Genesis 4:1-7, Matthew 12:46-50
A River Runs Through It is a movie about fishing and faith—about family and all of the complexities of knowing and yet not understanding our loved ones. It’s also a story of failure: failure to communicate, failure to help, and failure (ultimately) to save.
It’s set in beautiful Montana, with the 1930s life of church, schooling, family dinners, fights, gambling, and speakeasies. It is mostly a story of two brothers, Norman and Paul Maclean and their supporting family and friends. Their father is a Presbyterian minister and their teacher: both in academics and fishing. As the older brother tells the story, he says: “In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing.”
It’s not really about a River and not really about fishing. It’s not really about religion either even though the father is a Presbyterian minister and there are lots of scenes in church. On a side note, my Hebrew Bible professor in seminary was both a Presbyterian and an avid fly fisherman. When Norman says, he and his brother were left to assume all great fisherman in the bible were fly fisherman, it’s like Dr. Petersen’s famous lecture in which he attempts to prove that Moses was also a fly fisherman. This lesson came complete with casting lessons for all of us students out on the Emory quad.
In our Genesis reading we had the story of the first brothers, Cain and Abel, and their rivalries before God that ultimately lead to murder.
Norman and Paul MacLean are not exactly like Cain and Abel. They have their rivalries and their fights, but instead of killing his brother, Norman wonders if there was anything he could have done to save Paul from his untimely death—wonders in fact, if it could have been possible to be one’s brother’s keeper. Helping brothers, or mostly not being able to help, is a recurring theme between both Norman and Paul, even Jessie—Norman’s girlfriend tries to get Norman to help her own brother.
But like Cain and Abel, the two brothers are different. Cain tends the fields and Abel raises sheep. Norman travels away for college and Paul stays close to home. Norman becomes a literature professor in Chicago and Paul becomes editor of the local paper. Norman gets married and Paul dates an “unsuitable” woman of a different race. Though they love each other, there is something that inhibits them from truly communicating and understanding each other. After their big fight in the kitchen, (their closest Cain and Abel moment) instead of talking it over and analyzing it, they simply each agree, privately, to be kind to each other again.
If all else fails, if they are disconnected from each other, they can fish, and in fishing, they find away to be together and to communicate their brotherly bond without words. Fishing is an activity that, since childhood, has brought them together. It’s a language they can speak together, to honor their shared childhood and connection.
Their identities, their knowledge of who they are comes to them in different ways, as Norman says: “I knew I was tough because I had been bloodied in battle” “Paul was different. His toughness came from some secret place inside of him. He simply knew he was tougher than anyone alive.”
They are similar though. The MacLean brothers, who fish, who work with words, and yet who fail to understand each other on a fundamental level. And this misunderstanding would not be problematic, but for Norman who wonders if he could have ultimately prevented Paul’s death. His father wonders this too, asking questions about the younger son with a darker, hidden side.
We see Paul’s self-destructive tendencies early on as a child—his desire for danger, for wildness, to push the boundaries—and that only increases as he consumes copious amounts of alcohol in prohibition times, and gambles his way into high stakes debt. Norman observes all of these, joins in at times, and seems unable to intervene in any meaningful way. We are left wondering, with Norman and Rev. Maclean, if Paul could have been saved—if anyone could have done something to alter his path . . .
Toward the end, we see an older Norman, now alone, fishing again—back in the place where it all makes more sense to him and he says: “Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.” Communicating in ways without words—at the river, casting his line.
It’s a melancholy, yet hopeful movie—of carrying those who we love around with us.
We remain mysteries to each other--spouses, children, siblings—who surprise us—either in small or big ways. We can never understand other people the way we understand ourselves, never know exactly what it is like to be someone else, sometimes not really comprehending what it’s actually like to be ourselves.
Sometimes the families we are born into end up not being the best for us.
Sometimes we are adopted into new families early on—
Sometimes we learn to form new families as we get older.
In the gospel, Jesus chooses everyone to be his brothers and sister and mother—not rejecting the family he had—but opening up his family to include the whole world.
Maybe we never truly understand each other—in all the deep nooks and crannies of our identities—But we know that God knows every little details—knows us better than we know ourselves.
In church, we bump into each other, we see each other, we pass the peace, we commune over bread and wine and coffee and cupcakes. But in so many ways we don’t really know each other. We don’t know each others stories, we don’t know each others hurts and scars, we don’t know each others great moments of happiness.
Of course we rely on the grace of Jesus for our salvation, but Jesus also relies on our work: our ministry in his name to all the world.
There’s a certain loneliness in our “developed” world—rich with resources, technology, and yet poor in relationships and love. We are reluctant to open ourselves up to other people to be available to hear their stories to be vulnerable to tell them ours. There are lonely, wounded people sitting all over this room right now. Part of our salvation from this isolation lies in what we can do for each other. The church is God’s best idea for saving the world. And the church is a community of people, a family of believers who work to help save each other, who provide love and support and understanding and the comfort that no matter what, we are never alone, and not just because God loves us, knows us, and is always with us, but because other people also love us, know us, and are always with us: ready to listen, ready to help.
Writer Anne Lammot says the most powerful sermon in the world is two sentences: “Me too.” In the midst of our pain, embarrassment, suffering, humiliation—if another person can look at us and honestly say “me too,” it can save us.
The movie ends with a mixture of geography and mysticism “all things merge into one and a river runs through it.”
We are all one: one people, one family, one loaf of bread—In the name of Jesus Christ.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Buffalo Springfield - For What Its Worth Video by Rab - MySpace Video
For What It’s Worth
Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8
Buffalo Springfield - For What Its Worth Video by Rab - MySpace Video
Shared via AddThis
This could be a song about almost any human strife that’s gotten out of hand.
It’s a cry for reasonable thinking in the midst of paraonoia and conflict.
It could be a song about Palm Sunday and Holy Week—a field day for the heat, standing in the street, waving signs, worry about the men with weapons, the ones who will take you away if you step out of line.
It could be a song now about Afghanistan or Iran. Or any of our current political battles: Healthcare Reform, Gun Control—all of the things that divide us by opinion, political party, national loyalty.
It’s a song that seems largely about politics, about the Viet Nam war and the upheaval of the 60s. But the song was written for something a little narrower: the closing of the club Pandora’s Box in West Hollywood, California—that did have to do with local politicians acting against the youth who attended the club, clogging up the main road and not spending very much money—it is still a song that is critical of authority and institution.
For What It’s Worth was written by Stephen Stills and performed by Buffalo Springfield. Stills said that the name of the song came about when he presented it to the record company: He said: "I have this song here, for what it's worth, if you want it." Later they decided that should be its name. It is considered the 99th greatest song of all time by Acclaimed Music
Part of what I am discovering in preaching this series, is that there is a certain holiness in film and music: in our cultural art. Now, not all art is sacred, not all art is well-done or meaningful—plenty of movies and songs seem to be cheaply slapped together. But the ones that are genuine communicate something important about who we are that transcends the decades—how we find meaning in our lives and what’s important to us.
It’s pop culture, but it’s also sacred. Scripture, too, says something about who we are and who we were.
A 2006 documentary on Bob Dylan discussed his uncanny ability to name so many universal and timely sentiments. It also talked about how prophetic his music was, especially in the 60s, but it also showed clips of him discussing how he didn’t really feel like he had his thumb on the sentiments of the American people, but was just writing what came to him—almost as if he were channeling these words without understanding their power, and not wanting to take credit for something he didn’t feel he was really doing on purpose.
For What It’s Worth strikes me as a similar situation—a song that ends up speaking to many people, even now, not so much because of the writer, or the band, but because of it’s call to stop and look and listen to the world around us.
Not a child of the 60s myself, this is a song I usually here in movies. It was in both Forrest Gump and Lord of War. In fact, I really like this song, but didn’t know what it was called until Sean Hagan suggested it. Because the title doesn’t appear anywhere in the lyrics, it’s a song that I hear in a movie and think – I love this song, what is it?—and then forget all about it until the next time that it pops up in a movie and I tell myself that I really need to figure out what this song is. So it’s a song that I associate with movie scenes: with olive green choppers flying over a rice field, with soldiers in Vietnam, or protestors in DC.
I’m poaching the following form a news article about the song—because I like the way it’s written—Lewis Black wrote this paragraph about leaving a protest rally and hearing this song play on the radio:
“Music has always been a balm of enormous healing properties for my soul and well-being, but for a half-decade or so around that time, it was also reporting from the front. The relevance was beyond rational and not even rooted in reason. By its very nature, it was not a typed broadside, a considered political opinion, or an ideological speech; it was a chunk of unconscious reaction ripped up from all of us and offered as a way of dealing with all that was going on around us. They were just people; they weren't leaders, but more akin to impressionist poets, offering complex, emotional snapshots of a truly blasted environment. ”
Scripture is also a complex, emotional snapshot—of a moment in history, but with language and grace that transcends the centuries.
The war and strife mentioned in the Bible is real, and particular—actual battles in historical time and space. And yet, when Ecclesiastes tells us that there is a time for peace and a time for war, that still speaks to us today. Joel tells of beating plowshares into swords, for a battle of judgment against neighboring nations. Isaiah tells of final days, when war will end, when we will beat swords into plowshares.
There is a time to fight and a time to listen
There is a time to act and a time to stand still
There is a time for the things that divide us and a time for the things that bring us closer together
In the midst of conflict, it’s important to remember that our whole lives are not conflict and strife. Paranoia, fear, darkness are not the end of the story. Separation, distrust, division are not the end of the story.
God is not the “man with a gun over there.”
We can all continue in our own battlegrounds, arguing for our opinions, beliefs, and worldviews—we can argue blindly in a “you’re either us for us or against us” kind of way, or we can stop and listen and look at everything around us.
Maybe we don’t all agree on having a government run health care program, but maybe we can agree that all people deserve to have decent care. Maybe we don’t all agree on the path ahead for the church: for The UMC or Washington Street, but maybe we can agree to trust in God’s spirit moving among us. Maybe we don’t all trust each other, but maybe we can each learn to be more trustworthy. Maybe we don’t all agree on all the finer points of theology: but we do believe in all-powerful, all-loving God, who can save us all.
Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8
Buffalo Springfield - For What Its Worth Video by Rab - MySpace Video
Shared via AddThis
This could be a song about almost any human strife that’s gotten out of hand.
It’s a cry for reasonable thinking in the midst of paraonoia and conflict.
It could be a song about Palm Sunday and Holy Week—a field day for the heat, standing in the street, waving signs, worry about the men with weapons, the ones who will take you away if you step out of line.
It could be a song now about Afghanistan or Iran. Or any of our current political battles: Healthcare Reform, Gun Control—all of the things that divide us by opinion, political party, national loyalty.
It’s a song that seems largely about politics, about the Viet Nam war and the upheaval of the 60s. But the song was written for something a little narrower: the closing of the club Pandora’s Box in West Hollywood, California—that did have to do with local politicians acting against the youth who attended the club, clogging up the main road and not spending very much money—it is still a song that is critical of authority and institution.
For What It’s Worth was written by Stephen Stills and performed by Buffalo Springfield. Stills said that the name of the song came about when he presented it to the record company: He said: "I have this song here, for what it's worth, if you want it." Later they decided that should be its name. It is considered the 99th greatest song of all time by Acclaimed Music
Part of what I am discovering in preaching this series, is that there is a certain holiness in film and music: in our cultural art. Now, not all art is sacred, not all art is well-done or meaningful—plenty of movies and songs seem to be cheaply slapped together. But the ones that are genuine communicate something important about who we are that transcends the decades—how we find meaning in our lives and what’s important to us.
It’s pop culture, but it’s also sacred. Scripture, too, says something about who we are and who we were.
A 2006 documentary on Bob Dylan discussed his uncanny ability to name so many universal and timely sentiments. It also talked about how prophetic his music was, especially in the 60s, but it also showed clips of him discussing how he didn’t really feel like he had his thumb on the sentiments of the American people, but was just writing what came to him—almost as if he were channeling these words without understanding their power, and not wanting to take credit for something he didn’t feel he was really doing on purpose.
For What It’s Worth strikes me as a similar situation—a song that ends up speaking to many people, even now, not so much because of the writer, or the band, but because of it’s call to stop and look and listen to the world around us.
Not a child of the 60s myself, this is a song I usually here in movies. It was in both Forrest Gump and Lord of War. In fact, I really like this song, but didn’t know what it was called until Sean Hagan suggested it. Because the title doesn’t appear anywhere in the lyrics, it’s a song that I hear in a movie and think – I love this song, what is it?—and then forget all about it until the next time that it pops up in a movie and I tell myself that I really need to figure out what this song is. So it’s a song that I associate with movie scenes: with olive green choppers flying over a rice field, with soldiers in Vietnam, or protestors in DC.
I’m poaching the following form a news article about the song—because I like the way it’s written—Lewis Black wrote this paragraph about leaving a protest rally and hearing this song play on the radio:
“Music has always been a balm of enormous healing properties for my soul and well-being, but for a half-decade or so around that time, it was also reporting from the front. The relevance was beyond rational and not even rooted in reason. By its very nature, it was not a typed broadside, a considered political opinion, or an ideological speech; it was a chunk of unconscious reaction ripped up from all of us and offered as a way of dealing with all that was going on around us. They were just people; they weren't leaders, but more akin to impressionist poets, offering complex, emotional snapshots of a truly blasted environment. ”
Scripture is also a complex, emotional snapshot—of a moment in history, but with language and grace that transcends the centuries.
The war and strife mentioned in the Bible is real, and particular—actual battles in historical time and space. And yet, when Ecclesiastes tells us that there is a time for peace and a time for war, that still speaks to us today. Joel tells of beating plowshares into swords, for a battle of judgment against neighboring nations. Isaiah tells of final days, when war will end, when we will beat swords into plowshares.
There is a time to fight and a time to listen
There is a time to act and a time to stand still
There is a time for the things that divide us and a time for the things that bring us closer together
In the midst of conflict, it’s important to remember that our whole lives are not conflict and strife. Paranoia, fear, darkness are not the end of the story. Separation, distrust, division are not the end of the story.
God is not the “man with a gun over there.”
We can all continue in our own battlegrounds, arguing for our opinions, beliefs, and worldviews—we can argue blindly in a “you’re either us for us or against us” kind of way, or we can stop and listen and look at everything around us.
Maybe we don’t all agree on having a government run health care program, but maybe we can agree that all people deserve to have decent care. Maybe we don’t all agree on the path ahead for the church: for The UMC or Washington Street, but maybe we can agree to trust in God’s spirit moving among us. Maybe we don’t all trust each other, but maybe we can each learn to be more trustworthy. Maybe we don’t all agree on all the finer points of theology: but we do believe in all-powerful, all-loving God, who can save us all.
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