o1mnikent

The GOP debate last week left me a little disturbed not only because the election is still a year away, but also because of the candidates’ nearly wholesale acceptance of the use of torture. The moderator introduced a hypothetical scenario that included a terrorist attack with the threat of another one. He asked the candidates to respond with how they might deal with the crisis. I was shocked at how many of the candidates supported the use of torture and dismayed by the audience’s enthusiastic approval.

Giuliani said he didn’t approve of torture, but then admitted that he accepted certain forms of torture, such as water-boarding. (See the relevant portions of the transcript at GO Thinktank.)

Romney promised that he would not permit terrorists to be tried on American soil. He also refrained from using the word “torture,” instead saying “enhanced interrogation techniques.” That we’re creating euphemisms for “torture” indicates that we’re uncomfortable with the term because of what it represents. Or perhaps we’re unsure how to reconcile shamefulness of the practice with sensationalized anti-terrorism rhetoric emanating from the Pentagon.

But Romney was not finished. He proposed that we double the size of Guatanamo, and the audience responded with applause. I was dismayed by the audience’s enthusiastic support of Romney’s comments, but happy that they had found a way to make him stop talking.

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Tremper Longman makes the argument that Israel’s worship – the laws and regulations in Leviticus and Numbers – reoriented them to the ideals of the creation (see Immanuel In Our Place). This is an interesting way of reading the Old Testament; we rarely let books like Leviticus and Numbers speak on their own, in the way that God’s law would have originally been heard. Whenever we encounter an obscure Old Testament law, we’re quick to remind ourselves that Holy Crap It’s A Good Thing That Jesus Came and Fulfilled That One. Or we turn to the book of Hebrews to find the specific fulfillment. I myself have found that reading the books of Leviticus and Hebrews and Leviticus next to each other is insightful and rewarding. And makes for a great theme for a worship service (remember that, Matt?).

But that’s not at all how Israel thought of their law, at least while they were wandering in the desert. Their perception of reality was something like this: God created the world perfect and good. God dwelled in the physical presence of the people (Adam and Eve). Then we screwed it up and now we’re disconnected from God. Sure, God gave the promise and established a covenant, but the fulfillment of that promise is a long way off, and the specifics of the outcome aren’t very discernible. For the people of Israel in the desert of Sinai, the best wasn’t yet to come; it was behind them. It was the goodness of creation, and it was in the past.

Longman makes the argument that the tenets of the laws in Leviticus and Numbers reoriented Israel to their past, when they dwelled more closely with God – or at least they perceived that they did. The Sabbath, in particular, served as a kind of sacred time that recalled the perfection of time original to creation. Sabbath reoriented the Israelites toward Yahweh, toward Eden, and toward sinlessness. Sabbath was a small reminder of God’s goodness in a world of punishment, famine, oppressive rulers, and hostile Egyptians (sorry, Anne).

After I read Longman’s book, I encountered various books and articles written by Richard Foster, Dallas Willard, and Eugene Peterson. They wrote about a life of spiritual disciplines, and specifically about the discipline of Sabbath observance. The very act of making time for Sabbath stands starkly against cultural preferences for connectivity, busy-ness, and filled schedules. “Instead,” said these new voices that forced their way into my life, “Make space for God. It doesn’t need to be Sunday, and if you’re a pastor, it probably won’t. Take Monday afternoon, Friday night. Be silent, be still.”

This version of Sabbath – a reordering of time and a discipline of distance from busy activity – corresponds to portions of Sabbath observance that I learned as a child. My parents locked me in my room for an hour every Sunday for a nap. I thought of this as oppressive incarceration; my parents thought of it as rest from That Annoying Five Year Old. My brief absence was, for them, enjoyment. And Sabbath, says Jesus, is for that purpose. Our enjoyment. It’s a small period of time where we enjoy God, each other, and experience the flourishing of both Eden and the new creation. Sabbath is a window into a time that we can’t fully experience right now; we can taste it in small portions.

The synod of my denomination, the Christian Reformed Church, decided last summer to abstain from discussing whether or not women may be permitted as delegates to synod. All synodical decisions must be ratified the following year, which means that Synod 2007 will make the final decision in a few weeks, when synod convenes on Calvin’s campus.

I won’t reiterate arguments for or against women serving in ecclesiastical office. Those arguments have been made elsewhere by people more articulate than me. What I find confusing is why synod would decide to call this abstinence a Sabbath rest. Synod’s definition of Sabbath in this case is a misappropriation of the Biblical notion of Sabbath – a time of flourishing and rest, a time of discovering and sensing God’s presence more fully and intentionally in a given period of time. Instead, synod seems to have intentionally misused the Biblical notion of Sabbath in order to advance a particular agenda. To quote from one of the overtures to synod:

“This proposal is very troubling because it misuses a beautiful biblical concept that causes Christians to ‘rest from their [evil] ways, let the Lord work in [them] through his Spirit and so begin already in this life the eternal Sabbath.’”

Silencing discussion, debate, and fruitful dialogue, and possibly silencing the Spirit’s work under the guise of Sabbath dishonors God’s intention for Sabbath in the first place and it dishonors the way the Spirit might be moving in the present. Synod asks us to stop talking, stop thinking, stop debating, and stop observing in any kind of official way how God might be working in our denomination. Instead, take seven years and do nothing. Meanwhile, gifts remain unused, voices remain silenced, and a large segment of our church remains unrepresented at synod.

So if we’re not supposed to talk, what are we to do during this Sabbath? Synod says that the seven year break from talking about That Thing We Don’t Like Talking About will help us focus in our ministries. But that implies that either the church can discuss women at synod or they can do ministry. Are these our only two options? Are they mutually exclusive? That’s not an accurate appraisal of the situation. Could it be, instead, that discussing women at synod could lead to ministry possibilities that would not be present if we remained silent? Or, more importantly, could the shared voices of both men and women at synod contribute enormously to ministry in our churches and our denomination?

Regardless of what you think about women in ecclesiastical office, we’ll never move forward as a denomination if we don’t talk. Let’s work this out together. Let’s talk. Let’s listen to each other. We all have opinions, so let’s have a conversation. We won’t agree with each other, but we can live together and try to love each other as we discern how God might be guiding us. It would be wrong to halt dialogue and perpetuate misunderstanding and denominational disunity in the name of Sabbath.

What can you do? Gather at synod with hundreds of others from our denomination to learn, listen, speak, and pray. Go here to find out more: Cloud of Witnesses.