First person

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Listening to Naomi Judd: She tried to be honest about her angels and her demons

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Listening to Naomi Judd: She tried to be honest about her angels and her demons

Naomi Judd thought she understood the ties that bind country-music stars and their audience -- then one aggressive fan went and joined the Pentecostal church the Judd family called home.

"It really burdened me," said Judd, after signing hundreds of her "Love Can Build a Bridge" memoir back in 1993. "I just don't sign autographs at church. The best way I can explain it to children … is to say, 'Honey, Jesus is the star.' "

After a year of this tense standoff, Judd became concerned and wrote the fan. "I said, 'I want you to really get away by yourself and read this letter and answer this question honestly: Do you come to church to see The Judds or do you come to church to see God?' She never came back to church. But she was in the autograph line today."

Through it all, Judd and her brash daughter Wynonna have talked openly about their triumphs and their struggles. Many fans identified with their failures just as much as the messages about faith and family.

At the time of that 1993 interview, Naomi Judd had battled through waves of anxiety attacks to address some dark realities -- such as rape, crisis pregnancy and her deadly battle with hepatitis C that retired the The Judds.

What she hadn't discussed was the sexual abuse in her childhood that led to treatment-resistant depression. Judd's April 30th death, at age 76, focused new attention on blunt passages in her 2016 book "River of Time," in which she said had been tempted by suicide. "I wanted to be completely honest that if someone took out a gun and killed me on stage, they would be doing me a favor," she wrote.

The Judds were inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame the day after Naomi's death and her shaken daughter Ashley Judd told the crowd, "I'm sorry that she couldn't hang on until today."

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Execution chaplain case offers rare sighting of 1990s left-right religious liberty coalition

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Execution chaplain case offers rare sighting of 1990s left-right religious liberty coalition

Before putting his neck on the chopping block, King Charles I turned to his chaplain seeking personal peace after the chaos of the English Civil Wars.

The king was, on that infamous 1649 day, pondering heaven, hell and forgiveness.

“To show you that I am a good Christian," the king said, pointing to London Bishop William Juxon, "I hope there is a good man that will bear me witness that I have forgiven all the world, and even those in particular that have been the chief causers of my death. Who they are, God knows, I do not desire to know. God forgive them."

This isn't the kind of theology that ordinarily shapes U.S. Supreme Court decisions. Nevertheless, it was part of a litany of historical references during debates preceding a recent decision requiring Texas to grant a convicted murderer his Baptist pastor's audible prayers and comforting touch during his execution.

This was a rare moment in which activists on both sides of America's culture wars cheered for "religious liberty," a freedom that until recently didn't require cynical "scare quotes" that suggest uncertainty. This trend in First Amendment discourse has, for me, become the most important story I have covered during the third of a century -- as of this week -- in which I have written this national "On Religion" column.

The big question: Why did appeals to centuries of tradition work this time?

The condemned prisoner, John Ramirez, told the court he believed his pastor's "laying on of hands on him as he dies, and the vocalization of prayers and scripture, will assist his passing from life to death and will guide his path to the afterlife."

In his decision, Chief Justice John Roberts saluted the "rich history" of evidence supporting this prisoner's request "to have his pastor lay hands on him and pray over him during the execution. Both are traditional forms of religious exercise."

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When facing cultural chaos, priests need ancient symbols and truths, not more political talk

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When facing cultural chaos, priests need ancient symbols and truths, not more political talk

Chaos is coming, so get ready.

That was the warning that -- four years ago -- iconographer and YouTube maven Jonathan Pageau offered to leaders of the Orthodox Church in America's Diocese of the South.

The French-Canadian artist was reacting to cracks in "cultural cohesion" after Donald Trump's rise to power, with wild reactions on left and right. And corporate leaders, especially in Big Tech, were throwing their "woke" weight around in fights over gender, racism, schools, religious liberty and other topics. Fear and angst were bubbling up in media messages about zombies, fundamentalist handmaidens and angry demands for "safe spaces."

Pageau didn't predict a global pandemic that would lock church doors.

But that's what happened. Thus, he doubled down on his "chaos" message several weeks ago, while addressing the same body of OCA priests and parish leaders.

"If some of you didn't believe me back then, I imagine you are more willing to believe me now," he said.

Pageau focused, in part, on waves of online conspiracy theories that have shaken many flocks and the shepherds who lead them. Wild rumors and questions, he said, often reveal what people are thinking and feeling and, especially, whether they trust authority figures.

"Even the craziest conspiracy nuts, what they are saying is not arbitrary," he said, in Diocese of the South meetings in Miami, which I attended as a delegate from my parish in Oak Ridge, Tenn.

"It's like an alarm bell. It's like an alarm bell that you can hear, and you can understand that the person that's ringing the alarm maybe doesn't understand what is going on. ... They may think that they have an inside track based on what they've heard and think that they know what is going on. But the alarm is not a false alarm, necessarily."

The chaos is real, stressed Pageau. There is chaos in politics, science, schools, technology, economic systems, family structures and many issues linked to sex and gender. It's a time when conspiracy theories about vaccines containing tracking devices echo decades of science-fiction stories, while millions of people navigate daily life with smartphones in their pockets that allow Big Tech leaders to research their every move.

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The gospel according to post-theist Episcopal Bishop John Shelby Spong

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The gospel according to post-theist Episcopal Bishop John Shelby Spong

Newark Bishop John Shelby Spong never stuck "Why Christianity Must Change or Die" on the doors of Canterbury Cathedral, since it was easier to post a talking-points version of his manifesto on the Internet.

"Theism, as a way of defining God is dead," he proclaimed, in 1998. "Since God can no longer be conceived in theistic terms, it becomes nonsensical to seek to understand Jesus as the incarnation of the theistic deity."

Lacking a personal God, he added, it was logical to add: "Prayer cannot be a request made to a theistic deity to act in human history in a particular way."

Spong's 12-point take on post-theism faith emerged after spending years on the road, giving hundreds of speeches and appearing on broadcasts such as "The Oprah Winfrey Show" and "Larry King Live." While leading the Episcopal Diocese of Newark, within shouting range of New York City, he did everything he could to become the news-media face of liberal Christianity.

By the time of his death at the age of 90, on Sept. 12 at his home in Richmond, Va., Spong had seen many of his once-heretical beliefs -- especially on sex and marriage -- normalized in most Episcopal pulpits and institutions. However, his doctrinal approach was too blunt for many in the mainline establishment, where a quieter "spiritual but not religious" approach has become the norm.

Spong called himself a "doubting believer" and said he had no problem reciting traditional rites and creeds because, in his own mind, he had already redefined the words and images to fit his own doctrines. He also knew when to be cautious, such as during Denver visit in the late 1980s -- an era in which the Diocese of Colorado remained a center for evangelical and charismatic Episcopalians.

After a lecture at the liberal St. Thomas Episcopal Church, I asked Spong if he believed the resurrection of Jesus was an "historic event that took place in real time."

"I don't think that I can say what the disciples believed they experienced. I'll have to think about that some more," he said, moving on to another question.

The bishop answered a decade later, in his memo calling for a new Reformation:

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Thanksgiving 2020: Prayers from Russian Gulag ring true during COVID pandemic

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Thanksgiving 2020: Prayers from Russian Gulag ring true during COVID pandemic

There was no way Thanksgiving could be "normal" this year.

This was certainly true wherever Orthodox Christians gathered for what is becoming a Thanksgiving tradition in America, sharing a litany of poetic Russian prayers created during hellish persecution by the Bolsheviks.

Under coronavirus protocols, many sang the "Glory to God in All Things" prayers in outdoor services or in candle-lit sanctuaries containing fewer worshippers than usual. There was no way to ignore the pain of 2020.

Early in the service, a priest chants from the English translation: "Thou hast brought me into life as into an enchanted paradise. We have seen the sky like a chalice of deepest blue, wherein the azure heights the birds are singing. We have listened to the soothing murmur of the forest and the melodious music of the streams. We have tasted fruit of fine flavor and the sweet-scented honey. We can live very well on Thine earth. It is a pleasure to be Thy guest."

Worshippers respond: "Glory to Thee for the new life each day brings."

Imagine chanting those words in Soviet Gulag cells.

Only 25 people could attend at St. Anne Orthodox Church in Corvallis, Ore., but others watched online, said Laura Fear Archer. This was on Thanksgiving morning, before whatever feasts participants could have this year.

"I love this service, particularly for its depth of thanksgiving in the midst of extreme suffering," she said, in an Orthodox Facebook group. "In the midst of our far lesser but still painful suffering this pandemic year, it is a good reminder to give thanks always."

In Russia, some believers connect these prayers with birthdays. But in America the Orthodox know this service as "The Akathist of Thanksgiving," since its themes mesh with this uniquely American holiday. An "akathist" is a service honoring a saint, a holy season or the Holy Trinity.

Many trace this akathist to the scholarly Metropolitan Tryphon, a well-known spiritual father at the height of the persecution. The version of the service used today was found in the personal effects of Father Gregory Petrov, who died in 1940 in a concentration camp.

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Memory eternal: The passing of a charismatic bishop with a big voice and an extended family

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Memory eternal: The passing of a charismatic bishop with a big voice and an extended family

Episcopal bishops in the 1980s were already used to urgent calls from journalists seeking comments on issues ranging from gay priests to gun control, from female bishops to immigration laws, from gender-free liturgies to abortion rights.

But the pace quickened for Bishop William C. Frey in 1985 when he was one of four candidates to become presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church. A former radio professional, Frey was known for his bass voice and quick one-liners. His Lutheran counterpart in Colorado once told him: "You look like a movie star, sound like God and wear cowboy boots."

Other Denver religious leaders sometimes asked, with some envy, why Episcopalians got so much ink.

"I can't understand why some people want the kind of media attention we get," he told me, during one media storm. "That's like coveting another man's root canal."

A Texas native, Frey died in San Antonio last Sunday (Oct. 11), after years out of the spotlight. In addition to his Colorado tenure, his ministry included missionary work in Central America during the "death squads" era and leading an alternative Episcopal seminary in a struggling Pennsylvania steel town.

While critics called him the "token evangelical" in the presiding bishop race, Frey was a complex figure during his Colorado tenure, where I covered him for the now-closed Rocky Mountain News. He called himself a "radical moderate," while also attacking "theology by opinion poll."

“We need a church that knows its own identity and proclaims it fearlessly," he said, in his 1990 farewell sermon. "No more stealth religion! … We need a church that knows how to answer the question, 'What think ye of Christ?', without forming a committee to weigh all possible options. We need a church that doesn't cross its fingers when it says the creed."

Nevertheless, a conservative priest called him a "Marxist-inspired heretic" for backing the 1979 Book of Common Prayer and the ordination of women. The bishop opposed capital punishment -- and abortion -- and welcomed stricter gun-control laws. He backed expanded work with the homeless and immigrants. Then gay-rights activists called him a "charismatic fundamentalist" because he opposed the ordination of sexually active gays and lesbians and preached that sex outside of marriage was sin.

Also, before the presiding bishop election, Frey fielded questions -- and heard old whispers -- about the informal charismatic Christian community he led with his wife, Barbara (who died in 2014).

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Where is God in coronavirus crisis? Yes, that ancient question is part of this news story

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Where is God in coronavirus crisis? Yes, that ancient question is part of this news story

Queen Elizabeth II has seen more than her share of good and evil during her 68 years on the British throne.

Candles shining in the darkness just before Easter are familiar symbols of the presence of good, even in the hardest of times, said the 92-year-old queen, in a recent address about a single subject affecting her people -- the coronavirus crisis.

"Easter isn't cancelled. Indeed, we need Easter as much as ever," she said. "The discovery of the risen Christ on the first Easter Day gave his followers new hope and fresh purpose, and we can all take heart from this. We know that coronavirus will not overcome us. As dark as death can be -- particularly for those suffering with grief -- light and life are greater."

An ancient question loomed over the queen's remarks: Where is God during this global pandemic that threatens the lives and futures of millions of people?

Theologians have a name -- "theodicy" -- for this puzzle. One website defines this term as "a branch of theology ... that attempts to reconcile the existence of evil in the world with the assumption of a benevolent God."

In his book "God in the Dock," the Christian apologist C.S. Lewis of Oxford University argued that "modern man" now assumes, when evil occurs, that God is on trial. This process "may even end in God's acquittal," he noted. "But the important thing is that Man is on the Bench and God is in the Dock."

This tension can be seen during news coverage of tragedies, wars, disasters and pandemics. Ordinary people involved in these stories often address "theodicy" questions, whether journalists realize it or not. This is a pattern I have observed many times -- since this past week marked my 32nd anniversary writing this national "On Religion" column.

The late Peter Jennings of ABC World News Tonight noted that, whenever news teams cover disasters, reporters often ask questions that sound like this: "How did you get through this terrible experience?" Survivors frequently reply: "I don't know. I just prayed. Without God's help, I don't think I could have made it."

What happens next, Jennings once told me, illustrates the gap that separates many journalists and most Americans. There will be an awkward silence, he said, and then the reporter will say something like: "That's nice. But what REALLY got you through this?"

Here we go again.

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Our new normal isn't really new -- ancient prayers go online during latest epidemic

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Our new normal isn't really new -- ancient prayers go online during latest epidemic

For centuries, Eastern Orthodox Christians have shared prayers "for the sick, the suffering, the captive and for their safety and salvation" as well as petitions that "we may be delivered from all affliction, wrath and need."

The faithful respond: "Lord, have mercy."

This past Sunday, some worshippers heard modern phrases woven into the ancient cadences of the Divine Liturgy of St. Basil the Great.

During the Litany of Fervent Supplication, priests in the Orthodox Church in America added: "O Lord who lovest mankind, deliver us from the impending threat of the Corona Virus. Send thine angel to watch over us and protect us. Grant health and recovery to those suffering from this virus. Guide the hands of physicians and preserve those who are healthy. Enable us to continue to serve our suffering brothers and sisters in peace that together we may glorify thy most honorable and majestic name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages."

Following instructions from our bishop, most members of parishes in the Diocese of the South heard these words while gathered around home computers.

This was part of America's new normal as religious leaders -- some already tech-friendly, others veering into new territory -- worked to develop online forms of worship, education and fellowship. For Catholics, the Orthodox and others in liturgical traditions, all of this is happening at a highly symbolic time -- the penitential season of Lent. Easter is April 12 for Western churches. For the Orthodox, Pascha is April 19.

This is not the season of Great Lent we anticipated, but it is nonetheless a fitting Lenten effort, "explained Archbishop Alexander, OCA bishop of Dallas and the South. In his letter to priests and parishioners he urged believers -- using a monastic image -- to recognize "that this initial response to this pandemic will work for the greater good of our faithful and our neighbors. Use this time of 'social distancing' for prayer and to keep vigil 'in one's cell.' "

Across the nation, some religious congregations met, drawing smaller flocks, while many closed their doors. Things were different at my home Orthodox parish in Oak Ridge, Tenn. We were somewhere in between.

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Priest, firefighters rush into Notre Dame Cathedral to save what could not be replaced

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Priest, firefighters rush into Notre Dame Cathedral to save what could not be replaced

As the flames rushed through Notre Dame Cathedral's wooden rafters -- each beam cut from an individual oak -- a squad of firefighters began a strategic mission.

Their leader was Father Jean-Marc Fournier, chaplain of the Paris Fire Brigade. The goal was to save a crown of thorns that pilgrims have venerated for centuries as part of one worn by the crucified Jesus. King Louis IX brought the relic to Paris in 1238, after receiving it as a gift from the embattled emperor of Constantinople.

Fournier and his firefighters were, according to KTO Catholic Television, able to "save the crown of thorns and the Blessed Sacrament." Forming a human chain, they retrieved as many relics and works of sacred art as they could, until the flames won.

Meanwhile, American television networks solemnly told viewers that "art," "artifacts" and "works of art" had been retrieved from this iconic structure at the heart of Paris. In a major story about the fire, The New York Times noted that Notre Dame Cathedral had "for centuries … enshrined an evolving notion of Frenchness."

That's an interesting way to describe the world's second most famous Catholic cathedral, after St. Peter's in Rome. Then again, is a container of what Catholics believe is bread consecrated to be the Body of Christ best described as a "cultural artifact"? Is "in shock" the best way to describe Parisians praying the Rosary and singing "Ave Maria"?

For several decades, I have been asking these kinds of questions while covering religion news and studying how our mass media struggle with religion. This past week marked my 31st anniversary writing this national "On Religion" column.

Was the Notre Dame catastrophe a "religion" story or a drama linked to cultural changes in post-Christian France? I think the answer is "yes" -- to both.