...For That Which Is Signified

Very recently, I was sitting less than 20 minutes' drive from Moore, OK, discussing the historical reconstruction of Earth's climate system. I'll summarize the discussion by saying that the climate system is complex, our records of it always will be incomplete, and that reconstruction of the past always defies our ideal standards of proof and causality. Nature is impersonal. It has no motivations, only the compulsions of forces and the gradients in mass, composition, and energy that sustain them, which do arise at random. 

When we attempt to understand the co-evolution of life with the climate system, we are tempted to read those compulsions as motivations. One thread of intelligent design is that the historical evolution of the Earth system is motivated to produce human beings or at least some creature, "blessed with memory, reason, and skill," as the Eucharist Prayer puts it. One example is the mass extinction about 250 million years, at the end of Permian and the beginning of Triassic time. At the end of the Permian, there lived a creature called Lystrosaurus , a synapsid (mammal ancestor) who had evolved a rib cage and internal organs somewhat resembling ours so as to live underground like a gopher. Perhaps thanks to this lifestyle, Lystrosaurus survived the mass extinction and passed on its traits to its descendants, who perhaps include us. 

Stephen Jay Gould takes on the idea of teleological evolution in Full House , and for the moment, I'll accept his conclusion that the case for humanity as the telos of evolutionary processes is weak. Intelligent design tries to make a rational, objective case for something that is ultimately subjective: that we are one of the intended results of creation, like light and darkness, the celestial objects, plants, the birds of the air, the fish in the sea, and all the creatures that live on land. That the ultimately random and impersonal forces of nature do somehow harmonize. But we know this from revelation, not from nature. And it is from revelation, we, too, must understand how to read impersonal natural forces on shorter timescales.

I was on Twitter in Detroit Airport on Monday when I saw a debris signature in a radar image someone had posted. I had flown out of Oklahoma City a couple of hours before, and I tried to orient myself in the image with the places I'd been in the previous few days. Already having been delayed in Oklahoma one night, I had been quite enthusiastic about leaving before another round of severe thunderstorms developed, and seeing evidence of a tornado on radar within ten miles of the airport I would have been in, had the random odds of airline re-booking not been in my favor, came with some self-justification. Oh, how good had my judgment been. And then I thought, "That's a sprawling metropolitan area. I've seen those houses clustered here and there on the landscape. People live there. And that's a big tornado." Before I left Detroit, it was clear that a very strong tornado had caused multiple fatalities and severe damage.

It is a tenet of our civil righteousness that most dead people do not deserve to be dead. We make exceptions for murderers, some of those who abuse drugs or children, and people who die by sheer incompetence (if we are unconnected with them), but we draw the line well beyond people who die in natural or anthropogenic disasters. And by disasters, I mean those fatal events of a scale where grief is overwhelming because grief is correlated. And in these cases, we often attribute the escape of survivors to the grace (or visitation, as I sometimes say) of God. At funerals, we are known to say the converse: that the dead are dead, because God wanted them with Him in heaven. Our civil righteousness, however, bristles at the idea that the dead died for their sins or those of society as a whole, though some preacher almost always goes there. 

Mark Joseph Stern has a piece in Slate today about journalists trying to inject divine agency into people's experiences of the Moore tornado, which helpfully re-hashes some Enlightenment ideas about theodicy or atheodicy (justifying the ways of no God to man). (Or as  At one point, Stern quotes Isaiah 45:7 and then remarks, "These are thorny theological questions." As a mesoscale meteorologist (the particular type of scientist who studies tornadoes), I know that tornadoes are the outcome of physics on a planet like ours that has a day and a night, varying climates, seasons, and transports water from the land to the sea. As Callan Bentley points out, meteorologists at the National Weather Service and on broadcast media gave advance and accurate warning of the tornado in Moore as well as the probability for severe weather generally in Oklahoma. As a theologian, I know that tornadoes also are a manifestation of harmony that arises from apparently contradictory natural forces. For Athanasius in Contra Gentes, harmonious structures like tornadoes (not one of his examples) gave him insight into the oneness and goodness of God, which seems remarkably frustrating when the objects of demonstration kill people. 

In such cases, I'd say to people like Callan Bentley or Mark Joseph Stern, I pray, not because I believe it does anything (you'll hear why in a minute), but because if the Church is One Body with Christ, it ought to cry in pain when it is so badly injured. That we cannot cry in pain for all injuries is a measure of our limits, not the futility of prayer in such cases.

Which is not to say that Bentley and Stern don't have a point about divine agency saving people from tornadoes. They do, but I prefer to let Jesus make my argument. When Jesus tells us to love our enemies, He justifies it by giving an example of the holiness of God, "Who lets the Sun shine on the evil and the good, and sends rain upon the just and unjust alike" (Matthew 5:45). One of the solemn and insoluble mysteries of the world is that we can find both sustenance and death from the operations of nature and that what we find can be (but is not always) decoupled from the content of our character. 

Jesus also insists that anthropogenic disasters and even mass murder is subject to the same calculus. See, for instance, Luke 13: 

"1 And there were present, at that very time, some that told him of the Galileans, whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices.

2 And he answering, said to them: Think you that these Galileans were sinners above all the men of Galilee, because they suffered such things?

3 I say to you, No: but unless you shall do penance, you shall all likewise perish.

4 Or those eighteen upon whom the tower fell in Siloe, and slew them: think you, that they also were debtors above all the men that dwell in Jerusalem?

5 I tell you: No: but unless you do penance, you shall all likewise perish."    

To paraphrase Peter: we know that Jesus's disciples died and their earthly bodies experienced corruption. Indeed, the tomb of Peter and others is with us to this day. Jesus is not saying that if repent, hide ourselves in Him, or experience whatever form of soteriological unity you prefer, we can escape the mysterious, intractable vulnerabilities of the created order. After all, Jesus couldn't. Or since we know Jesus could, we know that he didn't. Instead, I only can read Luke 13 to mean that death at any scale or random, lucky escapes at any scale signify for us law and grace in the eternal and soteriological context. Dying or not dying in a tornado is not the action of law and grace to individuals, it merely signifies these things for us. An unbelieving scientist need not start a sentence with "A God who is powerful enough to do X" and expect a believing scientist to be convinced of anything, the God we believe is as powerful and necessary as the laws of physics and their consequences thereof. But more.

So why do we confuse the signifier with the signified? Why do we identify the survivors with Grace and used to identify the dead with the punishment of the Law? Jacob Smith, the priest in charge of Calvary St. George in New York City may have reached the heart of this when he spoke at Mockingbird's NYC conference last month on "Ministering to Winners: The Poor, Captive, Blind, Oppressed (and Other People Like You and Me) or perhaps "the theology of the Cross vs. the theology of glory." At one point, he mentions that old Reformation term (familiar to my readers through *Christopher), we are curvatus in se. To paraphrase the Rev. Mr. Smith, the overwhelming action of universally accessible human salvation is reduced by the action of sin in our hearts to the glorification of our own personal story. And it's just the same when we see the miraculous escapes of others from natural disasters.

And I suppose I might have something different to say if I were being burned at the stake and the fire did not harm me or one of the other apparent suspensions of the natural law we hear of in the acts of the martyrs, but until then, I will try desperately to convince myself that the world entire is the proper object for thanksgiving, not just my lucky breaks.    

Co-Creating with the Millennials: Some First Steps

Yesterday, I was sitting at brunch with someone from church, who said, "I really like the way you've incorporated yourself into the church. So many young people just want so much from the church but won't give anything, they need to meet us half way."

The next words out of my mouth were not, "I am a single, straight white male, lifelong Episcopalian with a well-paying, if not particularly stable job. If I can't fit into this church, you should close your doors now."

This leads us to Crusty Old Dean's latest essay on the future of The Episcopal Church as my generation, the Millennials, eventually succeeds into leadership. Crusty Old Dean helpfully argues that this succession process should begin yesterday and be more cooperative than presently envisioned by the powers that be, so that TEC and other mainline denominations do not fail as miserably with the Millennials as they have with Generation X.

Reading essays about Millennials and Christianity always makes me feel inadequate. I feel, as a more or less intensely practicing Episcopalian of a certain age, that I should have brilliant insights about how to incorporate my generation into the church. I should feel constantly empowered by the Holy Spirit to win my generation for Christ. Or perhaps I have been reading too many eHarmony profiles (more on that later).

Unfortunately, I don't have any such brilliant insights, because I can't speak from my own experience. The way that Anglican Christianity and I are one is a type of the unity of the Godhead (in the least blasphemous and most inferior way possible). My faith and practice are inexplicable mysteries to me. I'm a cradle Episcopalian, who's never been off the figurative membership rolls of a parish since baptism, and whose longest period away from worshipping in an Episcopal church was ten happy weeks with an ELCA parish in suburban Houston (I didn't have a car). I've never been in the ordination process. I've never taken off a year to do domestic or foreign missionary activity, though I've taken a couple of weeks every once in a while. And I've been a member of three parishes of which neither parent was a member. I'm not bragging. I'm just pointing out that the number of people I know with background and experience like mine is smaller than the fingers on one hand.

Crusty Old Dean, in the essay I linked to and in other places, recounts being in meetings where he is the only generational representative in the room (in his case, X). And the others then have the politeness to ask him for his thoughts. I've had those moments, too. The realization I've had is to think about those of one's generation who are not here but might like to be, or even not know they want to be.

So now that I have professed my ignorance on the subject, let me now pontificate upon it. Crusty Old Dean proposes co-creation of a new Episcopal Church with Millennials. In other places, he thinks about creating a broader mainline body. I've seen what co-creation between Boomers and Millennials looks like. It is or was called the Occupy Movement.

Away from Wall Street, Occupy was a marriage of college-aged activists and Boomer/GenX-led activist groups. The latter groups often were closely associated with partisan politics, like MoveOn.org, or connected to partisan groups with little or slightly more influence in American electoral politics, such as the Democratic Socialists of America or the perpetual Presidential campaign of Ron Paul. In other cases, the groups were more local, grassroots organizations with limited partisan affiliation. Let's draw the analogy between the partisan/electoral groups and denominational structures or national ecumenical groups. Let's also draw the analogy between the local, non-partisan groups and parishes, individual ministries of parishes, and local parachurch/ecumenical organizations.

One Lesson from Occupy: Democratically-Joined Activities vs. Top-Down Institutional Efforts

So what happened with Occupy? Well, there was conflict. The most important conflict centered around Millennial concern that Occupy was being co-opted by the Boomer/GenX-led organizations. In one reading, Occupy was a brand. Occupiers were cautious about the brand being associated with one party or another. In another reading, Occupiers were concerned that their time and effort were being stolen by organizations who they could not influence.

This conflict was resolved cruise director style. You choose the activities in which you want to participate. The stuff more people want to do generally is more fun. Whatever MoveOn.org wanted to do would not be endorsed by Occupy but non-partisan political efforts by another organization could be announced in General Assembly meetings. Non-institutional efforts outside of Occupy could receive somewhat more formal endorsement from Occupy. For example, Bank Transfer Day is not an institution. Someone posts an idea on a calendar. If the idea goes viral, people do it. Bank Transfer Day could be sponsored by the NCUA or someone, but it's a clear, purposeful, and defined activity that doesn't attempt any kind of national institutional organization.

The lesson we can take from this conflict and its partial solution is that doing church in the future may look like a series of hastily planned, low-budget experiments. The future urban parson or lay reader may walk from park to park tweeting that they're sitting on a bench somewhere or in a coffee shop. Larger, in-person events especially may be very unpredictable. Even GenX seems not to understand the purpose of RSVPing sometimes.

The advantage we have as a church is access to space, knowledge, and a living tradition of prayer and ascesis. If we structure our experiments right, those who spend time with us will serve and be renewed.

At the moment, another Millennial and I are running a fairly random discussion group in the local pub one night a month. We're doing it mostly through a Facebook group. I don't have much hope for it, honestly. But if you asked me what I needed, I would say that I'd love access to the church bulletins of every parish within twenty miles (Presbyterians and Methodists, too). There's probably one to three people in every parish who'd be up for this, but I have of no way of knowing who they are, and I want it to be a soft sell. Second, I need access to my church on that night for Compline. Note that these ideas probably wouldn't cost much money but require an investment in trust and communication. I don't want to hear concerns about the content of our discussions or worries about competition with this or that. I just want to forum to bring 20-40 year old mainliners together to talk about the things that matter to us.

Occupy presents the church with other lessons, but I'm going to make the transition to another important subject:

What Do Millennials Want to Know About the Christian Life?

The problem with 21st century adulthood is that it doesn't have a manual, it has a Library of Babel filled with them. Between the Internet and the unprecedented democratization of the printing press in the digital era, there is no shortage of advice in the form of the written word. If you're a mainline Protestant, though, you're in a bit of a bind. Episcopalians take some fairly clear sides in the culture wars in General Convention, but relating what we say there to everyday life is complex.

Recently, B.P. Zahl (just to distinguish from her husband and many distinguished in-laws) and Gibson published a study on young adults' relationship with God . Their sample, which included me, represented a group of Millennials deeply engaged with the Christian faith. The conclusion (probably an overly strident reading): young adult Christians experienced God as far less loving and more judgmental than they had been taught in church. For many people my age, there is a disconnect between life and doctrine.

For reasons that should be obvious by the very mention of it, I've been reading a lot of eHarmony profiles. And because my level of religious engagement is out of the ordinary, the computer matching wizards of Pasadena have been matching me with women who want "a leader," "a man after God's own heart," "Godly head of a household," who is "interested in homeschooling," so they may live "pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen ;)" Some expressions recur over and over again to the point that I recognized them as scripts. Evangelical Christian publishing (and some Roman Catholic), preaching, and formation sets forth a coherent vision of "Biblical womanhood." I disagree with that vision, but I admire it for its coherence. No one is telling me how to be a godly Episcopal man in my personal and professional life, though I'll thank Derek for referring me to Martin Thornton as a start.

Some of this advice, of course, will be relevant to dating and mating. Surely, the third date is not "the sex date," but when and how a romantic relationship should become physical is a dubium . So is how to date someone who is not a Christian or from a much different Christian tradition. How do you articulate your faith within the marriage or in childrearing? Or perhaps we can even add, how do you know you're called to marriage at all?

But much of this advice will go into areas of vocation and work/life balance, a key Millennial concern in employment.

Ultimately, Millennials want to be told what to do and why they're doing it, but they also want to know what to do when they can't do what they're supposed to be doing or when circumstances spin beyond their control. Seriously engaging with popular culture may help. Mockingbird is doing some good things. I'd love to see something on April Kepner of Grey's Anatomy or Pastor Casey on the Mindy Project.

What Should Millennials Give the Church?

Although I made a little fun of his sentiment, I agree with my Boomer friend about the need for Millennials to give as much as they get in the course of the necessary leadership transition. To other Millennials, I'd give three pieces of advice.

1. If you don't like the place, trust your instincts and find somewhere else.

I've been very lucky with my last three parishes. I haven't needed to church shop. The church down the street (more or less) has been the one for me. But I've visited some parishes that would scare me off. Trust that instinct. As Crusty Old Dean points out, being a young person of faith can be tough, especially an Episcopalian. You often sense that other Christians as well as the secular people you work with think of you like the Church at Laodicea. The last thing you need is for your parish church to feel hostile or merely isolating.

2. Find mentors

Joining a new parish is very much like starting a new job. You need to know the parish's history, the state of its finances, learn about ministries that will suit or develop your gifts, and just make friends. Sometimes, your mentors will be your grandparents' age, but enjoy it. You have a lot to learn from them. They have a lot to learn from you.

3. Pledge

Most Millennials I know stick two bucks in the collection plate, the "loose plate." Loose plate is a useful revenue source for the church. The Canons require that some of it goes to some special purposes, but if you're regularly attending a parish, make a pledge. It doesn't have to be much. The average American Christian tithes every four to five years. If you're a college graduate and employed outside academia, that's $15 a week or so. But the impact on incorporation is huge. The people who count the offerings will see your name somewhere on the line connected with the money. They'll have a record that you regularly show up to church. And the compensation for this financially burdensome breach of privacy is that they will start treating you like a fellow member of Christ's Body and not like some weird alien to be feared, ignored, or appeased. Besides, at some point, you're going to have pay for this anyway. You better start getting used to the idea. Trust me. The more you like where you are, the more you will give. And the more good you will see your gifts doing.