Across the Threshold, into the Questions: Discovering Jesus, Finding Self - Brossura

Goldman, Caren; Voorhees, Ted

Brossura

ISBN 10: 0819222550 ISBN 13: 9780819222558

Casa editrice: Morehouse Pub Co, 2008

Riassunto

Offers reflections on how the words of a first-century Jew can offer meaning, hope, and wholeness to readers today.

Across the Threshold, into the Questions includes new encounters with Jesus and his parables and teachings from the Gospel stories in Mark, Matthew and Luke. This volume continues to build the strong foundation needed for another volume that uses Goldman and William Dols' method to explore the non-canonical Gospel of Thomas.

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Across the Threshold, Into the Questions

Discovering Jesus, Finding self

By CAREN GOLDMAN, TED VOORHEES

Church Publishing Incorporated

Copyright © 2008 Caren Goldman and Ted Voorhees
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-8192-2255-8

Contents

About the Authors
Acknowledgments
Foreword
Introduction
Suggestions for Using This Book
1. Searching Self
2. Living Questions
3. Facing Fear
4. Paying Attention
5. Discerning Intentions
6. Becoming Well
7. Resisting Not Evil
8. Reconciling the Past
9. Needing Help
10. Being Poor
11. Seeing Everything
12. Crossing Thresholds
13. Knowing One's Will
14. Denying Truth
15. Unpacking Words
16. Epilogue: Bringing Forth
Notes
Resources
Permissions
Index

CHAPTER 1

SEARCHING SELF

Jesus went on with his disciples to the villages of Caesarea Philippi; and onthe way he asked his disciples, "Who do people say that I am?" And they answeredhim, "John the Baptist; and others, Elijah; and still others, one of theprophets." He asked them, "But who do you say that I am?" Peter answered him,"You are the Messiah." And he sternly ordered them not to tell anyone about him.(Mark 8:27–30)

Reflections

BY CAREN

One day between my fifty-first and fifty-sixth birthdays, I looked in themagnifying mirror suction cupped to my medicine cabinet and had no idea whostared back. The shape of what I assumed was still my face had changed. Inoticed an eyetooth, carefully flossed, brushed, and otherwise maintained overmany years, had shifted. It now pointed east instead of south. Moreover, whenthat tooth decided to go awry many others foolishly followed like chained links.And what about that itsy-bitsy mole that the black rim of my glasses used tohide? "Not so tiny anymore," I mumbled to myself while frowning at the large,amorphous blob of brown silly putty permanently stuck to my face. "How manypeople stare at that," I wondered. Beyond the glasses—a necessary concession tofailing to read the phone book font during my late forties—sat my right eye. Nowstronger progressive bifocal lenses enhanced not only the miniscule tag of skinthat began growing on the upper lid between fifty-four and fifty-five but also adark crater under the lower. A similar circle under my other eye gave newmeaning to the expression "mirror image." While turning my face to see whethernose hairs had sprouted and upper lip stubble needed plucking, sunlight pouredthrough the window. Did it brighten my day? Hardly. Instead, it revealed themysterious overnight development of peach-like fuzz on my right jowl. In despairand disgust, I risked turning the other cheek. As I looked straight ahead with afaux Pollyanna attitude that somehow I would find myself looking at a glass oflemonade half-full, I felt another whack: "Dammit. This stuff is taking overthis side also."

For the next half hour, the mug in the mirror taunted me. Like one monkeypicking nits off another, I searched every inch of those foreign features forforensic findings that could help me identify and eradicate the source of aliver spot, neck creases destined to become wrinkles and other crimes against myformer face. For the first time—or was it the twenty-first?—I harbored thoughtsof coloring my curly, wavy, often frizzy salt and pepper hair, buying age-defyingcreams, and even—for what I now consider a complete loss of sensibility—investingin cosmetic surgery, contact lenses, and bright white porcelain caps.

To set the record straight, I have done none of the above except the following.On the advice of my dentist, a saint with a talent for overriding my geneticdisposition to loosing teeth, I periodically consign savings to restoringthirty-year-old crowns on real molars that would otherwise be replaced withfalse ones. I occasionally pluck unwanted hairs growing where they ought not (todate my ears remain free and clear—although a constant whistle and hearing lossis another story). And I regularly check that the ever-growing silly puttydoesn't meet suspicious mole criteria. And that's all. To make any of the otherchanges pondered would be totally out of character, I tell myself. "It's justnot who I am."

Of course today, as I stand before that same truth-telling mirror bemoaning thefact that my sixtieth birthday is history, my seasoned answers to the question,"Who am I?" no longer feel honest. And if that's true, who do I now say I am oram not?

Such questions prompt list making even among those of us who are not anal andwill never admit to being old enough to find them necessary for navigating theday. But what kind of lists? Lists of relatives? Schools? Vocations? Avocations?Marriages? Friendships? Disassociations? Residences? Organizations?Affiliations? Triumphs? Tragedies? Failures? Beliefs? Disbeliefs? Regrets?Illnesses? Beginnings? Endings? All of the above? More to come?

Six decades into the process, the tasks of trying to nail down who I am stillconfound me. Asking my spouse, children, relatives, friends, a mentor, casualacquaintances, professional peers, e-mail correspondents, and even reconnectingwith a classmate passing through after forty years doesn't help. They only knowwho I was before I took my last really good look in the mirror just an hour ago.To the question, "Who do you say I am?" they offer answers built on ancientdata, solitary events, psychobabble, first impressions, projections, and thosetimes they heard me say something nice or naughty or nothing at all. Theyconstruct who I am based on what they want, need, expect, believe, love,remember, regret, forget, hate, and fear. They answer as though the question isrhetorical and so each time I must consider whether it was.

The last time my mother visited me before she died, I stood with her as shelooked in a mirror pointing at her reflection. "Caren. I don't know who thatperson is," she said. "I don't feel like the seventy-four-year-old staring backat me. Inside I still feel like I'm twenty-five. Okay, maybe forty-five."

"I know just what you mean," I said honestly. "I'm having the same experienceswhen I look in the mirror."

Standing in the silence that held our shared moment and looking straight ahead,both of us could see a bit more of an answer. I touched the reflection of mynose and then the reflection of hers. Other comparisons followed. I pointed outwhat was on her face and what would probably appear on mine some day. Shetouched what was on my face and then showed me where I could find it on hers. Weboth had a lifelong blemish we couldn't stand in the same place. She had itremoved several times, but it always grew back. For me it was a childhood lessonlearned and relearned. I never tried getting rid of it. Then there was that waywe both tilted our heads. There—before our eyes—right then—we were doing it.

For a few more minutes, we giggled like preteen girls as the game played itselfout. We never told anyone about our silliness, and the next time those momentscame to mind was the afternoon I delivered the eulogy at my mother's funeral."Let me tell you about Muriel Oglesby," I said, knowing that the best I could dowas to hold up snapshots of her life for those gathered to recall or view themfor the first time.

Afterwards, when people came up to express condolences, they said ever so kindlythat I had captured who she was. I think not. Indeed, the hours, days, and yearsthat have followed redevelop and enlarge the pictures of her that I cropped intosnippets that day. Standing in silence and looking in the mirror alone, I reachout and touch my face while still asking who that mother, grandmother, great-grandmother,wife, ex-wife, friend, cousin, aunt, sister, and neighbor was.

Wonderings and Wanderings

Reread the passage from Mark 8. As it opens, we meet Jesus and the disciples asthey are about to enter the villages of Caesarea Philippi. This is a literal andfigurative turning point in the story of Jesus' journey from Nazareth inGalilee. These villages are as far north as his ministry of healing, teaching,and preaching will take him before he changes direction and sets his face southtoward Jerusalem.

Enter into the story by seeing yourself among those on the road with Jesus. Yousee him turn to his disciples and hear him ask, "Who do people say I am?"

You begin pondering the reasons why Jesus might ask this question about whatpeople say. The disciples answer that people say Jesus is John the Baptist,Elijah, or one of the prophets. Take time to explore images, memories, thoughtsthat may come to mind if you remember stories and information about thesebiblical characters.

• According to the disciples, what are people not saying in response to Jesus'question?

Next, Jesus asks his disciples, "But who do you say I am?" You notice that onlyPeter responds.

• What might be reasons and possibilities for the others' silence?

Stay in character as one traveling with Jesus and draw a line down the middle ofa blank piece of paper. On one side, record nouns and phrases to answer thequestion: "Who do I say Jesus is?" On the other side, write down who, in youreyes, he is not.

In ancient times, Jews believed that the role of the messiah—an anointed one—wouldbe to usher in a messianic age that would change the world. In those days,prophets, priests, and kings were anointed. But rather than endowing one withdivinity, anointing was a call to take on a mantle of responsibility and receivethe authority to be heard and to even make things happen that would result in"sight for all who were blind" and the "release of all who were captive."

• In your own words, how would you reword Peter's answer to Jesus?

As soon as Peter answers, Jesus "sternly" orders all the disciples not to tellanyone. Definitions of the word sternly include rigid, strict, anduncompromising as well as severe and allowing no leeway. Synonyms for the wordsternly include strictly, harshly, firmly, hardheartedly, unsympathetically, andausterely. The definitions and synonyms just mentioned are for the word sternlyin English. The original Greek epitimao is stronger and means rebuke, sternlyadmonish, censure, and warn.

• Why do you think Jesus might have reacted this way?

• Jesus responds with neither a yes nor a no. Why?

• If you were to imagine Jesus asking himself the question, "Who do I say I am?"how might he answer his own question?

Go back through the chapters of your life.

• Who along the way in your family, among friends, and in other personal andprofessional relationships helped to define who you were and who you are?

• Are there ones who never understood who you were, who you aspired to be, whoyou've become, and who you are becoming?

Stop whatever you are doing and sit quietly, or look in the mirror, or go standin the midst of a crowded room, mall, or a place away from home and askyourself, "Who do I say I am?"

Mirrors

I am a victim of my biography.

—Barack Obama

In the world to come I shall not be asked, "Why were you not Moses?" I shall beasked, "Why were you not Zusya?"

—Rabbi Zusya

Methinks that what they call my shadow here on earth is my true substance.

—Herman Melville

I am what I am and that's all that I am. I'm Popeye the Sailor Man.

—Popeye

The Idea of Ancestry (I)

by Etheridge Knight

Taped to the wall of my cell are 47 pictures: 47 blackfaces: my father, mother, grandmothers(1 dead), grandfathers(both dead), brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts,cousins (1st and 2nd), nieces, and nephews. They stareacross the space at me sprawling on my bunk. I knowtheir dark eyes, they know mine. I know their style,they know mine. I am all of them, they are all of me;they are farmers, I am a thief, I am me, they are thee.

I have at one time or another been in love with my mother,1 grandmother, 2 sisters, 2 aunts (1 went to the asylum),and 5 cousins. I am now in love with a 7-yr-old niece(she sends me letters in large block print, andher picture is the only one that smiles at me).

I have the same name as 1 grandfather, 3 cousins, 3 nephews,and 1 uncle. The uncle disappeared when he was 15, just tookoff and caught a freight (they say). He's discussed each yearwhen the family has a reunion, he causes uneasiness inthe clan, he is an empty space. My father's mother, who is 93and who keeps the Family Bible with everybody's birth dates(and death dates) in it, always mentions him. There is noplace in her Bible for "whereabouts unknown."

Ticket

by Charles O. Hartman

I love the moment at the ticket window—he says—when you are to say the name of your destination, and realizethat you could say anything, the man at the counterwill believe you, the woman at the counterwould never say No, that isn't where you're going,you could buy a ticket for one place and go to another,less far along the same line. Suddenly you would find yourself—he says—in a locality you've never seen before,where no one has ever seen you and you could say your namewas anything you like, nobody would say No,that isn't you, this is who you are. It thrills me every time.

Self Portrait

by Edward Hirsch

I lived between my heart and my head,like a married couple who can't get along.

I lived between my left arm, which is swiftand sinister, and my right, which is righteous.

I lived between a laugh and a scowl,and voted against myself, a two-party system.

My left leg dawdled or danced along,my right cleaved to the straight and narrow.

My left shoulder was like a stripper on vacation,my right stood upright as a Roman soldier.

Let's just say that my left side was the organdonor and leave my private parts alone,

but as for my eyes, which are two shadesof brown, well, Dionysus, meet Apollo.

Look at Eve raising her left eyebrowwhile Adam puts his right foot down.

No one expected it to survive,but divorce seemed out of the question.

I suppose my left hand and my right handwill be clasped over my chest in the coffin

and I'll be reconciled at last,I'll be whole again.

From A Doll's House

by Henrik Ibsen

Nora: ... [W]hen I was at home with papa, he told me his opinion abouteverything, and so I had the same opinions; and if I differed from him Iconcealed the fact, because he would not have liked it. He called me his doll-child,and he played with me just as I used to play with my dolls. And when Icame to live with you ...

I mean that I was simply transferred from papa's hands into yours. You arrangedeverything according to your own taste, and so I got the same tastes as you orelse I pretended to, I am really not quite sure which—I think sometimes the oneand sometimes the other. When I look back on it, it seems to me as if I had beenliving here like a poor woman—just from hand to mouth. I have existed merely toperform tricks for you, Torvald. But you would have it so. You and papa havecommitted a great sin against me. It is your fault that I have made nothing ofmy life.

Helmer: How unreasonable and how ungrateful you are, Nora! Have you not beenhappy here?

Nora: No, I have never been happy. I thought I was, but it has never really beenso ... only merry. And you have always been so kind to me. But our home hasbeen nothing but a playroom. I have been your doll-wife, just as at home I waspapa's doll-child; and here the children have been my dolls. I thought it greatfun when you played with me, just as they thought it great fun when I playedwith them. That is what our marriage has been, Torvald.

Helmer: There is some truth in what you sav—exaggerated and strained as yourview of it is. But for the future it shall be different. Playtime shall be over,and lesson-time shall begin....

Nora: Alas, Torvald, you are not the man to educate me into being a proper wifefor you.

Helmer: And you can say that!

Nora: And I—how am I fitted to bring up the children?

Helmer: Nora!

Nora: Didn't you say so yourself a little while ago—that you dare not trust meto bring them up?

Helmer: In a moment of anger! Why do you pay any heed to that?

Nora: Indeed, you were perfectly right. I am not fit for the task. There isanother task I must undertake first. I must try and educate myself—you are notthe man to help me in that. I must do that for myself. And that is why I amgoing to leave you now.... I must stand quite alone, if I am to understandmyself and everything about me. It is for that reason that I cannot remain withyou any longer....

Helmer: To desert your home, your husband and your children! And you don'tconsider what people will say!

Nora: I cannot consider that at all. I only know that it is necessary for me.

Helmer: It's shocking. This is how you would neglect your most sacred duties.

Nora: What do you consider my most sacred duties?

Helmer: Do I need to tell you that? Are they not your duties to your husband andyour children?

Nora: I have other duties just as sacred.

Helmer: That you have not. What duties could those be?

Nora: Duties to myself.

Helmer: Before all else, you are a wife and a mother.

Nora: I don't believe that any longer. I believe that before all else I am areasonable human being, just as you are—or, at all events, that I must try andbecome one. I know quite well, Torvald, that most people would think you right,and that views of that kind are to he found in books; but I can no longercontent myself with what most people say, or with what is found in books. I mustthink over things for myself and get to understand them....

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Across the Threshold, Into the Questions by CAREN GOLDMAN, TED VOORHEES. Copyright © 2008 Caren Goldman and Ted Voorhees. Excerpted by permission of Church Publishing Incorporated.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Dettagli dell'edizione

• Editore: Morehouse Pub Co
• Data di pubblicazione: 2008
• Lingua: Inglese
• ISBN 10: 0819222550
• ISBN 13: 9780819222558
• Rilegatura: Copertina flessibile
• Numero di pagine: 166
• Contatto del produttore: non disponibile
• Persona responsabile: non disponibile