the man bellowing into the bullhorn.

No stranger to Gay Pride parades and LGBTQ street festivals, I am pretty well inured to ignorant anti-gay protestors.  While waiting in line for the bathroom, a 21-year-old trans woman suddenly noticing my collar asked me if I had taken the protestors to task.  I said to her that there's no point in trying to shout down the crazy or ignorant, which one must be if he or she thinks Jesus hates gay people.  I told her that I found it more useful to demonstrate to queer folk that one could be both Christian and gay and to assure them of God's love.  And that's what Ron Emrich, Marc Coleman and I tried to do yesterday.  Wearing our snazzy St. Clement's t-shirts, we talked to hundreds of people about the Episcopal Church, St. Clement's, and what we believed.  "Your church accepts gay people?" one young lesbian asked astonished.  "Well our priest is gay and married, and I'm here with my husband, Marc. Our church has lots of gay people," Ron would say.  "Wow.  I had no idea there were churches for gay people."

Saints, Sacrament, Smoke. Yup, that's us.

We had several conversations like this, but mostly, I blessed rosaries--about 200 of them.  People would look furtively at our table with the various colored rosaries, at our glossy signs outside the tent, at each other, and then tentatively approach us.  I'd say, "Hi, I'm Ethan.  Would you like me to bless a rosary for you?"  "You can do that?!" one young Latina chirped incredulously.  "Sure, I can. I'm a priest. What color would you like?"  The blue and glow-in-the-dark ones were the most popular.  "What's your name?" I asked. "Alyssa."  Grasping the rosary and making the sign of the cross over it, I improvised a blessing.  "Alyssa, I bless and hallow this rosary containing the image of Our Lord Jesus Christ's Passion that you may grow in devotion to Our Lady and increase in intimacy with God. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."  And then we would hand them their rosary along with our brochure on how to pray it.  People were thunderstruck that we were there giving away free plastic rosaries and blessings.  Marc, Ron, and I were equally thunderstruck by the eagerness of people, especially LGBTQ young people, to talk to us, to tell us their stories of struggle, to ask questions about God and the Church.  One young Latino asked me to bless 9 rosaries: one for himself, one for his boyfriend, one for his mother, one for his sick uncle dying of cancer ..."  A middle-aged African American man told me that it was a special day because it was the one-year anniversary of he and his partner getting back together.  "This IS a special day," I agreed.  "Would you like me to say a prayer for your relationship and to give you my blessing?"  "Oh, would you?!" he said surprised.  And so we prayed, and I blessed him.  This makeshift space had become a holy space where holy things were happening.  Marc told me that one visitor said that our tent felt almost like a chapel, to which I replied laughing, "leave it to St. Clement's to turn a few yards of nylon into a chapel."  Next year we'll bring a nice lace frontal for the table.

Always the Same, and Yet Not

From an early age, I was interested in family history.  My maternal grandmother and I would spend countless hours poring over family photos, diaries, and genealogical charts recounting the story of the Jewett beginnings, at least as far as we could trace them back to the West Riding of Yorkshire in the reign of Henry VII in the fifteenth century. Thanks to efforts by the Jewett Family Association of America since the nineteenth century, the story of our family now fills four huge tomes of cross-referenced genealogical charts.  I always felt a certain amount of pride, as I flipped through these pages, that the motto on our family's coat of arms was toujours le même, (always the same), a rather common heraldic motto, but one that evoked stability, integrity, and timelessness.  And yet, the four volumes of my family's life bear witness to the fact that change occurs within this larger context of stability.  People grow up, get married, have kids, and die, one generation yields its place to the next.  Things are never really always the same.

with Bishop James Montgomery

I was reminded of this truth this weekend when I came home to Chicago for a little R & R and to concelebrate at a mass marking the fiftieth anniversary of the consecration of James Winchester Montgomery, ninth Bishop of Chicago, to the episcopate.  When I was last at the altar with Bishop Montgomery, it was as a seminarian serving low mass for him during a weekday morning.  Now I entered the Church of the Atonement as a fully vested priest and curate returning home with a different identity and role within the Church.  I spent two years at Atonement as seminarian, and people got used to knowing me in that capacity, so I was deeply moved when they treated me as the same person they had always known and loved.  Not that I thought folks would be standoffish or awkward, but we've all moved on with our lives, so I it would be natural for us to cease to relate as we once did.  But that's not what I experienced.  I may now be a priest, but in many ways I'm still the same Ethan.  I felt that I was welcomed on a deeper level than just as seminarian or transitional deacon or priest.  I was welcomed as Ethan.  And I welcomed them not as a congregation, but as dear sisters and brothers that I care deeply for and have missed.

With the Bishop and my brother priests at the consecration

What this conveyed to me is that one way relationships can change is through expansion.  Some relationships alter--and sometimes needfully--through disconnection and discontinuity, while others build upon a prior foundation and bring the past along into a new understanding of the people involved.  I am very happy to have moved on to a new parish and a new stage in my vocation, but it was very meaningful for me to vest in that familiar set of white chasubles in my home parish with the priests that nurtured and formed me during seminary.  To be accepted into their company as a peer was like closing a loop, a completion of one stage in my process of becoming.  To be welcomed by the congregation as a priest, and yet as the same Ethan, articulates one of the greatest strengths of this particular parish:  we remain the same at our core even as we evolve and expand into new iterations of ourselves.  I, in turn, was pleased to be able to offer these old friends something more, now as a priest: the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass for all, a first blessing for a brother priest, and an impromptu prayer and blessing for a friend.  This all came out of the same me in a new way.  As the rector, Fr. van Dooren, once said to me, we as priests need to develop a solid center, rather than a thicker skin.  This center ensures that whatever difficulties we face, we are always able to return that core of stability, integrity, and timelessness.  I hope all of us may be always the same, but in new ways.