martin luther and bodhidharma yell at me at night

But we also all have certain slob ethics. We won’t slob a certain way.

My wife crossed a slob boundary I didn’t realize I had. She placed a dirty plate on the dog bed.

I totally understand how it happened. Her chair is next to the dog’s bed. The side table has books on it. She needed to place the plate somewhere.

For the USA, the question of masks has been, at best, incredibly stupid. My hope is to illuminate how injurious it has been, too. Hopefully, by the end of this, you will understand the threefold injury of this mask debacle as well as a way to think about masks the way Jesus might.

Moral injury is a response to traumatic or stressful moments where “people may perpetrate, fail to prevent, or witness events that contradict deeply held moral beliefs and expectations” [1]. Some might call moral injury “soul injury,” but the gist of it is our deeper humanity is injured to the point of depression, possible suicide, and a profound sense of guilt and shame (among other symptoms, too) [2]. For me, it’s super easy to overthink this concept: your ability to be moral/understand morality/discern right and wrong is injured. That’s moral injury. It’s a spiritual and physical thing.

The mask debacle has morally injured the entire USA (a country that already carries a great deal of spiritual injury) in three ways: first, there’s the injury that’s caused by mass death. It’s inexplicable but also obvious—too many people have died, our authorities have failed to stop that from happening. We’re witnessing something that hurts. This first injury is pretty obvious, however the second and third injuries are pretty nuanced, so stay with me here.

There are roughly two different moralities when it comes to the question of masks. No matter what side of the mask question one is on, there is an injury to be had because of how stressful the whole thing is.

If you’re a pro-mask person, your moral code might include something like: my right to freedom should be suspended for the common good.

If you’re an anti-mask person, your moral code my include some ideas like: my right to freedom is the common good.

Again, these caricatures are admittedly grossly oversimplified. However, try to accept these two straw men with open arms to illustrate a point.

See, both of these moralities (and they’re not mutually exclusive) are valid (although wearing a mask is the better, smarter decision, and seriously wear the damn mask). However, if a pro-mask person sees someone not wearing a mask or actively denouncing it, they’re witnessing an attack on some pretty core beliefs.

For pro-maskers, they are witnessing people actively endanger our common good! Likewise, for anti-maskers, they are witnessing their neighbors actively endanger our rights!

There is no win-win solution here. No matter what, profound moral codes get crossed and broken. If you put on a mask, you’re giving up your freedom; if you don’t wear a mask, your freedom puts my life at risk. Therefore, there is a double injury here.

All of this stems, I believe, from the USA’s spiritual practice of punting our injuries downfield. We love to address things later. Of course, the problem is, later is no different from right now: we must address our woes, hurts, sorrows—be they personal or national.

Jesus, according to Luther, is a double blessing. He is the gift, and wherever Jesus is, there is absolute freedom. Jesus is also the example. And what did our Lord do?

Though [Jesus] was in the form of God, [he] did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave. . .

Philippians 2.6-7

Yes, we are free. Free not to wear masks. But we should. Jesus was free to do whatever he wanted. Yet he freely chose to die for us. Jesus says, “take my rights, friends, use them.” Jesus entered into suffering to give us something very good.

Perhaps, every time we wear a mask, we also enter into a whole lot of hurt:

1. The hurt that over 200,000 people lay dead.

2. The hurt we feel when our mask-less neighbor doesn’t believe in our welfare.

3. The hurt our neighbors feel when we mask ourselves, giving up our freedoms.

They used to say of a bishop of Oxyrrynchus, named Abba Apphy, that when he was a monk he submitted himself to a very severe way of life. When he became a bishop he wished to practise the same austerity, even in the world, but he had not the strength to do so. Therefore, he prostrated himself before God saying, ‘Has your grace left me because of my episcopate?’ Then he was given this revelation, ‘No, but when you were in solitude and there was no one else it was God who was your helper. Now that you are in the world, it is man.’

Benedicta Ward, Sayings of the Desert Fathers: The Alphabetical Collection, 35-36

Something that confuses me about Lutheran theology is their use of the word commandment. I haven’t quite figured it out. There’s apparently only one commandment, God’s commandment, and it might be love God & neighbor, but it also varies depending on your context.

I have been able to catch the gist: if you discern that you must do something for the love of God and neighbor through your vocation, consider it as if God has told you from on high.

First, we have to address the slipperiness of the word vocation. Simply put, your vocation is what God is calling you to do. It could be that job you’ve dreamed of, and indeed this is how most people think of it; it is often your spouse or partner or children or family; it’s also your civic duties, such as voting and jury duty. At the more mystical, your vocation is whatever God is calling you to do right now. Is it time for you to rest? That is your vocation right now.

So, imagine my surprise, when I’m sitting in the office of a nutritionist, realizing that God is giving me a command: be a diabetic. Stop fighting it.

I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes in May of 2019. It happened at an inconvenient time. The day after, I was planning to purpose to my wife, she was going to graduate, we were going to move to Alaska, it was a whole ordeal. In 24 hours I learned everything I was supposed to know about diabetes, and I got on my merry way.

Learning to eat anew is hard. Eating habits are powerful! I did what I could, but now we’re a year or so out from my initial diagnosis, I have a new doctor, and my numbers haven’t gotten better. Can we blame my doctor when he sends me to the nutritionist?

By the layout of her office, this nutritionist clearly saw her vocation as helping diabetics like me. My wife and I sat across from her, masked as we all are nowadays, and we went over the basics: lower your carbs. Seriously. Yes, that’s a carb, you need less of it. That, too, is a carb, stop it.

It wasn’t the first time I’ve heard this. My first week of diabetes, I heard incessantly that I needed to lower my carb count. First from the doctor, then from all the reading I did, and finally from my health insurance company. It didn’t click.

I felt like Jonah. He had received a word from the Lord, and he ran from it. He had to be spit up by a fish to do what he was called to do. God didn’t say anything subtly to Jonah. Maybe I was looking for God to speak to me with the same drama and flare?

Well, God didn’t. Hence, the quote about Abba Apphy above.

We don’t know how Jonah lived, but the curmudgeonly old man probably lived alone (who would want to live with him?). Because of his solitude, he had that direct word from God because God was Jonah’s helper. For me? I’ve never lived alone; I’m a city-boy. I have a wife. Doctors. Friends. How will God help me? Through them.

But God will always be insistent like he was with Jonah. God will speak, then throw a storm, then a fish. For medicine, he might use a lab result, a nurse, then a doctor, then a nutritionist who is giving it to you straight. God will give the commandment to you; don’t run.

For me, God’s commandment is really a surrender to my reality. I am diabetic. I can ignore it, and I do, but it will kill me. So, the Lord spoke to me through another, here is what your God requires of you: check your sugars, eat right, and walk humbly with your condition.

This revelation required a couple things from me. I had to admit to myself that my nutritionist was doing exactly what she was supposed to do. I had to admit to myself that I was listening to the commandment of my doctor by listening to her. I also had to admit to myself that I have a new vocation coming: fatherhood (less than a hundred days to go!). How can I obey my God and love the life he has given me? Well, stop actively shortening it, dumbo.

[Jesus said to them,] “But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

Matt. 5:44

There’s a lot of hullabaloo about praying for our enemies. Shouldn’t we love them and pray for them when we get sick? Or should we, like the Psalmist, rejoice when we see them destroyed? Christian ethics has plenty to say about this, and one should discern who their enemy is and how they should treat them. However, if you conclude that your enemy is such and such a person or such and such a group of people, I invite you to consider you are wrong.

We have only three enemies in our present life: sin, death, and the devil. These are the enemies Jesus calls us to love and for whom we should pray. Your political and ideological opponents have always been these three, and they are at work in humanity.

Today, let’s look at sin, especially are own sins. We should love them as Jesus teaches, not simply because he did, but because our sins are our very best teachers in our life.

Everyone has sin, does sins, thinks sinfully. Everyone sins in their own unique way for their own unique reasons. If we took the time to dwell on everything we’ve done wrong—our minds help us do this when we sit silently for two minutes—we will despair, hit rock bottom, possibly weep. If we existed solely in a vacuum, we might kill ourselves, which would be a tragedy; luckily, every single human is contextual. Born of humans, socialized by humans, gone to school with humans. Through these other humans, we hope, that everyone will learn some sense of right and wrong. Further, we hope they will have heard the good news: our sins are not the end of our story.

Jesus forgives our sins. He forgives everyone’s sins, and he forgives ours in particular. Yours. Mine. He doesn’t forgive another’s sins for you; indeed, he might use you to forgive another’s sins, but it is Jesus doing that work. He is always present when forgiveness is going on.

Which is why, paradoxically, our sins are our most immediate pathway to Jesus. Wherever we are broken, we should be looking at our brokenness because we will see the Great Carpenter repairing our house.

Our practice should, then, have a particular approach to sin:

1. Whenever you hear of another’s sins, think of yours, and how Jesus helped you overcome them. Love that person without regard for their brokenness, the way Jesus loved you.

2. Whenever we feel far from God, remember the sins of your past that God has triumphed over.

3. Whenever we sin again, examine it thoroughly, and then repent. Jesus has beaten this, too. Sometimes we will fall into the same sin again and again, which is God’s way of showing us we haven’t examined our sin in completely.

These principles can be summarized by Abba Moses the Black, an extraordinary priest of the desert. He says, “When someone is occupied with his own faults, he does not see those of his neighbor.” [1]

Do not, however, take this to the extreme and spend your life navel gazing. You still have to love your neighbor: we cannot escape living and helping them. Why should we consider our sins, then? Because the foundation of our relationships with neighbors is the Crucified and Risen One, who we find at work in our sins and brokenness.

Can you see why our sins are great teachers, worthy of love? Let’s parse an example:

I’m a comfort-eater. When I get anxious, I’m quick to either order take-out or make something to eat. The sin, here, is not just the eating, but the avoidance of what’s troubling me. I’m avoiding my Christian calling to sit with the suffering God has given me personally. For me, it’s the stresses of overworking, not communicating with my family, not being vulnerable, misuse of finances, etc.

What would repentance look like for me? Working the right amount, openly communicating with friends and family, being vulnerable when appropriate. Repentance would be reckoning with my spending habits and crushing debt perhaps by seeing a financial planner. These are hard things; indeed, trying to grapple with these troubles might be considered suffering.

How has Jesus redeemed me from my sins? He regularly took breaks to the mountain to pray; he spoke the truth simply and readily; he was vulnerable unto the cross; he was rich as God but became poor like me. Likewise, he gives me his Holy Spirit that I may try to imitate him: that my sins will not be the last word on my life.

All of this I got from over-eating. What a great teacher my gluttony can be! It is important, however, to know that I did not learn this all on my own. I was taught by other Christians, by books, by sermons, by therapists and spiritual counselors. It took community and training. Community is also how Jesus redeems me. My sins make me despair, so they call me to a therapist, to an elder in the community, to a friend. If that is all my enemy, my sins, ever teach me, they will have taught me a great deal: I need others. Yes, I am other-powered. But more on that next time.

Luther summarizes how our sins teach us through our past:

Therefore, even if there were no books or sermons, our very own lives, led through so many evils and dangers, would, if considered properly, abundantly commend to us the ever present and most tender goodness of God, which, far beyond our thought and feeling, carried us in its bosom.

Martin Luther, Fourteen Consolations

When I look at my life, I see many enemies: my sins, my deaths, my many devils I have borne. I also see that I am still here. How did this happen? Through the most tender goodness of God, which carried me through it all. So, I think I am able to love my enemies—that is, my sin—because they have taught me that God will beat them, and that gives me hope. What a loving thing sins do!

In one of the central prayers to an Eastern Orthodox confession, the priest recalls a moment in salvation history that, upon further examination, is peculiar. One version reads:

O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living  God,  the  Shepherd,  and  the Lamb  that  taketh  away  the  sins  of the  world,  Who  gavest  remittance unto  the  two  debtors,  and  didst grant remission of her sins unto the harlot. . .

Harlotry aside—it is not my station in life to bring feminism into the Orthodox church, being a Lutheran myself—the prayer makes the claim that Jesus absolved the two debtors. Who are the two debtors? They are characters in a parable found in Luke 7.36-50.

Nowhere in that story does Jesus imply that these folks were real. The two debtors were used to illustrate a rhetorical point: one who owes more will be more grateful than the one who owes less when their debts are forgiven. In the story itself Jesus doesn’t even forgive the characters, but asks the “what if?” to prove his point.

The imagination of the liturgist who wrote this prayer has a Jesus who is so gracious, he even forgives rhetorical prayers. Jesus forgives the prayers of fictional characters. Jesus forgives the sins of alternate reality.

Now, it’s important to state at the beginning that sourcing this idea from an offhand anamnetic statement in a prayer is shaky ground, but what I’m arguing for is simply another extension of the cosmic reconciliation of Christ imagined in Paul, St. Maximus, and contemporary theologians of today (read Deep Incarnation for a good survey of the material I’m talking about). I’m not arguing for some new doctrine. I’m asking us to imagine how profound the work of Jesus is for us. How cosmic is Jesus’s reconciliation? He has reconciled all things—even fictional things—to God through his resurrection.

If Voldemort were to truly repent of his deeds, Jesus would really reconcile him. Not in some headcanon, but reality. If you were to rhetorically speak of murdering someone for the sake of argument, Jesus really forgives that unreal sin. God is so gracious that God forgives hypothetical characters, like the two debtors.

I think what I’m asking is for us to expand our notion of reality. Become a fictional realist—not because it will change our lived experience, but because it’s an opportunity to see how glorious our God is. Let’s believe in characters that don’t exist because they, too, have a place in the kingdom to come. God knows when the mountain goats give birth (Job 39.1) and the very moment Harry Potter was born in his reality. God is God of all places—even over Westeros, may they one day learn of the God of Israel (which would be a way better ending than season 8 come on people).

Don’t be afraid to let The Real be even more expansive than you imagined. God is reconciling all things, all things, real and unreal, to himself in Christ. If God forgives the debtors that didn’t exist, he rebirths all realities in the waters of baptism. We don’t have to know how because we know enough: Christ is risen. Things you have never thought of will be redeemed by the Almighty; your imaginary friend will be raised with you; yea, Garfield will have a place at the table in the coming kingdom.

It’s silly, but it illustrates how gracious God is. It gives me confidence to let all things be beautifully broken because all things will be made whole by God. Even fake things.

But why is this ultimately a practical thing, too?

Our lives have been in virtual space for a long time. This means we need to understand two things: 1) what happens on the internet, unfortunately, is very real. /b/ has much to reckon with God on that terrible day. 2) Jesus is present on the internet.

We’ve been celebrating a service of the word on our Animal Crossing island. It’s super fun and cute. We get to have the closest thing to a physical community by running around while we sing over the mic or hear the gospel and the sermon from pastor. We even have a little beachside chapel.

Folks dress as deacons or choir members. It is real church, and it’s reminding us that reality is more virtual than we may remember.

God is present in this fake sanctuary because God is present in all realms—real, virtual, fake—no where can we escape the presence of God.

Love is moving over the internet. We’ve known this for years as internet natives. But the church needs to realize that it’s true.

Does this mean you approve of virtual communion?

Nope. The physical, human fellowship is qualitatively different from the virtual fellowship. It doesn’t make the latter any more real, but it shows how different they are. But I’m just one schmuck, and I think these musings might be helpful for those in favor of virtual communion. Not that these musings are helpful at all, though.

Holy Saturday has only one Bible Verse that directly address the day:

“On the Sabbath they rested according to the commandment.”

~ Luke 23:56b, ESV.

Of course, Holy Saturday is an obvious idea that is implicit in all the discourse about the “three days.” Jesus died on a Friday, rose on a Sunday. He spent the Saturday dead. People with an eye for liturgy emulate tomb-imagery for Holy Saturday: take a vow of silence, emphasize rest, go coffin-shopping in a skeleton T-shirt. It’s an important day.

An important day that always makes me think paritcularly about one line in the Apostles’ Creed:

“He descended to hell/the dead”

Many people want to know what happened when Jesus died. How did Jesus spend his post-mortem Sabbath? For Luther in the Large Catechism, Jesus’s descent to death is a sign of his incarnation. Jesus was wholly human, doing everything a human might do, including death. Fleming Rutledge notes that being buried “served to underscore the fact that Jesus had truly suffered death, not a mere semblance of it...” as some gnostics might have asserted. [1] Others align Holy Saturday with atonement theologies related to Christus Victor, where Jesus triumphantly goes guns-blazing into hell and throws the devil in jail.  Returning to Rutledge, she gives a good summary of thought:

“What was going on in the life of God between Good Friday and Easter? We are not permitted to look into this mystery. Our responses to it will be more in the realm of poetry than of science. We will find something of the truth by maneuvering between, on the one hand, Balthasar’s Holy Saturday picture of Christ utterly given over to Death in solidarity with all humanity, as powerless in the tomb as though he were in Sheol, and on the other hand, the image of the rampant Conquerer invading the realm of the ‘strong man,’ destryoing him utterly and plundering his goods.” [2]

We can be sure of this: on Holy Saturday, Jesus descended to the dead. We don’t know what happened, but if we access that poet inside of us, we can be certain of a great many things. Buddhists have a very poetic approach to the world-below, the-world-we-descend-to.

In the fifteenth chapter of the Lotus Sutra, a great many bodhisattvas emerge from below the Earth after hearing a word from Buddha. These were great bodhisattvas of exceptional ability with great retinues. Buddhists can explain a lot better than I can about the importance of these bodhisattvas; I, on the other hand, want to stress two things: cosmology and what a bodhisattva does.

Cosmologically, there are a great many differences between Buddhist and Judeo-Christian (particularly first century) views on the cosmos. Buddhists believe that below this world – the Saha World, where suffering things are able to be endured – is a world where it is much harder to endure things. While Christians might call the world-below “hell,” I think there is a measure of agreement that the world-below is pretty challenging — but only in this regard. We must be careful not to make things completely similar when engaging in inter-faith work.

Secondly, what does a bodhisattva do? They sing. Yes, they do other things to bring enlightenment to others, but let’s not beat around the bush: they sing.

For what it’s worth, I think if we could pop our heads under the earth on Holy Saturday, we would hear Jesus singing to our God. I mean, he was at least reciting psalms on the cross. So, why would death stop Jesus from singing like the Bodhisattvas of the Earth from the Lotus Sutra? If we take Ephesians 4:9-10 seriously, then I believe deeply that we could still hear Christ’s song below the earth today. [3]

Does this mean that Jesus, when going to the below-place, joined the choir of bodhisattvas below? As Rutledge says, this is a mystery we are not privy to know. 

Holy Saturday is deeply mysterious. If you put your heart in it, we know that Christ is doing something on this day whether it is singing, solidarity, or Satan-bashing. But, Holy Saturday is explicitly a day to understandbly feel distant from God in Christ.

For those who don’t feel the presence of Christ or the Buddha, I think of this quote from Dōgen: “Whether the Buddha is present or not present, I trust he is right under our feet.” [4] We can say the same about Christ. Whatever you think of Holy Saturday, we know that Jesus is beneath us, supporting us, and singing a great song that we might one day be able to hear.

Footnotes

[1] Rutledge, Fleming, The Crucifixion (Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans, 2015), 409.

[2] Ibid, 418.

[3] Eph. 4:9-10, ESV: “(In saying, ‘He ascended,’ what does it mean but that he had also descended into the lower regions, the earth? He who descended is the one who also ascended far above all the heavens, that he might fill all things.)”

To the Saints Online, called by the ubiquitous Christ to post, who is manifest in all times and all places, all realms and all realities, may the peace of God the Father be found in you, one in the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Inasmuch as God was scandalous enough to incarnate in one time and place, we still ought to remember the ever-present Christ and sing unto him a new song in whatever manner suitable. For God is eternal even when particular, giving birth to Christ through all our actions, online or off, and the sweet Holy Spirit intercedes for us in all our posts to find glory in the inane and praises in what is dank.

What I ask of you, tender memers, is to never stop posting even when fear surrounds you. Do not doubt the dankness of your memes. The Dankest One lives in the littlest meme — indeed, has not every meme begun with zero upvotes, no likes at all, only to be Top Post of All Time? Was not Christ born in a manger? Did we not all post Advice Animals and Rage Comics? God will not let your memes fall short. Post with faith that He who Lurks will Upvote on the Last Day.

What does it say in the creeds, cousins? “I believe in the Holy Ghost, the forgiveness of sins?” Is this not our dankification? The Dank One was raised from the dankest of caves, reposting us to our God that all the heavens will declare our posts mighty and without sin. Therefore, do not worry when the edgelords comment “fake” on your posts; is that not what the robber said to our Lord on the cross? No, be like the other thief, and ask that Christ retweet us in heaven.

And when you are Mad Online, do not blame the Pepes and the Edgelords, for their time like ours is limited. Meme for them, too, that they may find redemption in your dank. Have faith that The Dank One will reconcile all memes to himself in the end: label memes, dead memes, forced memes, even 4chan. It is with this hope that we can post in all times and in all places.

Therefore, cousins, do not discriminate in your dank memery: post dank memes for all people. Post dank memes for the Jews, post dank memes for the Muslims, post dank memes for the Atheists (for God posts in them, too), post dank memes for all peoples of all faiths and demeanors, post dank memes knowing that Christ walked in Eden, in Jerusalem, and Online.

Pray with your memes that they may be dank, and trust that the Lord is sharing your memes among the angels that all may laugh out loud. Should one meme fall flat, like many tweets do, post again in love. Your joy will be viral in the Holy Spirit and your love will make you dank.

“This is the silence of a myriad whirling suns, the shriek of a knife on a plate, a tale told by an idiot, the yelling of a wounded soldier on the battlefield begging to be put out of his misery. The lapping of waves on the rocks of some far-off island, the farting of the bean eater, the air-raid siren, — all these praise the Lord God Almighty with no uncertain voice. But almost all men are as deaf to the meaning of these voices as they are to that of a Bach fugue.” 

~ R.H. Blyth from Buddhist Sermons on Christian Texts

When I was 15, I got a girl pregnant. The sex wasn’t even that cool: it was in a bathroom at school, and we both struggled to find her hole. When I was in, reality hit: I didn’t love her, I wasn’t wearing a condom, this isn’t right for me or her. I put on my pants and ran.

A couple weeks later, at the homecoming dance, her best friend pulled me aside. She told me I might be a father. Time melted away, my sense of self melted away, and all of my dreams melted like Oregon rain hitting Oregon snow. I think “Dynamite” by Taio Cruz was playing.

My entire life was present on that dancefloor. I remembered being born while I felt the body heat of my friends dancing around me. I could feel my soon-expected child in my hands — hands, in that moment, that wanted to put a bullet in their own head. Past, present, future: right there.

Here’s the thing, it was a holy moment. We picture holiness in gold crosses and incense. If we’re pious, we picture holiness as a person smiling in prayer. But, our sanctification will not always be picturesque; indeed, what if we honored our horrible times in life as the inbreaking of the Holy Spirit as they are?

“[T]he true philosopher’s stone is submission to the will of God which changes into divine gold all [one’s] occupations, troubles, and sufferings...,  writes Jean-Pierre de Caussade. Surely, he wanted to lift up the simple things we do in life (cooking, cleaning, taking a shit) as opportunities to grow in Christ. It can be done. I have fallen on my knees while washing dishes because I knew I was on holy ground.

We are willing to name that God is present in our suffering. We acknowledge that the crap in our life doesn’t go to waste; yes, it will fertilize us and make us grow. Our deliverance is the glory of God; we aren’t where we used to be, praise Jesus.

Implicitly, however, it seems we are saying that our bad times don’t proclaim the glory of God. I think this is wrong and foolish.

“To acquire the friendship of God, and to arrive at eternal glory, [one must] do what they were doing,” de Caussade continues. Whatever you are doing in your life praises God; whatever you are doing has won the friendship of God and makes you holy by the divine presence. If we take Luther seriously when he says we are simultaneously saints and sinners, then mourning your young life on a dancefloor is both rightly horrible and amazingly beautiful.

It’s foolish to say our suffering is not a praise of God because it makes our shit into a god itself. We remain the center of the universe, and we discover how much pressure being the center of the universe can be. Instead, if we see that, despite the desparate desire for nihilism, the present moment (every present moment) is making us holy, why would we not let our pain praise God? We know we will be delivered. Our suffering is not the end.

Whenever time dissolves, you’re in the midst of something holy. Even if it’s from disaster, like a teen pregnancy.

It turns out she wasn’t pregnant: she was lying because she thought it would make me date her again. I didn’t find out about it until years later. Before then, she told me she had the fetus aborted. I mourned the loss of innoncence I had inflicted on that woman. My actions, I thought, were capable of terrible evil.