by Gray Temple

[From the Church Publishing web site]  The author, a self-described "charismatic liberal," explores the many ways in which a soul, "molten" following a profound religious experience, can harden into an extreme position that is ultimately not conducive to continued spiritual growth.  There are no judgments here, only a serious and, at the same time, good-natured look at the traps we can set for ourselves.

Gray Temple is the rector of St. Patrick's Episcopal Church in Atlanta.  Under the banner of "Worship, Fellowship, and Ministry," St. Patrick's has become one of the conspicuously vibrant worship centers in the church.  Outside the parish, Gray Temple's ministry consists largely of teaching and consultation.  This has taken him across Asia, to Africa, to Europe, and across the United States.

The editor of the book is Joan Castagnone, one of our two incredible editors here at Church Publishing.  I think the work she has done on this book is just exemplary so I'm going to reprint her back cover copy verbatim:

Why are Christians sometimes … well … so unchristian?

In The Molten Soul: Dangers and Opportunities in Religious Conversion, Gray Temple suggests some answers to that centuries-old question.  With both scholarship and humor, he explores how something as good and as powerful as a conversion experience, an encounter with the Divine, can turn so bad.

The Molten Soul challenges the reader to let go of rigid rules and judgmental positions, to embrace, instead, a habit of mind and spirit that is receptive to repeated conversion, to the ongoing and tangible work of God in our lives and our communities.  Illuminating and surprising discussions of the Incarnation, the Atonement, and the Book of Job invite us to consider afresh the basic tenets of belief, of the experience of faith.

Speaking from the unusual standpoint of a liberal charismatic, Gray Temple offers an idiosyncratic and refreshing perspective that makes it clear that all seekers face the same dangers and encounter the same opportunities he explores in this discussion.  Thoughtful believers, regardless of political or denominational affiliation, will be likely to recognize many aspects themselves and their communities.

“The Molten Soul … is a deeply moving combination of personal testimony and critical thought concerning ecclesial, institutional matters.”

With permission and advice of the editor, following are a few excerpts from the book.  If you haven't figured out by now that I'm advising you to go right out and order it (you can get it directly from the CPI web site) ... well, you'll just have to wait until next Christmas to get it as a stocking stuffer from me!

On "The Atonement" ...

Another thing wrong with the statement that Jesus died for our sins is that it reflects a hopelessly superficial understanding of sin.  Can sin really be removed from me without changing something in me?  Is it really comparable to points on my driving record, something I could get erased if I had a pal working at the Department of Motor Vehicles?  Lots of church-talk about being “washed in the Blood” seems to refer to something external like that.  If it were that simple, if it was a stain that Jesus can paint over or sponge-out with his detergent blood, wouldn’t God put up with me in spite of it?  I mean, I put up with all sorts of irritating behavior, mannerisms, and traits from those around me and yet I keep loving them, paying their salaries—and I’m not nearly as nice as God is said to be.  So if I can put up with my child, my mate, my associate, why can’t God put up with a guy no worse than I am without killing Jesus to make it possible?

Reflect on the fact that there is no issue of fluid from your body that can be viewed in social comfort, whether that be blood, waste, sweat, semen, the menses, spit, pus, vomitus, or tears.  The effluent, of whatever kind, is a harbinger of death.  Witnessing a small child reacting to his first blood-dripping cut is enough to remove all doubt on that score.  Such crying assumes a panicked tone never previously heard.

The repressed fear of death energizes our behavior, particularly behavior that we adopt to earn our own admiration, to enhance our sense of entitlement.  The repressed fear of death shows up lurking beneath a welter of actions and feelings not otherwise connected.

Being (seen as) heroic proves our worthiness of life, our entitlement to immortality—if only in human memory.  Embarrassment about our bodies is natural to creatures sliding deathward, making us vulnerable to the specious claims of quacks, cosmetic salesfolk, and fashion designers.  Love affairs—or simple flirting—prove to us that we can still retail our waning attractiveness to others in exchange for material or symbolic benefits.  Religious ritual links us to a deathless realm while furnishing a hero-system, something else to get good at.  Political affiliation links us with the flow of progress, membership among right-thinking people who will surely fare better than the mob—especially after we take over.

I recall praying something like this: “O God, right now I’m having to stretch all my understanding and all my courage farther than I ever did before just to take some of this in, and I’ll probably miss most of it.  I’m fairly bright, but what you’re showing me points way beyond my abilities to track.  What happens to people whose capacities don’t even reach this far?”

And God’s utterly graceful reply?

“I am equally present at all levels of complexity.”

That truth is the real fuel for all spiritual growth.

It’s possible to read that passage too quickly so as to miss—or avoid—its sensual details.  Let those readers who lack a suitable partner with whom to re-enact this scene accept the testimony of others that she performed an act of such pleasantness upon our Lord’s feet as to precipitate sexual alertness.  It was an inappropriate action, appallingly out of place in this setting, in this company.  Yet it was what she did for a living and she was good at it—it was how she related to men.

The utterly startling element in the episode was Jesus’ response.  He made no move to exploit her evident overtures; he arranged no whispered assignation.  Nor, on the other hand, did he shrink back in dainty self-protection, insisting that her ministrations to his right foot were quite sufficient, thank you, no need to bother with the left.  He didn’t ignore her.  He didn’t scold, reproach, or lecture her.  He didn’t deny his enjoyment or gratitude.  Meanwhile his gasping host pulsated infra-red, protesting that he cannot possibly imagine where the lady came from, how she found her way to his house, never saw her before in his life, how could his guest of honor pay attention to her—and so forth.

With perfect charm Jesus received her offering, dignified her motives, offered her a measure of self-respect, corrected and possibly healed his host, and generally modeled the love of that God who made us physical.

The house seems to belong to Jesus.  That opens fascinating possibilities.  Joseph was, after all, a combination architect and building contractor; there is no reason to assume that he was poor.  Stables were the normal accommodations of the poor; only the rich would have asked about a room in an inn.  So the detail in Luke about full inns and open stables, while unlikely to be journalistically accurate, may preserve details about Jesus’ economic status.  Jesus subsequently demonstrates the table manners of an aristocrat on several occasions.  His parables display a knowledge of the conditions of wealth and culture.  Thus his poverty [“The Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”] is not an accident of birth but an adult choice.

ISBN: 0-89869-335-7 (6 x 9 cloth)