my reflections, essays, and books

New Book Released: The Inn of God’s Forgiveness

I’ve just published a new book: The Inn of God’s Forgiveness and Other Hymns for the Progressive Church.  It’s a collection of eight new hymns, each with a chapter about the theology it expresses.  The hymns in the book are free: they may be downloaded at this page, or copied from the book, and they come with a Creative Commons license that allows unlimited copying for non-commercial use.  There are also some spiritual exercises in the book, which may likewise be downloaded and copied at this page.

I wrote these hymns because the hymnals and other collections available to me didn’t have enough of what I wanted: singable hymns that reflect a progressive Christian theology.

What do I mean by “singable”? It’s a very subjective thing, of course, and differs from one congregation to another. I wrote these hymns to be sung in my own congregations. Those congregations were, on the whole, quite elderly, and if socially progressive, were musically conservative. If I introduced songs with any syncopation—if there were any odd chordal progressions—if the tempo was more than moderate—if there was any rhythmic complexity, even so much as a rest on a downbeat—the congregation was half lost. Of course, not everyone in a congregation will sing at all, but I wanted our singing to be as inclusive as possible. I didn’t want to leave the weaker singers (who are, often, the oldest singers) feeling embarrassed or left out. So I tried to make these hymns harmonically and rhythmically simple. They’re also rather repetitive: for example, many of them have refrains, which help timid singers build confidence.

Then, what do I mean by “progressive”? When people ask me what I mean when I call myself a progressive Christian, I tend to offer a list of things I disagree with. For example: I do not find the theory of evolution offensive or even particularly controversial. I do not believe that the Bible is infallible, inerrant, or literally true in all its parts; it is not, to me, the word of God. I do not judge people based on their sexual orientation, and I don’t think God does either. I do not think God’s judgment takes the form of punishing sinners with eternal torment. I do not think that Jesus died to pay the price for our sins. I do not try to make converts of people who are being well served by other religious traditions. And so on—and as I speak this way, I find that I am defining progressive Christianity by listing the aspects of conventional Christianity it rejects.

But in the end, that isn’t enough. It isn’t enough to say what you reject; you must also say what you claim. Hymn-writing turns out to be a good discipline for this. Perhaps any theological writing that is strictly negative is inadequate—but any hymnody that is strictly negative is obviously inadequate. You have only to imagine trying to turn the previous paragraph into a song to feel the flaw in it. You might perhaps turn it into an amusing series of negative verses, but those verses would be begging to be answered by a refreshingly positive refrain.

So the hymns in this collection are my attempts to express aspects of a positive progressive theology. They are not meant to give a systematic statement of that theology; there are plenty of topics unaddressed here, and there’s plenty of room for a sequel. These hymns are, in the old sense, occasional pieces. They were written for particular occasions in my spiritual journey.

I hope they will be a blessing in yours. If you find the hymns interesting and/or useful, please support this work by buying the book.

2015-10-07T15:17:45-05:00September 10, 2014|0 Comments

Quod Erat Demonstrandum

Quod Erat Demonstrandum

This is how it works.
After a long indwelling,
shape awareness comes—

kenning what must be
the shape of the solution,
if any exists.

Once that shape is felt,
reason, a sculptor's chisel,
frees the shape from stone.

Thus the solution,
though seeming artificial,
is not made but found.

No mere invention,
no child of human reason,
QED came first.
2013-04-05T21:48:24-05:00April 5, 2013|1 Comment

To Hear the Falconer

My father, Howard Webber, has published a long-awaited book: To Hear the Falconer: Song and Prophecy for the Time of War, Want, and Warming.  It is an epic poem—song, prophecy, and prayer—crafted using many scriptural quotations and allusions.  I remember him working on this manuscript when I was a child, and I hear his voice in every line, so I cannot help but love it.  But I’ve also heard praise of it from other, more impartial readers.  It’s rewarding to read, and prayerful to read aloud.

You can find it on Amazon, read the author’s page about it, or see the author’s short video introduction.

2012-07-02T11:05:21-05:00July 2, 2012|0 Comments

The Song Of God

For the last five years I have been in an ordination process under the supervision of a denominational committee.  That committee is called the Ministry Team for Authorized Ministers; it’s a committee of the Prairie Association of the Illinois Conference of the United Church of Christ.  In a meeting on March 29th, 2012, the committee concluded that I have now met all their requirements, and they voted unanimously to recommend me for ordination.

There still remain three final steps to my ordination process.  First, there will be an Ecclesiastical Council, a meeting of the whole membership of the Prairie Association, where they will vote on whether to authorize me for ordination; this meeting is scheduled for June 10th.  Those attending this meeting will be able to question me on my ordination paper (or anything else they choose!). Here’s a copy of that paper, “The Song Of God“.  Perhaps it isn’t the most elegant thing I’ve ever written—I wrote it with committee members’ questions in mind—but I’m a bit proud of it anyway.

After the ecclesiastical council, I’ll need a job offer for an ordained ministry—typically, a chaplaincy or a pastorate.  (The United Church of Christ tries to minimize central governance and maximize the authority of local congregations; in that spirit they view the calling body as a partner in the discernment of a candidate’s call to ordination.)  Then, finally, there would be a formal ceremony of ordination.

And then, presumably, a rest cure in an asylum of some sort…

2012-04-15T23:24:50-05:00April 15, 2012|0 Comments

Fiction: Eucharist

The priest was a very careful man, and we all knew it. We always sat in the same place, and we always had a great view of his methodical work at the altar. Sometimes the incense tickled our noses there, mine and Mother’s and Father’s and little Rachel’s. But when the priest sang the Sanctus we all sang along—quietly, under our breaths, so no one could hear us—and when the acolyte rang the little bells, we tensed with excitement. The priest was a very careful man, but perhaps today would be the day. Perhaps, today, we would get a share of the Body of Christ.

When the priest called on the Holy Spirit to bless the host, we watched breathlessly. Well, I’m exaggerating a little—little Rachel didn’t really understand what was happening, and her attention sometimes wandered to Mother’s face—but we others watched so hard that our eyes stung for want of blinking. When the priest elevated the host and broke it, we strained to see any crumb that might fall. But our biggest chance came after the important people had received the sacrament. Then the priest would drink off the contents of the chalice, down to the last drop, and he would carefully collect the unused wafers and place them in the little box with the red lamp above it. Then he would tap the crumbs together on the silver plate and eat them all himself, and our hopes would be dashed.

Still every now and then—no more than once a year, for, as I have said, he was a very careful man—a crumb would fall to the floor unnoticed. And then, as a hymn began to come from the old organ, Father would dash out, grab the crumb, and bring it back to us in the grate under the altar piece.  Then, tails quivering with delight, we would share our Eucharist.  For even the dogs—yes, even the mice—may have crumbs from God’s table, if they dare.

2012-01-03T20:37:30-06:00January 3, 2012|1 Comment

Fiction: P.S.

…I hope this finds you and your dear wife well.  Please give my regards to Anne and Bill and our other friends at the Institute.

Yours truly,

Alvin

P.S. I forgot to mention: I have been working on a new mathematical theory of the universe of multiple dimensions.  I had an idea about applying the lambda calculus to the problem we were discussing over sherry that last evening—do you remember?  I can’t wait to show you.

P.P.S. Now it just struck me: if the human mind is, as I think, capable of holding these generating formulas in tension then interdimensional travel should be possible.  Who knows what strange and exotic dimensions we might enter using one of the many universe generators.  Query: are there infinitely many such alternate universes, as I guess? Countably infinite, or uncountably?  Must consider this.

P.P.P.S.  I’m sure this could work!  One simply holds the generating formula for an alternate universe in the mind; one imagines applying the Y-combinator, and then—there you are, Q.E.D.!  For example, if I take the ?4 generator we discussed and hold it firmly in my mind, and then concentrate on applying the Y-combinator, like this, then I should

2012-01-02T17:19:00-06:00January 2, 2012|0 Comments

Animals’ Meditation on Psalm 83

Animals' Meditation on Psalm 83

O God, do not keep silence;
	do not hold your peace or be still, O God!
Even now your enemies are in tumult;
	those who hate you have raised their heads.
They lay crafty plans against your people;
	they consult together against those you protect.
They say, "Come, let us enslave them, bring them to nought,
	let the spirits of free animals be remembered no more."
They conspire with one accord;
	against you they make a covenant--
the tents of Con Agra and Cargill,
	ADM and Swift Foods,
Monsanto with the shareholders of Hormel,
DuPont also has joined them;
	they are the strong arm of the children of the apes.

How long will you be silent, O God,
	while your people weep?
In vast stinking pens we pray to you,
	in dark dreams, in rows upon rows.
We are born and ripped from our mothers,
	we give birth, but our children are taken away.
Happy are they who are born upon the free earth;
	in living and in dying they sing your praises.
Who will glorify your name, O God,
	when all your children are broken and silent?

As fire consumes the forest,
	as the flame sets the mountains ablaze,
so pursue your enemies with your tempest
	and terrify them with your hurricane.
Fill their faces with shame,
	so that they may seek your name, O Lord.
Let them know that you alone,
	whose name is the Lord,
	are the Most High over all the earth.
2011-09-17T19:49:22-05:00September 15, 2011|2 Comments

Junior Faculty

It’s back-to-school time, so here’s a lesson about teaching that I learned from a dear colleague in 1994, my first year as a professor. It’s expressed here as a sonnet, entirely in words of one syllable. 

Junior Faculty

Once, in my first year on the job, I said,
"How fine, my friend, that you let no one fail!
How hard you work to see them all well read!"
My friend, to teach me too, then told this tale:
A man goes to a farm and sees a boy
Who drives the pigs to where the peach trees grow.
The boy hauls up each hog, and it has joy:
It pigs a peach and eats it neat and slow.
"It's too bad," says the man, "a pig can't climb!
I see, with how you feed them, they grow big.
But can't you find a way that takes less time?"
The boy says, "Sure -- but what's time to a pig?"
     If that sounds good to you then you might be
     Cut out to teach, like my friend -- not like me.
2011-09-08T15:17:50-05:00September 8, 2011|1 Comment

Beach Training

Every summer for the last eleven years I have hosted a Karatedo Doshinkan special training on beaches of Lake Michigan. This year it isn’t going to happen: I’m just too busy finishing at my seminary and preparing (I think) for ordination. My heart is heavy — I’ll miss you so much, my training friends! Here’s a poem I wrote, a sestina about training on the beach.

Beach Training

We come here every summer, to the bright shore returning.
Glad to be together, full of life, we paw the sand.
We anchor our stand by the water's edge and let fly the flag,
White cloth flipping in the breeze, its free red circle,
Drawn by the master's hand, lifting up and away.
We kneel.  A rush of swan's wings passes above the water.

Some days we practice throwing into that icy water.
With rolling motion the bodies rise and fall, like waves returning:
One partner grabbing the other, sinking, turning away,
The other arcing over, head-first in the water, escaping the sand.
The heat of the sun and the cold of the lake chase themselves in a circle.
Seagulls wheel away from the splashing, and from the flapping flag.

The wind dies.  Dead fish wash up.  The flag
Hangs flat and limp.  We take a break, drink water.
Aware now of our breathing, we smooth on sunscreen, sitting in a circle.
Time is up: we leave the shade, to the beach returning.
The sun presses us down hard toward the scorching sand.
Striking, ducking, advancing, retreating, the afternoon wears away.

Worn away, too, are all superfluities, worn well away.
Distractions followed us all as far as the first unfurling of the flag --
A plan for dinner; a pretty girl's bare feet in the sand;
A check-engine light -- they fade from heat and want of water.
In their place, a new strength comes, flowing and returning,
Everything else under the sun shrivels within our circle.

Around the fire at night we talk, cooking and eating in a circle.
The fire pops like the sand in our teeth; we wave mosquitoes away.
The conversation turns to those who will not be returning,
To those now gone, like him who drew the circle on the flag,
Never now to train with us, here by the edge of the water.
We ease our aching limbs into sleeping bags, now full of sand.

Up again at dawn.  Every day sweating.  The sand
Sticking to us like cinnamon sugar sticks to the hot circle
Of a deep-fried doughnut.  It isn't washing off in the freezing water.
Blocking, turning, rolling, pulling in and pushing away,
Moving in the old ways, here beneath the flag,
Every thrust safely deflecting, every attack returning.

Here by the water, burned and bleached, everything wears away
In the end.  Tending my tired joints, I slowly fold up the flag.
From the empty circle of sand a spiral rises, like a swan returning.
2011-06-02T12:23:18-05:00May 21, 2011|0 Comments
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