Seriously. A Pulitzer.

A Special Citation to Bob Dylan for his profound impact on popular music and American culture, marked by lyrical compositions of extraordinary poetic power.

It’s kind of strange considering he didn’t release new material in 2007, but way to go Bob!

Yesterday, we celebrated the Lord’s Supper in our worship service. Todd Johnson, a member of our congregation and professor of theology, worship, and the arts at Fuller Theological Seminary, preached about the meaning of Communion using the story of the resurrected Jesus meeting the disciples on the road to Emmaus (Luke 24.13-35). He reminded us that the Eucharist is not only a memorial of Jesus’ death, but also a celebration of the Resurrection and he challenged us to see it as such. When I walked into the sanctuary and saw the table prepared for the Eucharist, I had a sense that there would be something special in that day’s receiving the bread and drink. Todd’s sermon spoke deeply and definitively about having the eyes to see the reality in front of us that Jesus is risen, something which has been hard for me since Dad’s death.

After the sermon, we recited the Apostles’ Creed, in which we proclaim with the whole Church,

I believe in the Holy Spirit,
the holy catholic church,
the communion of saints,
the forgiveness of sins,
the resurrection of the body,
and the life everlasting. AMEN.

Given my struggles of faith recently, especially in seeing Jesus as victorious over death, I saw my participation in this creed as an historical statement. In an interview with Krista Tippet on Speaking of Faith, theologian and Yale Divinity School professor Jaroslav Pelikan had this to say about the use of the creeds:

My faith life, like that of every one else, fluctuates. There are ups and downs and hot spots and cold spots, and boredom and ennui and all the rest can be there. And so I’m not asked on a Sunday morning, “As of 9:20, what do you believe?” And then you sit down with a three-by-five index card saying, “Now let’s see. What do I believe today?” No, that’s not what they’re asking me. They’re asking me, “Are you a member of a community which now, for a millennium and a half, has said, ‘We believe in one God’?”

I was in tears saying, “I believe… in the resurrection of the body,” not because I could say it with deep conviction or power, but because I said it as a hope against hope. I said it not as a statement that in this situation, in my grief, I believe in the resurrection of the body. No, I said it remembering my twenty-three years as a member of the Church, which has proclaimed the resurrection of the body for two thousand years. I believe in the resurrection. This was not a confession out of my strength, but out of my weakness. If there was any strength in my proclamation, it came from the Holy Spirit, who invigorates those who hold to this central part of the Christian faith.

In the fullness of my awareness of death’s reality, I walked into the line in the aisle to tear off a piece of sourdough and dip it in a cup full of grape juice. This was my act of allegiance to the Kingdom of God even though I can barely see it right now. Eating that shred of bread and bit of juice was my protest against death in spite of its overwhelming presence in my life. I chewed weakly, praying for hope and choosing belief in Jesus’ victory when so much of the immediate evidence seems to say otherwise. I don’t know where this experience will lead me, but I do know I want another bite, another drink.