Catholic Church

Jeremiah Lanphier and the Mother of God

Christy Tennant — Fri, 18 Jun 2010 13:36:31 -0700

If you happened to be on the Upper West Side in New York City last night – specifically near the intersection of Broadway and 61^st – you might have seen me walking along the street holding a lit cigarette in my hand. Some of you know that I used to smoke, but it has been over a decade since my last puff. So why was I walking along Broadway like any other smoker, smoldering butt hanging between my fingers?

Well, first a little background. I happened to be at the corner of Broadway and 61^st Street because that is where the Museum of Biblical Art is located, and I am a fan of that museum and had decided to attend the opening of their latest exhibition, Ukrainian Icons, which took place last night.

I had an interesting experience with the artwork, and the opening in general.

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I should tell you that I come from what can only be described as a “low-church” background. I grew up with a mixture of United Methodist, American Baptist, Lutheran and Southern Baptist church influences. Besides the plain, brass cross that was in a few of the churches I attended, and the portraits of Jesus both of my grandmothers had (which now hang in my living room), we didn't have much in the way of icons. So reading about how all this fancy stuff was used in worship made me a little uncomfortable.

I was also uncomfortable with all the “Mary stuff.” It is safe to say that, compared with a Catholic or Orthodox view of the mother of Jesus, I have a pretty low opinion of her, too. My take on Mary, based on what I read in the Bible, is that she was a sinner like any other human being, and she was chosen by God's grace, not her merit, to bear the Christ. I do not believe that she was sinless, nor do I believe she remained a virgin after Christ was born. I esteem her for her humility and submission to God, and I appreciate that she was part of the early church. I honor her as I would any other from the early church – Peter, Joanna, Thomas, Lydia, Paul – sinners, all. So all the veneration makes me uncomfortable. Praying to Mary? Making art that depicts her as Christ's equal, in stature and holiness? These things do not sit well with me. As I perused the icons, I felt more disconnected from my Catholic and Orthodox brothers and sisters than ever. I struggled even to believe we worship the same God, to be honest.

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So now, back to the cigarette.

If you have ever visited MOBiA, you know that it is on the second floor of the American Bible Society building. And if you have ever visited the American Bible Society, you know that there is a statue in front of the building. It is a life-sized statue of Jeremiah Lanphier, the New Yorker who began holding lunchtime prayer meetings in downtown Manhattan in 1857. Under his leadership and faithfulness to prayer and intercession, over 1 million people's lives were transformed by God's love when they turned from sin and embraced faith in Jesus Christ. That period in New York City's history is known as the Fulton Street Revival, and many of us are praying today that something like that revival will happen again in our day.

For a Christian like me, Jeremiah Lanphier is a hero.

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When I walked out the front door of the American Bible Society last night, there were two women taking a picture of the statue of Jeremiah Lanphier. They were laughing and having a good time, and I initially thought they might be spiritual pilgrims, visiting landmarks in NYC that are particularly important for followers of Christ. There are folks like that – they know all the places famous Christians have spoken or preached or prayed – and they like to visit those spots. I can appreciate that.

Then I saw why they were laughing so hard.

One of them had placed a lit cigarette in Jeremiah Lanphier's mouth, and they were taking pictures from all angles.

As soon as I realized what they were doing, I was mortified. If it had been a statue of someone else – someone I didn't care much about – I probably would have laughed with them. It was a juvenile prank, yes, but I have a pretty good sense of humor.

But this was a statue to honor Jeremiah Lanphier! This was a place of honor and respect for a humble servant of God, whose faithfulness was integral to over a million people coming to faith in Christ.

Something in the way I reacted to seeing this act of vandalism told me that, deep in my heart, I knew there was something holy about this statue, and it was to be treated with dignity.

My first instinct was to chastise these morons for their disrespect. The words, “Do you realize how disrespectful that is?” were dancing on my tongue, coated with fire, but I managed to rein it in before I said anything. After all, how would it be if a woman came bounding out of the American Bible Society and ripped these passers-by a new one for being disrespectful?

But as I walked away, I felt helpless. Do I confront them? No. Do I hope that the security guard will do something? No. I happen to know he saw what they were doing and did nothing.

So I turned around, and waited til the women had had their fun and moseyed along. Once they did, I walked up to Jeremiah Lanphier with tears in my eyes and removed the smoldering cigarette from his lips.

I looked around for a place to put it. I didn't want to drop it on the sidewalk in front of the American Bible Society. I mean, that just didn't seem right at all to do that.

So I began walking until I found a trash can on the corner. Then, I dropped the cigarette on the ground, crushed it with my foot, and when I was sure it would not start a fire in the trash can, threw it away.

As I descended the steps to the downtown 1 train, I could smell the familiar stench of a cigarette butt on my fingers. It harkened me back to the days years ago when I was constantly trying to cover the smell up with lotion and hand wipes, to hide the fact that I smoked. I found it very ironic that someone might have seen me holding a cigarette outside the ABS and drawn the completely wrong conclusion. No, I have not fallen off the wagon – yet. I'm ten years nicotine-free.

But then another irony hit me.

It was just a statue. There was nothing particular holy about it. Except for what it stood for. I thought about my struggle with the icons – the reverent images of Mary. Do I think Jeremiah Lanphier is any more holy than Mary? No. They were both humble, obedient servants of God. Does it bother me that someone undertook to commission an artist – in this case, Lincoln Fox – to create a sculpture in his honor? No. I think it's a fitting way to honor his memory and perhaps even inspire others to follow his faithful example.

As my train pulled out of the station and I dug around in my purse for some hand lotion to cover the smell on my fingers, I laughed. I thought about the Orthodox priests I had just seen at the opening, in their black robes and towering hats. I thought about my Catholic friends and their reverence for Mary. I know we are different. I know there are really important differences in our theology. I know that I am not welcomed to take communion in their churches, for example, and that bugs me. I know they believe Mary never sinned, and I don't think that is a conclusion that can or should be drawn sola scriptura.

But I also thought about the icons, the statues, the images of Mary, and I realized that, in many ways, the heart of the issue, at least for some, is pretty much the same.To them, Mary stands as an example of someone who humbly followed God in obedience. They honor her with art. They hope people will be inspired to follow her humility, and when someone desecrates a statue of Mary, they are offended.

That's why I honor Jeremiah Lanphier. And that's why, when I saw those women treating his likeness - and the building in front of which it stood - with mockery, I was offended.

Perhaps we're more alike than I thought.

The Value of Ecumenism....or at least "getting along"

Richard Dahlstrom — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 09:48:30 -0800

The school where I'm teaching this week is in the Bavarian region of Germany, a predominantly Catholic part of the country in contrast to the prevalence of Protestantism in the North. Both Protestant and Catholic claim to follow Jesus and declare without hesitation that "Jesus is Lord". The meaning of the declaration, though, was sorely tested between the late 1920's and the end of WWII in 1945, as Hitler rose to power by blending "God Words" with a call to nationalism in order to revive both faith and state. That he rose without substantive resistance in spite of his unabashed disdain for both the God of the Old Testament, and all Jews, is a study in itself, but not the point of this post.

My interest resides in those few who DID resist, because a careful look at the players reveals that they were thrown together from North and South, Catholic and Protestant, united in their conviction that actively standing against the raging tide of darkness was essential. There was of course, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the Protestant Pastor. And behind the scenes, when the training of pastors needed to go underground, the non-institutional 'seminary' led by Bonhoeffer was supported and hosted by a rich Prussian Heiress named Ruth Von Kleist. Bonhoeffer would eventually have a profound influence of some Catholicsin the south who were part of a small, non-violent resistance movement consisting of young adults called "The White Rose".In addition, the Catholic community would influence Bonhoeffer, offering him hospitality and fellowship at a monastery during his days in Munich. Bonhoeffer would write during those days that he was humbled by their magnanimous and generous spirit, which led to his own musings on the need to work hard at recovering the unity of Christ's body.

Another profound influence for the "White Rose" was the Catholic theologian, Carl Muth. His publishing work had been destroyed by the Reich, but he continued to write, "in exile" in his small home on the outskirts of Munich, where these young people (made up of both Catholics and Protestants) came to glean from his wisdom, study, and find shelter in the midst of their own storms. And who most profoundly influenced the Catholic Muth? Protestant Existentialist philosopher Soren Kierkegaard.

Lessons learned? I'm increasingly convinced that the true church neither resides within particular institutional walls, nor values much of what passes for theological discourse. Within the various institutions, there will be those few who are passionate for "doing justice", "loving mercy", and "walking humbly with God". They'll also be intent on the pursuit of "love from a pure heart, with a good conscience and a sincere faith". I say this because, while Catholics and Protestants in the established church were carrying on the very vital conversations about the nature of transubstantiation, and arguing about the role the human will plays in our salvation, six million Jews, along with thousands of Gypsies, mentally ill, physically deformed, and homosexuals, were mysteriously disappearing from the country, ultimately to be shot, gassed, or burnt in ovens. Hitler didn't give a damn about the established church because they collectively cowered under his threats, allowing themselves to be pushed into pietist irrelevance. It was the others, the ecumenists residing on the margins, who were a threat to his house of cards.

Thank God there were those few who set aside the "morbid interest in controversial questions and disputes about words, out of which arise envy, strife, abusive language..." (I Timothy 6:4), choosing instead to stand for what matters. Bonhoeffer, Muth, Ruth Von Kleist, Hans and Sophie School are the people I point to as my heroes, and they're Protestants, and Catholics.

I pray to God that we learn from this because I see similarly destructive 'in fighting' unfolding in this age between the neo-Calvinists and the Emergent church. But when darkness covers the world, I'm confident that there'll be a few who will stop fighting each other long enough to stand together for what matters, and I pray I'll be counted among them.

CLINT EASTWOOD DANCES WITH PRIESTS

Craig Detweiler — Wed, 07 Jan 2009 22:12:58 -0800

Gran Torino is simple but smart. Most of the plot unfolds in a leisurely and predictable manner. Critics have described it as “Dirty Harry gets old and cranky.” It is easy (and foolish) to dismiss the elderly as irrelevant or immigrants as ignorant. It is also foolish to underestimate the dramatic power of Gran Torino. Younger moviegoers desperately need the initiation rites and religious ruminations offered by the 78-year old director (and star!), Clint Eastwood.

Gran Torino continues Eastwood’s cinematic dance with the Catholic Church. In Mystic River (2003), an entire community wrestled with unsettling secrets. The movie poster announced the theme: “We bury our sins, we wash them clean.” In Million Dollar Baby (2004), Eastwood’s washed up boxer, Frankie Dunn, engages in an ongoing ethical debate with a priest in his local parish. It served as a timely commentary upon the controversy surrounding Teri Schiavo and her right to live (or die). Eastwood leans into messy, ethical dilemmas, both acknowledging and challenging church teaching. (For more on both of these haunting films, see my new book, Into the Dark).

Eastwood wrestles with mortality in Gran Torino. We first see Korean war veteran Walt Kowalksi at his wife’s funeral. A young priest piles on platitudes that fail to move Walt. Afterwards, the earnest and inexperienced Father Janovich fulfills her dying wish, inviting Walt to confession. But Kowalski can’t imagine confiding in a person who doesn’t deserve his respect. The burden on Walt’s soul feels far too substantial for such a lightweight cleric.

Amidst substantive spiritual questions, Gran Torino offers plenty of lacerating laughs. The cantankerous Kowalski spews racist comments toward his Hmong neighbors that violate all notions of political correctness. Such blatant bigotry is rarely heard in our public entertainments. Yet, first-time screenwriter Nick Schenk revels in Walt’s rough edges. Gran Torino violates all kinds of conventional wisdom in Hollywood, pitting a lonely, irascible widower against a family of immigrants. Eastwood dares to cast unknown actors like Bee Vang in crucial roles. And yet, Gran Torino works as a litany of sacrifice. Only Eastwood’s considerable leverage could get such a modest and miraculous film made.

The title refers to Walt’s prize possession, a ‘72 Gran Torino. Walt used to work on the Ford assembly line in Detroit. Now, both Walt and Michigan’s auto industry are fading. Despite its iconic status in Starsky & Hutch, the Gran Torino was never a great car. Dan Neil of the LA Times notes how Ford was caught flat-footed in the first gas crisis of the seventies. Gas-guzzlers like the Gran Torino were impractical and out of step almost from their day of release. Time has passed by both Walt and his car.

So can an old school vet like Walt make peace with the multiethnic future next door? It will not be an easy transition. There will be plenty of resistance. Blood may even be spilled in the process. But that former world will not withstand our postmodern present. Walt fights hard, until he develops an advanced form of surrender. Father Janovich adapts and grows alongside Walt. Despite all the racist invective, Gran Torino becomes a profoundly humanizing experience. It offers hope to all manner of estranged fathers and their sons struggling to become men. It is a fitting tribute to people like my own crusty old Dad.

Not since Martin Scorsese’s early work in Mean Streets and Raging Bull, has an American filmmaker so consistently addressed questions of guilt, absolution, and redemption. Has Eastwood the auteur found a rich dramatic vein, mining it to Oscar gold? Or is an aging director dealing with questions of mortality in a rarely seen, uncompromising manner. The answer may be a bit of both.