Forgetful Presence

“Where we live without counting / where we have forgotten time / and have forgotten ourselves where eternity has seized us / we are entirely present / entirely trusting, eternal.”

–Wendell Berry, Sabbath Poems, 2007.IV

So muses Wendell Berry, the philosopher-farmer-prophet, whose words present a potent elixir to our restless, fragmented souls. From 1979 to 2012, Berry would walk his Kentucky farmstead alone on the Sabbath day with nothing but pad and pencil in hand. This Day: Collected & New Sabbath Poems is a transcript of Berry’s strolls.

His fourth poem in 2007 concerns the consciousness of time: a disease which left unchecked, he writes, “dooms us to the past.” To concern oneself with time, which we moderns have clearly mastered, is to forfeit any chance of real, authentic presence.

We know this all too well, especially those of us with packed-to-bursting schedules: the more we attune our consciousness to time, the more, it seems, time eludes us. We are left with no place to live, constantly remembering but never residing.

We focus on tasks to be accomplished and the measurable slivers of time available for use. All the while, we float through our days constantly looking back, back, back– remembering but never truly residing.

The word abide has really pollinated our church in recent years (cf. John 15:1-17). What does it mean to abide in God? And what does it mean to abide with others? Wendell Berry, I believe, can help with both.

To abide somewhere or in the presence of someone is to exercise a kind of forgetful presence. In the words of Berry, it is to “live without counting,” to forget one’s own self, to be “seized by eternity’s” grasp. Likewise, to truly abide with others is to let go of the measuring rod of consciousness, to quit quantifying and calculating, and to be, just be.

To abide with one’s children is to forget time, task, and tally. It is to lower the mirror of awareness, to slam shut –you could say– the mind’s-eye, and to lose oneself blissfully in their presence, if it is but for a moment.

Such moments though, I would argue, feel nothing like moments at all. There is no measurable quantity to them. Such moments are states of existence in which eternity itself has seized us, letting us live, finally –maybe for the very first time, exactly where we are.

As you consider, today, how to abide in God and with others, I urge you to practice forgetful presence, a mode of creaturely existence in which you are “entirely present, entirely trusting... eternal.”

Jonah Bissell

Associate Pastor

A Loveless Church?

“This I have against you: you have abandoned the love you had at first” (Rev. 2:4).

Toward the end of the first century (ca. 92-96 AD), a certain Jewish prophet named John wrote what came to be the most provocative text in the Christian Bible: Revelation. This document, appearing last in printed Bibles today, is of hybrid literary character: it is at once apocalypse, prophecy, and letter, and was intended to function as both a liturgical and political guidebook.

The work as a whole was sent to seven actual churches located in ancient Asia Minor (western Turkey today): Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira, Sardis, Philadelphia, and Laodicea. After John wrote the work’s main series of visions (chs. 4-22), he wrote seven brief letters to each of these churches (chs. 2-3).

The first of such letters is to the seasoned church of Ephesus, the largest and most significant city of those addressed in Rev. 2-3. The Ephesian church was nearly four decades old, not a new church by any means.

This is how John phrases the opening of his letter to the Ephesians (note that Jesus is the speaker here):

“I know your works, your toil and your patient endurance, and how you cannot bear with those who are evil... I know you are enduring patiently and bearing up for my name’s sake. But this I have against you: you have abandoned the love you had at first” (2:2-4, ESV).

The Ephesian church is commended for their tireless work and patient endurance, defined further as their refusal to tolerate “wrongdoers” (cf. “those who are evil”). These wrongdoers are immediately identified in v. 2b (not included above) as “those who call themselves apostles but are not, who are actually false.” The Ephesian church had “endured patiently,” safeguarding truth and orthodoxy for nearly 40 years, but Jesus has one thing against them: they have forsaken the love they had at first.

Now, for quite some time, I interpreted such love to be love of Jesus. But after consulting some technical commentaries, carefully studying the Greek, and considering the tenor of this (mini-)letter, I now prefer a different interpretation: the love the Ephesians abandoned seems not to be love of Jesus but rather love of each other, or more broadly: love of all people.

The Ephesian church, in other words, had prized, treasured, and safeguarded doctrinal accuracy and theological truth. However, along the way they abandoned love. They thus prioritized truth and accuracy over heartfelt care and concern.

This, friends, is no small matter. The apostle Paul, in 1 Cor. 13:1-3 says, “If I speak in the tongues of humans and angels... If I have prophetic power... If I have faith to move mountains... If I give away all I have, but I have not love... I gain nothing...” Eugene Peterson, long-time pastor, poet, and theologian, similarly writes “the church is not the church if it has not love.”

I struggle to remember a time in my life at which such a message was more relevant and necessary. Certain branches of Christianity, in North America especially, have become like the Ephesian church: they have prized doctrinal accuracy and theological truth at the expense of their love of others.

A church, however, with truth but not love, cannot be the church. It cannot accomplish its purpose, namely: to reflect the light and love of Jesus Christ.

In our present cultural and political moment, some churches, like that of Ephesus, need to hear this message. They need to own up to this sobering reality, and ask God for help and direction.

Luckily, Jesus doesn’t leave the Ephesians in the dark, but tells them exactly what they are to do:

“Remember therefore from where you’ve fallen; repent and do the works you did at first” (2:5).

The works they did at first were likely deeds of charity, sensitivity, generosity, patience, kindness, and goodness. They were works of humility, support, endurance, hope, and love, definitely love.

Churches that have privileged doctrinal accuracy at the expense of love of the other ought simply to heed the advice of Jesus: “return to the loving actions you did at first, and only then can my light shine through you.”

Jonah Bissell

Associate Pastor

The Pastor as Writer

Throughout Christian history, the most impactful pastors by and large have been writers.

There’s Paul of Tarsus, Irenaeus of Lyons, and Augustine of Hippo, to name a few ancients. There’s Anselm of Canterbury, John Calvin, and Jonathan Edwards, for medievals and early moderns. Last but not least, there’s Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Fleming Rutledge, and Eugene Peterson, for us today.

The fact is: some of the best theological writing has emerged from the gritty, life-on-life demands of full-time pastoral ministry.

Now, I do not claim to occupy a space even close to these giants! I do know, however, that writing, good writing, emerging from the soil of local church ministry, can profoundly nourish both congregation and pastor. Upon the recommendations of others, then, I have decided to include writing as part of my formal responsibilities as pastor.

To date, much of my writing has been to a specialized, academic audience. For example, I currently write short reviews for Wiley’s Religious Studies Review, offering summary-analyses of the latest theological scholarship. I am also usually working on a paper to present at the Society of Biblical Literature’s annual meeting(s), a guild which draws professors, researchers, and religious leaders alike.

As pastor of this congregation, I feel a burden to write, but especially to write for you.

What I plan to do at first, then, is write about what I am reading. Whether it’s Wendell Berry’s poetry, Athanasius’s treatise on the Incarnation, or John Steinbeck’s religious allegory in East of Eden, my aim is to connect these literary worlds with the concrete world(s) in which you live. The following posts, then, will serve not as mere flags of my own literary interests. My hope, rather, is that they will provide fresh insights from a variety of places so as to enrich you spiritually today.

I look forward to embarking on this journey together, and I hope my articulations serve you well. May they be a spark which ignites a conversation, an idea which provokes fresh insight, an image which charts a trajectory as you navigate Christian life today.

Jonah Bissell

Associate Pastor