I was sitting on the couch, stumbling through the commentary on Luke 1:5-25, and sighing. "That sounds like a homework sigh," my mother said. In some ways, it was. The beginning of Luke is as elusive to me as my assigned readings of Plato or the Qur'an. In college, you never understand one hundred percent of the reading for a class. You are lucky if you understand seventy-five percent. Or maybe I'm just stupid.
Anyway, I'm sighing about the attention Luke pays to John the Baptist. Christmas is coming! Who gives a flying fish about John? The Son of God is about to be born! It really annoys me when I don't understand something in the Bible. How dare God put something in the Bible I can't figure out? Why don't pastors preach on John the Baptist? I can only remember hearing one sermon on this text, and it was preached by a pastor I don't like very much whom I'm trying to forget. I want to contact every pastor I like and demand a sermon on JBap (as my commentary calls him, rather like a rapper or university president, a la "T-Pain").
Maybe God will help me puzzle through this. If anybody has any ideas on interpreting JBap in Luke, let me know. I'm going to tentatively try now.
Luke carefully connects Zechariah, JBap's father, to OT history-- he and his wife are "descended from Aaron" and there are echoes and even a few verbatim quotes from OT stories of barren couples receiving children from God. The OT and NT are inseparably intertwined, one story of God and his people, and every instance of God's faithfulness to an individual is really part of a much bigger story. Our rugged American individualism is, in most cases, sin.
Old Zech and his wife are "upright" in God's sight, even though they don't have a child. The classic theodicy that our troubles are punishment for sin, although certainly sometimes true, fails in this case. It's also important to remember that God intervenes in their old age, although they probably had been hoping, praying, trying for a baby for a long time. I think God rarely solves our problems the second we ask. In my cynical moments I say it's because God enjoys watching us beg for mercy, but I think in reality there's deeper, disciplinary value to waiting on God, even if God didn't cause the trouble in the first place.
Anyway, the day Luke introduces us to Zech is a very lucky day. He drew lots and got to burn the afternoon incense, a sacred honor a priest usually received only once in his lifetime. (Again, note how the righteous sage got this honor late in life.) Why does the angel come now, in the Temple? I firmly believe we can encounter God everywhere, not just in the sanctuary. So does Luke; Gabriel comes to Mary at her house. But I've had some special moments with God in empty sanctuaries, so I guess I can see why.
Brown connects this episode with Gabriel's appearance to the prophet Daniel in Daniel 9-10. He talks about "the seventy weeks of years" and "the desolating sacrilege" in the Temple-- eschatological signs. Because of some linguistic parallels, the fact that Gabriel is specifically mentioned, and the appearance happens in the temple suggests that the seventy weeks of years is in some sense, over. The years of suffering Israel spent waiting for redemption are over, in a way, because JBap, the forerunner of Jesus, is coming. Of course, Christians believe in the "not yet" of eschatology too, as we await Jesus' Second Coming and the birth of the new creation. But a new era of salvation history has come!
I'm trying to understand JBap's vocation. He's called to be the Elijah (Malachi 3:1) that makes people ready for Jesus. But isn't that the vocation of any pastor/prophet/chaplain/counselor? Or am I egotistically comparing my probable vocation with that of the greatest among those born of women (Luke 7:28)? I pray that if I am a pastor, I will bring lost "sons of Israel to the Lord their God" and "make ready for the Lord a prepared people."
I guess the best I can say is that JBap highlights that God doesn't just dump the sacred in our laps. He prepares us for himself, and the best we can hope for is to be the JBap to others around us, whether they are encountering Jesus for the first time or ten millionth time. Maybe that's why Luke is starting with JBap, and Matthew with the slightly boring genealogy. We need to prepare, we need Lent before Easter, Advent before Christmas, time for our hard, confused hearts to melt before our fiery God. Maybe JBap prepares us for Jesus in Luke's narrative in subtle ways I can't quite grasp. Maybe I need to acknowledge and even celebrate the many ways God stands beyond my understanding.
Zechariah responds with skepticism-- "But how am I to know?" Apparently he hasn't been so impertinent as to lose his chance to father the second Elijah. But he is made deaf and mute. And after Elizabeth conceives her son, she withdraws from society for five months. Solitude, as long as it has spiritual purpose and a definite end, is healthy. (Unending isolation obviously is not.) But maybe when we encounter the mystery of God, sometimes the proper response is to have some special God-and-me time. I require a lot of solitude, and if I'm particularly cranky, you may want to ask me how much quality alone time I have gotten lately. Zech and Lizzy remind me it's okay to claim that solitude when I need it, and not spend it on Tumblr and Facebook, but on my knees and in my journal and Bible.
My reflections seem a bit lame. They definitely can't constitute a sermon. If you have any ideas for improvement, please tell me. Now I'm going to go have a snack so my head quits spinning.
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Christmas and Tiny Coffins
Every adult American who does not live under a rock knows about the tragedy in Connecticut last week. The sheer brutality is appalling. For twenty-seven families, Christmas will never be the same. But according to Matthew's gospel, slaughter of the holy innocents was part of the very first Christmas. Herod, in his attempt to kill the baby Jesus, has all the boys aged two and younger in Bethlehem slaughtered. I can't imagine the depth of grief a person experiences upon losing a precious child, the searing silence unpunctured by laughter, a Christmas tree with far too few gifts beneath it... God, I'm watching my baby sister play in my room as I type this and getting a lump in my throat imagining what the big sisters in Bethlehem experienced, and what the big sisters of Newton must be going through right now...
I like knowing why something happens, but there really is no answer to why a horror like the Sandy Hook shooting happened. Yet it comforts me to know Matthew does not say God caused that to happen. He quotes a passage from Jeremiah about Rachel weeping for her children, but refrains from saying that the slaughter happened to fulfill that OT passage, like he does with his other OT quotes. Implicitly, the gospel tells us that God did not cause those children to die. I think that should be a comfort. Our God is neither a master puppeteer nor a murderer. Instead, he weeps beside us in our suffering. I don't believe anyone, not even the most distraught, grief-stricken mother, is more upset about Sandy Hook than God is.
I think the slaughter of the holy innocents has an important function in the Christmas story. Even though God's Son has been born, the eternal Word become flesh, bad things will still happen. We cannot pretend that Christmas means the end of our suffering. Only Jesus' second coming can give us that. But in light of Christmas, our suffering should be transformed. Matthew says, "A voice is heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel is weeping for her children; she refuses to be comforted, because they are no more," quoting Jeremiah 31:15. But this is in the middle of a long chapter of God's promise to gather the people of Israel and issue a new covenant in which God forgives Israel's sins and writes his law on Israel's hearts.
Jesus' life, death, and resurrection and establishment of the church is the beginning of the answer to the promises laid out in Jeremiah 35. "He who scattered Israel will gather him and will keep him as a shepherd to a flock" (Jer 31:10)-- Jesus shepherds his church by his earthly example and gift of the Holy Spirit. He gathers all his people into one Israel and casts out those who are not the true Israel based, on the basis of accepting or rejecting Jesus, the stone over which many stumble and many others are saved. "The days are surely coming, says the LORD, when the city shall be rebuilt for the LORD... It shall never again be uprooted or overthrown," proclaims Jeremiah. Jesus is returning, and he will build a new earth, and every holy innocent will be resurrected to new life.
By describing the grief of the mothers in Bethlehem with a verse in this context, Matthew illustrates the way Christmas transforms grief. Because of Christmas, we should grieve in expectation of Jesus' return and establishment of a holy kingdom wherein we will all live together, forever. And we should grieve with the knowledge that in Jesus' saving death and resurrection, he is our shepherd right now. Like Rachel's tears, our tears should be in the context of the kind of hope celebrated in Jeremiah 31. Cry we will, and must, when sad things happen. But because of Christmas, we must not despair.
Now I'd like to move on to another interesting thing in this section of Matthew-- the many parallels to Moses' early life. Jesus and Moses are both in Egypt, both protected from evil powers. There are places where the Greek wording is the same as in the LXX (Greek translation) of Exodus. Thus, Jesus is a prophet like Moses, as was promised. Again, God fulfills his promise. Another fascinating book on the Bible I was reading entitled The Bodies of God and the World of Ancient Israel explains that Moses' early childhood illustrates a biblical tendency to intertwine home and exile, to obscure any simple answer to the question of where the character in question is from. I think this OT tendency paves the way for eschatology. Jesus isn't really from anywhere-- not truly from Bethlehem, nor Egypt nor Nazareth, spending his years of ministry wandering Israel-- but from God.
I remember meeting the principal of the elementary school where I went to third grade while enrolling in late August with my parents. Unfortunately, he asked, "Where are you from?" I froze, stared at my shoes, and said nothing. Later, my mom told me I could have just said I was born in California, but that didn't seem to cover all my bases. Moses and Jesus would have the same problem. Transiency, rootlessness, a spiritual homelessness...these feelings occasionally tug on the hearts of even the lucky souls who lived their whole life in the same county. These feelings are part of being human on our unredeemed earth. They remind us that we are not home; our home is with God, just like Jesus.
It is said of Jesus, "He shall be a Nazorean." This refers to more than simply Nazareth. A Nazaritie in the OT was a person who was specially dedicated to God from birth, and as a symbol of this commitment could not drink alcohol or get a haircut. Hence Jesus, too, is specially dedicated to God. Matthew helpfully uses a category of reference his Jewish readers knew well yet was still ancient and slightly exotic-- this Nazarite vow-- to highlight Jesus' special relationship to God. That's a lesson that emerges again and again throughout the Bible: the importance of using contemporary idiom to explain eternal truths. It's something the church today would do well to remember (tough for this traditional worship gal!)
But the phrase can also be traced to Isaiah 11:1, "There will come a shoot from the root of Jesse, and from his roots a branch (Heb: Nazir) will blossom." God has kept his promise to send a Davidic Messiah, and Jesus is the most high, beautiful, important result of that tree. There is something deliciously arrogant about what Matthew is saying here. The centuries of Jewish history are just preparing for Jesus, the ultimate branch out of the tree. I pray for the similar, single-minded conclusion that Jesus is the branch in my life, in the life of the church, that we are just the roots setting the stage for him, our crowning glory and best part.
Well, there was a lot to be said here. If Christmas cannot speak to these deep questions of language and identity, to the profound sorrow of tiny coffins, it is meaningless. But it can, and does, if only like the magi we are willing to seek and find.
I like knowing why something happens, but there really is no answer to why a horror like the Sandy Hook shooting happened. Yet it comforts me to know Matthew does not say God caused that to happen. He quotes a passage from Jeremiah about Rachel weeping for her children, but refrains from saying that the slaughter happened to fulfill that OT passage, like he does with his other OT quotes. Implicitly, the gospel tells us that God did not cause those children to die. I think that should be a comfort. Our God is neither a master puppeteer nor a murderer. Instead, he weeps beside us in our suffering. I don't believe anyone, not even the most distraught, grief-stricken mother, is more upset about Sandy Hook than God is.
I think the slaughter of the holy innocents has an important function in the Christmas story. Even though God's Son has been born, the eternal Word become flesh, bad things will still happen. We cannot pretend that Christmas means the end of our suffering. Only Jesus' second coming can give us that. But in light of Christmas, our suffering should be transformed. Matthew says, "A voice is heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel is weeping for her children; she refuses to be comforted, because they are no more," quoting Jeremiah 31:15. But this is in the middle of a long chapter of God's promise to gather the people of Israel and issue a new covenant in which God forgives Israel's sins and writes his law on Israel's hearts.
Jesus' life, death, and resurrection and establishment of the church is the beginning of the answer to the promises laid out in Jeremiah 35. "He who scattered Israel will gather him and will keep him as a shepherd to a flock" (Jer 31:10)-- Jesus shepherds his church by his earthly example and gift of the Holy Spirit. He gathers all his people into one Israel and casts out those who are not the true Israel based, on the basis of accepting or rejecting Jesus, the stone over which many stumble and many others are saved. "The days are surely coming, says the LORD, when the city shall be rebuilt for the LORD... It shall never again be uprooted or overthrown," proclaims Jeremiah. Jesus is returning, and he will build a new earth, and every holy innocent will be resurrected to new life.
By describing the grief of the mothers in Bethlehem with a verse in this context, Matthew illustrates the way Christmas transforms grief. Because of Christmas, we should grieve in expectation of Jesus' return and establishment of a holy kingdom wherein we will all live together, forever. And we should grieve with the knowledge that in Jesus' saving death and resurrection, he is our shepherd right now. Like Rachel's tears, our tears should be in the context of the kind of hope celebrated in Jeremiah 31. Cry we will, and must, when sad things happen. But because of Christmas, we must not despair.
Now I'd like to move on to another interesting thing in this section of Matthew-- the many parallels to Moses' early life. Jesus and Moses are both in Egypt, both protected from evil powers. There are places where the Greek wording is the same as in the LXX (Greek translation) of Exodus. Thus, Jesus is a prophet like Moses, as was promised. Again, God fulfills his promise. Another fascinating book on the Bible I was reading entitled The Bodies of God and the World of Ancient Israel explains that Moses' early childhood illustrates a biblical tendency to intertwine home and exile, to obscure any simple answer to the question of where the character in question is from. I think this OT tendency paves the way for eschatology. Jesus isn't really from anywhere-- not truly from Bethlehem, nor Egypt nor Nazareth, spending his years of ministry wandering Israel-- but from God.
I remember meeting the principal of the elementary school where I went to third grade while enrolling in late August with my parents. Unfortunately, he asked, "Where are you from?" I froze, stared at my shoes, and said nothing. Later, my mom told me I could have just said I was born in California, but that didn't seem to cover all my bases. Moses and Jesus would have the same problem. Transiency, rootlessness, a spiritual homelessness...these feelings occasionally tug on the hearts of even the lucky souls who lived their whole life in the same county. These feelings are part of being human on our unredeemed earth. They remind us that we are not home; our home is with God, just like Jesus.
It is said of Jesus, "He shall be a Nazorean." This refers to more than simply Nazareth. A Nazaritie in the OT was a person who was specially dedicated to God from birth, and as a symbol of this commitment could not drink alcohol or get a haircut. Hence Jesus, too, is specially dedicated to God. Matthew helpfully uses a category of reference his Jewish readers knew well yet was still ancient and slightly exotic-- this Nazarite vow-- to highlight Jesus' special relationship to God. That's a lesson that emerges again and again throughout the Bible: the importance of using contemporary idiom to explain eternal truths. It's something the church today would do well to remember (tough for this traditional worship gal!)
But the phrase can also be traced to Isaiah 11:1, "There will come a shoot from the root of Jesse, and from his roots a branch (Heb: Nazir) will blossom." God has kept his promise to send a Davidic Messiah, and Jesus is the most high, beautiful, important result of that tree. There is something deliciously arrogant about what Matthew is saying here. The centuries of Jewish history are just preparing for Jesus, the ultimate branch out of the tree. I pray for the similar, single-minded conclusion that Jesus is the branch in my life, in the life of the church, that we are just the roots setting the stage for him, our crowning glory and best part.
Well, there was a lot to be said here. If Christmas cannot speak to these deep questions of language and identity, to the profound sorrow of tiny coffins, it is meaningless. But it can, and does, if only like the magi we are willing to seek and find.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
We Three Kings?
My head is exploding. The Birth of the Messiah's commentary on the magi's visit to Jesus in Matthew 2:1-12 is fascinating and somewhat troubling. We sing "We Three Kings" reverently but uncritically. The magi are never said to be kings, nor specified to be only three in number, and furthermore the point of the story is that Jesus is the only real king. I do enjoy that hymn, but perhaps popular understanding of the magi has obscured what the gospel is trying to say.
One of the most important pieces of the story is that Jesus was born in Bethlehem, the town where David was anointed by the prophet Samuel as king. Thus the Micah prophecy is fulfilled. Again, Jesus fulfills the prophecies, the hopes and dreams of every heart. But Jesus is king from his birth; David must wait and wait for God's proper timing for his anointing.
Throughout Jesus' lifetime there is a dual motif of acceptance/worship and rejection/persecution. Even as an infant, he is not universally loved. There is something comforting about this. If even Jesus Christ, the Son of God, is disliked by some, can we really expect anything different?
Interestingly, it is the priests and Sanhedrin who correctly quote Scripture, that the Messiah is to be born in Bethlehem and will shepherd Israel. They know the Bible backwards and forwards. But they miss out on the miracle of Christmas, while the pagans meet the infant Son of God! How tragic! Why? They aren't paying attention. Following God is about way more than just knowing the right answers, reading your Bible and listening to the sermons. It's also about keeping your eyes open to see what God is doing. Christmas asks that we have a real, living faith that is sensitive to God's actions in the world. We have to keep our eyes peeled and our ears on alert, or we just might miss out on Christmas like the priests did. Christmas, Immanuel, comes every day if we are looking.
Furthermore, "You shall shepherd my people Israel," God says of the coming Messiah. Originally, God spoke these words to King David upon his crowning. Matthew says these words are rightly to be applied to Jesus. Thus, Jesus is the only true Shepherd and King. Herod is not the king; the priests are not the shepherd. Christmas demands, then, that we ask ourselves, like the magi did, who the kings of our lives are and dethrone them, prostrating ourselves instead before the Son of God. For American Christians, the "king" is probably not our government, unless we are putting our faith in the government, which unfortunately a minority of Americans do. Instead, our false kings could be career, money, even family. For me sometimes it's good grades or ambition. Similarly, our true Shepherd is Jesus Christ. God does call some people to be pastors, shepherds over the church. But that's always shepherd with a small "s." We can't put our trust in pastors. And pastors can't trust themselves as the ultimate shepherd, because only Jesus can really care for people's souls, and care of the soul ultimately means connecting people to the Great Shepherd. This, too, is a lesson of Christmas.
There is a lot of OT background in the story of the magi. There's a passage in Isaiah 59 that says, "Be enlightened, O Jerusalem, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen (like the star in Matthew is said to have risen) upon you... The wealth of the nations will come to you, all those from Sheba will come bringing gold and frankincense, and proclaiming the salvation of our Lord." God's promise is faithful. Ultimately, as the magi come to Jesus, as Jesus' advent ultimately incorporates the Gentiles more thoroughly into the people of God than ever before, Israel is ultimately edified. When "outsiders" worship Jesus, the "insiders" gain wealth, the "insiders" hear the word of God's salvation. The church has to remember that. We are no longer the Gentiles. Every person who we don't think belongs in church is a Gentile, and when they worship Jesus we experience salvation in new ways. I pray that the church today just won't be like the priests in the story of the magi and miss out on it all.
But we are not just the Jews in this story. We are also the kings, especially the rich American church. Although my bank account has lately seemed like a leaky faucet, I am ridiculously wealthy and privileged by global standards. I'm a twenty year old female without a bunch of babies. I'm going to graduate from college. I don't go to bed hungry, except when I'm so busy I forget to make it to the dining hall. I must humble myself before the boy-king. I have to admit that my money, good luck, and brains are really nothing compared to the glory of the Son of God. I have to bring the best that I have for him and know that it's nothing, nothing, next to what he did for me the first Christmas, at Cavalry, and every day of my life.
Similarly, the word "homage" which Matthew uses hearkens back to the royal Psalm 72:10-11, "May the kings of Sheba and Saba bring gifts; may all the kings pay him homage." But the point is that the kings of the earth worship Jesus, and so Jesus is the realest, truest king. There is so much in this story! So much. I guess I'll keep singing, "We Three Kings," while praying that I and the church worship Jesus as King.
Conceivably
"Conceivably" is a word my father uses a lot to just mean "possibly," so I grew up using it too. It took me a long time to realize that conceiving refers to something more than simple possibility. And yet the infancy narratives are pregnant (pardon the bad pun) with possibility, like a Christmas tree with shiny gifts beneath that you know will be exciting and wonderful, but exactly what they are, you don't yet know. Jesus is always that way; we will never exhaust his possibility, power, or splendor.
I have been reading the commentary on the conception in Matthew's gospel in the Birth of the Messiah book I'm tackling over break. It has some big surprises, parts of which make slightly uncomfortable. For instance, the angel says to Joseph that Mary is "with child through the Holy Spirit." Raymond Brown, the author of this book, explains that this "through" emphasizes Jesus was conceived in a non-sexual way. Furthermore, the Holy Spirit was feminine in Hebrew and neuter in Greek, so there's no hint that the Holy Spirit is a male agent impregnating Mary. Jesus is conceived through the creative action of the Holy Spirit.
Why does this make me uncomfortable? Because Christians are continually, and often rightly, accused of being uncomfortable with sex. (Of course, the Bible does celebrate sex as one of God's good gifts, the Song of Songs being a primary example.) A virginal conception that deliberately avoids sex does not help our bad image in this regard. I guess the answer is that Jesus is fundamentally different from all of humanity. Jesus, although fully human, is not like the rest of us, so he had to be conceived differently. It's not that sex is dirty, but that Jesus is ontologically (philosophy coursework is coming in handy!) other from the rest of humanity. I'm still a bit uncomfortable with the virginal conception. I admit it. I'm hoping reading and reflecting further will help me understand.
The angel goes on to command Joseph to name his son "Jesus," because "he will save his people from their sins." The original meaning of the Hebrew name "Yeshua," the Greek equivalent of which is "Jesus," was "YHWH helps." But popular etymology led people to think it meant "YHWH saves." That's one of many examples of the fact the Bible is not a history or science book. The angel graciously speaks in the idiom of the people to communicate the saving power of Jesus. Just like Matthew uses a genealogy, which would have been important to Jews of his day, his angel uses popular, not linguistically proper, etymology, to convey the good news. So churches and Christians have to find new ways that speak to people today the timeless unchanging gospel.
Here's something else interesting here. Matthew is writing against adoptionist Christology that says Jesus was only Christ, or only God's Son, at the time of the resurrection or baptism by John the Baptist. By including the infancy narrative and the virginal conception, Matthew emphasizes that Jesus was the Son of God during his whole time on earth. Interestingly, there's a grain of truth the adoptionist heresies. Orthodox Christians should affirm that Jesus was uniquely exalted upon his resurrection and ascension into heaven. And the biblical accounts of Jesus' baptism portray, in my view, Jesus accepting his unique vocation of sonship and God the Father affirming that vocation. (Good to know it took Jesus until thirty to discern his vocation! That should comfort those of us who go back and forth on what we think we are called to do. Which reminds me; I don't know if I've ever heard a sermon preached on Jesus' baptism, and I think you could easily wring a good month of sermons out of that story and change hearts in the process. Anyway...) But Matthew says Jesus always was the Son of God. Now, according to Raymond Brown, Matthew and Luke do not espouse preexistence Christology like that of John-- "In the beginning was the Word." They don't deny preexistence; they just don't advance it. I'm not sure I agree completely with Brown given the Jewish conception of deity and certain aspects of Matthew and Luke's gospels. Both implicitly and occasionally explicitly highlight Jesus' divinity. Can a divine being have a beginning? I don't think a Jewish monotheist could say yes.
But I'm getting off into the weeds. The point is that the biblical authors should be read in dialogue, with each other and with false teaching. The church has to listen to the biblical witnesses together and separately, and apply the timeless gospel to the false teachings of the day. I don't think there are many adoptionists, per se, in our midst today. But there are people who insist on the humanity of Jesus in ways that tread on his divinity. Christmas holds together the paradox of Jesus, son of David, son of God. I'll continue to think about other contemporary issues the Christmas story can address.
Here's another controversy in Matthew, one that conservative Christians and skeptics have woefully misunderstood. He quotes Isaiah 7:14 in reference to Mary and writes in Greek: "The virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel, which means, God with us." Now, the Isaiah passage in Hebrew reads "young woman," not virgin, and does not refer to an extraordinary child at all, let alone a Messiah. The child, conceived and borne quite normally, is supposed to be a sign to Israel to continue hoping in God. That's all. So was Matthew just stupid? Was his copy of the OT messed up? This gets into some complicated textual issues I don't understand about the LXX (Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible) and Syriac translations.
But the lessons for the church are manifold here. Most importantly, Jesus is the ultimate sign of God's presence and the fulfillment of all prophecies and signs. I could never say it in my public liberal arts college philosophy and religion courses, but I do believe Jesus Christ is the true fulfillment of all these prophecies and religious hopes. Muslims find hope in the sunna of Muhammad, a perfect man to show the way. Sound like Jesus, anyone? Plato thought to agathon, the good, is the highest Form that holds all things together, holy and inscrutable, knowledge of which is salvation. Sound like the Trinity, Which is Love? Of course Jesus is the best fulfillment of the Isaiah prophecy, and any prophecy. Jesus is God with us.
Also, the Greek Matthew uses in his citation of Isaiah 7:14 says en gastri hexei (found to be with child), which is not present in the LXX verse but is a phrase throughout the LXX referring to births of important patriarchs and judges. Jesus is like them, incorporates their greatness, and yet surpasses them. Isaac was not God-with-us in the same way Jesus is, and to the extent that Isaac was great or important or utilized by God, this is only because of Jesus. En gastri hexei-- the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.
I have hundreds of pages left to read, so there's plenty left to say about the infancy narratives! I haven't even gotten to questions of historicity yet; I'm definitely talking and thinking about them soon, though.
More to come! Let's see if I can finish the book by Christmas!
But I'm getting off into the weeds. The point is that the biblical authors should be read in dialogue, with each other and with false teaching. The church has to listen to the biblical witnesses together and separately, and apply the timeless gospel to the false teachings of the day. I don't think there are many adoptionists, per se, in our midst today. But there are people who insist on the humanity of Jesus in ways that tread on his divinity. Christmas holds together the paradox of Jesus, son of David, son of God. I'll continue to think about other contemporary issues the Christmas story can address.
Here's another controversy in Matthew, one that conservative Christians and skeptics have woefully misunderstood. He quotes Isaiah 7:14 in reference to Mary and writes in Greek: "The virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel, which means, God with us." Now, the Isaiah passage in Hebrew reads "young woman," not virgin, and does not refer to an extraordinary child at all, let alone a Messiah. The child, conceived and borne quite normally, is supposed to be a sign to Israel to continue hoping in God. That's all. So was Matthew just stupid? Was his copy of the OT messed up? This gets into some complicated textual issues I don't understand about the LXX (Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible) and Syriac translations.
But the lessons for the church are manifold here. Most importantly, Jesus is the ultimate sign of God's presence and the fulfillment of all prophecies and signs. I could never say it in my public liberal arts college philosophy and religion courses, but I do believe Jesus Christ is the true fulfillment of all these prophecies and religious hopes. Muslims find hope in the sunna of Muhammad, a perfect man to show the way. Sound like Jesus, anyone? Plato thought to agathon, the good, is the highest Form that holds all things together, holy and inscrutable, knowledge of which is salvation. Sound like the Trinity, Which is Love? Of course Jesus is the best fulfillment of the Isaiah prophecy, and any prophecy. Jesus is God with us.
Also, the Greek Matthew uses in his citation of Isaiah 7:14 says en gastri hexei (found to be with child), which is not present in the LXX verse but is a phrase throughout the LXX referring to births of important patriarchs and judges. Jesus is like them, incorporates their greatness, and yet surpasses them. Isaac was not God-with-us in the same way Jesus is, and to the extent that Isaac was great or important or utilized by God, this is only because of Jesus. En gastri hexei-- the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.
I have hundreds of pages left to read, so there's plenty left to say about the infancy narratives! I haven't even gotten to questions of historicity yet; I'm definitely talking and thinking about them soon, though.
More to come! Let's see if I can finish the book by Christmas!
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Peace Out?
Lately I've been thinking about peace. I've been feeling a lack of peace in my life lately. I guess the relentless onslaught of papers and reading assignments and the constant feeling I'm not doing enough-- whatever "enough" is-- have been getting to me.
In frustration, during the group prayer at my campus ministry worship service, I prayed, "God, give us the peace of Christ, in our hearts and among us." I might have sounded calm, but on the inside I was really challenging God, demanding he give us peace.
God, make me patient right now! God, I want peace right now! God, give me a Spark Notes spirituality, a whack-em-on-the-counter biscuit bread of life.
Thanks be to God, who does not give me everything I want.
Listening to the Truman orchestra play, I felt God's presence in a way I had not felt for a long time. We did not need many words, mostly just my attention. One of the songs was called "Pas de deux," which I thought looked kind of like "Peace of God," although apparently it's some special ballet term. Whatever. My poor French led me to think, together with the Holy Spirit, about what God's peace is as I sat and listened.
And in the music I felt the ebb and flow, the movement, quick terms, devastating falls and heavenly heights... That is where the peace of Christ is.
In the gospel of John, Jesus promises to give his peace to his disciples. When I have felt overwhelmed, depressed, alienated from God, or simply stressed by the stresses of life, I've thrown this promise sarcastically back at God. You promised me peace, didn't you? Then why am I feeling this way? The prayer after worship on Thursday was one of those times.
Tonight, in God's presence in the performing arts hall, God reminded me Jesus said those words before he was to betrayed and led to the cross. The peace of Jesus, then, is anything but naive and easy.
It is, I think, the trust to live in the anguish, depression, stress, conflict, whatever that God calls us to. And in that trust, to believe that we can do everything through Christ who strengthens us. That Jesus died to forgive our sin, and the Holy Spirit is bringing good through the bad situations. That we are never alone, never forsaken, will never die. And that God is closer that our own racing hearts.
That is the peace of Christ.
We are not called to peace out, to naively check out of life and in the name of peace pretend problems do not exist. Instead, we are called to face them, to perhaps suffer with our long-suffering God, with hearts that trust. If we pray for that kind of peace, our prayer is always answered. And that's not my promise, it's Jesus' promise.
In frustration, during the group prayer at my campus ministry worship service, I prayed, "God, give us the peace of Christ, in our hearts and among us." I might have sounded calm, but on the inside I was really challenging God, demanding he give us peace.
God, make me patient right now! God, I want peace right now! God, give me a Spark Notes spirituality, a whack-em-on-the-counter biscuit bread of life.
Thanks be to God, who does not give me everything I want.
Listening to the Truman orchestra play, I felt God's presence in a way I had not felt for a long time. We did not need many words, mostly just my attention. One of the songs was called "Pas de deux," which I thought looked kind of like "Peace of God," although apparently it's some special ballet term. Whatever. My poor French led me to think, together with the Holy Spirit, about what God's peace is as I sat and listened.
And in the music I felt the ebb and flow, the movement, quick terms, devastating falls and heavenly heights... That is where the peace of Christ is.
In the gospel of John, Jesus promises to give his peace to his disciples. When I have felt overwhelmed, depressed, alienated from God, or simply stressed by the stresses of life, I've thrown this promise sarcastically back at God. You promised me peace, didn't you? Then why am I feeling this way? The prayer after worship on Thursday was one of those times.
Tonight, in God's presence in the performing arts hall, God reminded me Jesus said those words before he was to betrayed and led to the cross. The peace of Jesus, then, is anything but naive and easy.
It is, I think, the trust to live in the anguish, depression, stress, conflict, whatever that God calls us to. And in that trust, to believe that we can do everything through Christ who strengthens us. That Jesus died to forgive our sin, and the Holy Spirit is bringing good through the bad situations. That we are never alone, never forsaken, will never die. And that God is closer that our own racing hearts.
That is the peace of Christ.
We are not called to peace out, to naively check out of life and in the name of peace pretend problems do not exist. Instead, we are called to face them, to perhaps suffer with our long-suffering God, with hearts that trust. If we pray for that kind of peace, our prayer is always answered. And that's not my promise, it's Jesus' promise.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Secret Pinboards
I am not yet on Pinterest. Well, I have an account, but I don't pin anything. It seems too intimidating, and Facebook alone wastes a lot of my time. But I know a lot of people who really enjoy it, and I've definitely benefited from the crafts, recipes, jokes, and inspiring sayings my friends pin and use. When I have to cook for myself, I'll probably use Pinterest for the recipes. As of right now, my recipe repertoire is somewhere between the number of pieces of Halloween candy I have left in my stash and the number of classes I'm enrolled in. Which is to say, not many.
Anyway, my friend Amanda has started talking about secret pinboards-- places where you can pin and nobody sees your pinnings. Ironically enough, she shares some of the things she's pinned on those boards. Some might say it's a contradiction. But I think it's the right way to live.
We have to share the secret things on our inner pinboards, the places we pin quiet hopes, deep disappointments, dreams we don't yet know how to articulate expect for an inexplicable feeling those dreams define who we are. Of course, we shouldn't share everything on the inner inboard; we don't want to overwhelm people by oversharing. And some of the pins might hurt people's feelings, and others don't really belong on the inner pinboard so much as they belong on the "Things I've Thought About That Don't Define Me" board.
But the point is, a lot of the things on the secret pinboard deserve to be shared with at least some people, and they're far more interesting than the mundane things we tack to our outer pinboards, the way we present ourselves to the external world. I've learned that's something I need to work on. I need to keep asking people, gently, with love, about the things on their secret pinboards, and share more about what's on mine. That's the way Amanda's been doing it. I should follow her example. That's the way you get to know people. The way you build friendships that are meant to last a lifetime, not just a Marine Corps tour, and not just a college career.
So anybody who's reading this, ask me about my secret pinboard. And I'll try to ask you about yours.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Faceplant
I presented at Truman's Philosophy and Religion Conference. I was really excited about the resume booster and the chance to be a real scholar, presenting my scaling of the academic heights. I practiced. I made a PowerPoint. I got up early to put on a blouse and makeup (that never happens except for Sunday morning!)
I clickity-clacked my way in brown leather heels over to the presentation room, greeted professors with a tight-lipped smile, and daintily ate a complementary bagel. An attractive, tweed-blazer clad student from Missouri Western got up before the podium.
He's cute, he looks professional, but MO Western? Truman is way better! How good of a presentation is this going to be?
Thirty seconds into the presentation, and the answer became apparent: Very. He sounded like a professor, full of philosophical theories that soared way above anything I'd ever heard of.
After what seemed like a long time but no time at all, it was my turn to set up my presentation while everyone else chatted and headed for the buffet table. And so began Calamity #1. In my exhaustion the night before, I accidentally downloaded my paper to the flash drive instead of the PowerPoint. Well, because I hadn't brought any notes, because I never speak with notes, there was no way I was going to be able to give this speech. No way.
Trembling, I went up to the conference coordinator. "Um, my flash drive is saying my file is corrupted," I lied, voice strained with forced calm. "I don't know what happened."
Just then, the next presenter, equally attractive and snazzily dressed, walked in. "Uh, hello. I'm having some technological difficulties and I'm wondering if you'd mind switching with me."
"No problem," he replied with a toothy grin.
Trying to smile back, I nodded and half-walked, half-jogged in my heels back to my room and downloaded the PowerPoint. It's going to be okay. It's going to be okay, I kept telling myself.
Finally I made it back to the presentation room, in time to hear an extremely intelligent sounding presentation combining the story of Abraham sacrificing Isaac with feminism, semiotics, and psychoanalysis. "Of course, there's really no objective reality in this story, no white bearded god in the sky telling Abraham what to do and making everything all right in the end," the presenter said as a kind of aside, as if this were obvious. But I know the God of Abraham is real. I talk to him every day. I sing his praises every Thursday and Sunday.
And then, it was my turn. After a minor calamity of the projector briefly not working, the computer finally projected my PowerPoint. I grinned. It was going to be okay!
And so I began to give my presentation. I heard my voice fill the room, slightly trembling, anxious. I've never liked the sound of my own voice, and hearing it reverberating around the room was a little frightening. As I kept talking, it was easier to continue, as long as I blocked out the fact that my presentation was so much more simple and informal compared to everyone else's. Finally, thankfully, the thing was over.
"Any questions?" I asked.
The hand of one of my philosophy professors shot up into the air. And that was the beginning of Calamity #2.
"Yes?" I asked, hoping for a softball.
I don't remember exactly what she said, and I don't want to. I just know she shot right through my argument, tore it in two. Well, not all of my argument, but a good 20% of it. I tried to argue back politely, even though I wasn't convincing myself.
"No, no," she said sharply. "No. You're wrong. I can help you go back and fix this paper. But this is wrong."
She said this in front of everyone: all the philosophy and religion professors from Truman, faculty from other schools, Attractive Snazzily Dressed Egghead Male Philosophy Presenters, two friends who came, a couple students in my classes, some freshmen logic students. Everyone. Everyone.
Luckily, there were more questions, most of them much easier to answer. Although at one point a professor and a student started talking to each other and ignoring me, and I didn't know how to break in.
"David," one of my favorite religion professors said, "let Jessica talk, please."
I was embarrassed but grateful to have control again of the session. I gave what seemed to me like a satisfactory answer. A student tried to jump in, but the conference coordinator announced that we were out of time.
Thank God! I thought. I ejected my flash drive, grabbed my purse, and walked quickly past the professor who shot my presentation. Luckily, she was too engrossed in conversation to talk to me. The way I felt at that moment, I didn't want to talk to anyone.
I thought I was a scholar. This conference proved that I am not. I am a college student, and a pretty good one at that. But I'm not an academic, and probably never will be. Learning that really hurt.
But here's the thing.
Jesus still loves me.
My family and friends still love me.
I am still going to have communion at church (today, now that it's after 1 AM).
I will still graduate from Truman.
And God still has a place for me in his kingdom, given me gifts and graces by which I can contribute to his church.
But I'm still upset. I guess it's high time I accept that I will never be an academic, that I'm not as intelligent as I wish I were, and that in God's kingdom, intelligence is nice, but not really worth all that much. Just like Attractive Male Philosopher who said the story of Abraham isn't really about God because there is no God. In the eyes of the world, A.M.P. said something intelligent. In the eyes of God, A.M.P. is missing out on grace.
Grace is more important than intelligence. I long ago traded my dreams of Yale, theology, musty books, critical acclaim, for something bigger.
Let me, God, hold babies before you, lift the dead up to you, bring your good news to the poor.
I would rather live inside the church than write about it. Not that I'm judging any academics; I admire their passion, their smarts. But God did not give that to me.
Instead, through this awkward conference experience, I have learned about what I am and am not. I learned that it's important to try new things, and know that failure isn't a big deal in the grand scheme of things, because the grand scheme of things is held by God.
I'm okay. Yeah, maybe I got Augustine all wrong. But, by God's grace, I haven't gotten Jesus all wrong. In God's eyes, that's what counts.
I clickity-clacked my way in brown leather heels over to the presentation room, greeted professors with a tight-lipped smile, and daintily ate a complementary bagel. An attractive, tweed-blazer clad student from Missouri Western got up before the podium.
He's cute, he looks professional, but MO Western? Truman is way better! How good of a presentation is this going to be?
Thirty seconds into the presentation, and the answer became apparent: Very. He sounded like a professor, full of philosophical theories that soared way above anything I'd ever heard of.
After what seemed like a long time but no time at all, it was my turn to set up my presentation while everyone else chatted and headed for the buffet table. And so began Calamity #1. In my exhaustion the night before, I accidentally downloaded my paper to the flash drive instead of the PowerPoint. Well, because I hadn't brought any notes, because I never speak with notes, there was no way I was going to be able to give this speech. No way.
Trembling, I went up to the conference coordinator. "Um, my flash drive is saying my file is corrupted," I lied, voice strained with forced calm. "I don't know what happened."
Just then, the next presenter, equally attractive and snazzily dressed, walked in. "Uh, hello. I'm having some technological difficulties and I'm wondering if you'd mind switching with me."
"No problem," he replied with a toothy grin.
Trying to smile back, I nodded and half-walked, half-jogged in my heels back to my room and downloaded the PowerPoint. It's going to be okay. It's going to be okay, I kept telling myself.
Finally I made it back to the presentation room, in time to hear an extremely intelligent sounding presentation combining the story of Abraham sacrificing Isaac with feminism, semiotics, and psychoanalysis. "Of course, there's really no objective reality in this story, no white bearded god in the sky telling Abraham what to do and making everything all right in the end," the presenter said as a kind of aside, as if this were obvious. But I know the God of Abraham is real. I talk to him every day. I sing his praises every Thursday and Sunday.
And then, it was my turn. After a minor calamity of the projector briefly not working, the computer finally projected my PowerPoint. I grinned. It was going to be okay!
And so I began to give my presentation. I heard my voice fill the room, slightly trembling, anxious. I've never liked the sound of my own voice, and hearing it reverberating around the room was a little frightening. As I kept talking, it was easier to continue, as long as I blocked out the fact that my presentation was so much more simple and informal compared to everyone else's. Finally, thankfully, the thing was over.
"Any questions?" I asked.
The hand of one of my philosophy professors shot up into the air. And that was the beginning of Calamity #2.
"Yes?" I asked, hoping for a softball.
I don't remember exactly what she said, and I don't want to. I just know she shot right through my argument, tore it in two. Well, not all of my argument, but a good 20% of it. I tried to argue back politely, even though I wasn't convincing myself.
"No, no," she said sharply. "No. You're wrong. I can help you go back and fix this paper. But this is wrong."
She said this in front of everyone: all the philosophy and religion professors from Truman, faculty from other schools, Attractive Snazzily Dressed Egghead Male Philosophy Presenters, two friends who came, a couple students in my classes, some freshmen logic students. Everyone. Everyone.
Luckily, there were more questions, most of them much easier to answer. Although at one point a professor and a student started talking to each other and ignoring me, and I didn't know how to break in.
"David," one of my favorite religion professors said, "let Jessica talk, please."
I was embarrassed but grateful to have control again of the session. I gave what seemed to me like a satisfactory answer. A student tried to jump in, but the conference coordinator announced that we were out of time.
Thank God! I thought. I ejected my flash drive, grabbed my purse, and walked quickly past the professor who shot my presentation. Luckily, she was too engrossed in conversation to talk to me. The way I felt at that moment, I didn't want to talk to anyone.
I thought I was a scholar. This conference proved that I am not. I am a college student, and a pretty good one at that. But I'm not an academic, and probably never will be. Learning that really hurt.
But here's the thing.
Jesus still loves me.
My family and friends still love me.
I am still going to have communion at church (today, now that it's after 1 AM).
I will still graduate from Truman.
And God still has a place for me in his kingdom, given me gifts and graces by which I can contribute to his church.
But I'm still upset. I guess it's high time I accept that I will never be an academic, that I'm not as intelligent as I wish I were, and that in God's kingdom, intelligence is nice, but not really worth all that much. Just like Attractive Male Philosopher who said the story of Abraham isn't really about God because there is no God. In the eyes of the world, A.M.P. said something intelligent. In the eyes of God, A.M.P. is missing out on grace.
Grace is more important than intelligence. I long ago traded my dreams of Yale, theology, musty books, critical acclaim, for something bigger.
Let me, God, hold babies before you, lift the dead up to you, bring your good news to the poor.
I would rather live inside the church than write about it. Not that I'm judging any academics; I admire their passion, their smarts. But God did not give that to me.
Instead, through this awkward conference experience, I have learned about what I am and am not. I learned that it's important to try new things, and know that failure isn't a big deal in the grand scheme of things, because the grand scheme of things is held by God.
I'm okay. Yeah, maybe I got Augustine all wrong. But, by God's grace, I haven't gotten Jesus all wrong. In God's eyes, that's what counts.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Baby Boys
I love my baby brother. But if he knew I'm calling him "baby," he might try to strangle me. He's twelve, going on thirteen. I feel that he has always been a part of my life, and there is nothing he could do to make me love him less. Plenty to annoy me, yes, but I'm his big sister for life. I was seven when he was born, and I loved him instantly. I still can't believe he's nearly a teenager. Where did his babyhood go? Where is the boisterous toddler who ran everywhere, with cars and dinosaurs in tow?
But I love him still, all five foot, two inches of him: the one inch taller than me, the dark fuzz growing on his lip, the soft voice he struggles to make deeper, the big brown eyes always full of thought.
On Sunday I was running the PowerPoint at my church. I was sitting in the sound booth, paying just enough attention to run the PowerPoint properly, since I'd already worshipped in the pews earlier that morning. Beside me sat the man running the sound. He also happens to be a leader for the boys' high school youth activities. He's a big, fierce guy with a booming voice, but kind too, with a booming laugh and propensity to joke. Between us stood two teenage boys who looked barely older than my brother. Before and during the service, they talked to their youth leader, and he talked back. From the election to sports to history, they were having a lively conversation. He told them to be quiet during the sermon, though, and they did.
My mind was wandering to the large paper I had due which I had barely started, but I couldn't quit thinking about, subconsciously, how much these boys respected this youth leader. And then, after the sermon ended, he clapped them both firmly, lovingly, on the shoulder.
I started crying silently. I faced the wall and wiped the tears away, trying to get a grip. What was my problem?
And then it hit me. I wished my brother were up in the sound booth. Partly so I could see him, but also so he could be loved and known by this man, every bit as masculine as our former Marine father. For these two boys up here in Kirksville, worshipping and bantering with a man in church who isn't their father is teaching them 1) that real men worship God and 2) that they are children of God who deserve the love and attention of caring adults.
None of these guys would have thought of it that way. My brother certainly wouldn't. Ironically, if they had noticed my weeping during the offertory they would have thought, "Why are girls so emotional?" as my brother often asks. But it's true. The part about girls being emotional, and the part about men investing in boys making all the difference in the world.
As of now, my brother has no strong male leader with whom to talk politics and video games in church on Sundays, no man to clap his slowly broadening shoulders with pride and affection. Yes, he has our father, and that's important. But boys need to be shepherded by more than just a dad, and more than just a pastor.
"Jessica's the religion junkie in the family," my brother says anytime something church related comes up. Where are the men to show him church is for more than girls or people who like to study religion? Where are the men to show him that the essence of manhood is serving Jesus Christ?
I don't know. But I love my baby boy. And I want the church to take better care of him.
Friday, November 2, 2012
The Liturgy of Roadkill
"Carrion" is a pretty word for an ugly thing: roadkill. In my poetry class on Thursday, we read a beautiful poem by Gerard Mansley Hopkins called, "Carrion Comfort," about those times you feel hopeless, like roadkill is the best you'll ever get in life and it's God's fault. I want to write liturgy using this poem, while interweaving it with (mostly) Bible verses. I don't know if this would ever work in church. It might be too raw or too obscure. But it still seems cool. The whole time in class I kept thinking how cool this would be for liturgy. I had to get it out. So here goes:
L: Let us come before the Lord with open, honest hearts.
C: Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee.
L: For in hope we were saved.
C: Not untwist-- slack they may be-- these last strands of man in me.
L: We have this hope, sure and steadfast, the anchor of our souls.
C: Nor, most weary, cry I can no more.
L: We can do all things through Christ who gives us strength.
C: I can, can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
L: Hope in the Lord! For you shall praise him.
C: But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me thy wring-world right foot rock?
L: Blessed be God! He has not rejected our prayers or removed his steadfast love from us.
C: Why lean a lionlamb against me? Why scan with darksome devouring eyes my bruised bones?
L: Because of the Lord's great love, we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.
C: Why fan, O turns in tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?
L: His mercies are new every morning. Great is your faithfulness!
C: Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clean?
L: And we know that in all things God works for the good of those that love him.
C: Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod, hand rather.
L: You hem us in, behind and before, you lay your hand upon us.
C: Lo! I lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, cheer. Cheer whom though?
L: Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is so high, I cannot attain it.
C: Cheer the Hero whose heaven-handling flung me, foot-trod me?
L: He will never, ever abandon you nor forsake you.
C: Or me that fought him? O which one? Is it each one?
L: I pray that you will, together with all the saints, know what is the height and the depth and the width of his love.
C: Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
L: This is our God, forever and ever, and surely he will be our guide even to the end.
All: Amen
L: Let us come before the Lord with open, honest hearts.
C: Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee.
L: For in hope we were saved.
C: Not untwist-- slack they may be-- these last strands of man in me.
L: We have this hope, sure and steadfast, the anchor of our souls.
C: Nor, most weary, cry I can no more.
L: We can do all things through Christ who gives us strength.
C: I can, can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
L: Hope in the Lord! For you shall praise him.
C: But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me thy wring-world right foot rock?
L: Blessed be God! He has not rejected our prayers or removed his steadfast love from us.
C: Why lean a lionlamb against me? Why scan with darksome devouring eyes my bruised bones?
L: Because of the Lord's great love, we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.
C: Why fan, O turns in tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?
L: His mercies are new every morning. Great is your faithfulness!
C: Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clean?
L: And we know that in all things God works for the good of those that love him.
C: Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod, hand rather.
L: You hem us in, behind and before, you lay your hand upon us.
C: Lo! I lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, cheer. Cheer whom though?
L: Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is so high, I cannot attain it.
C: Cheer the Hero whose heaven-handling flung me, foot-trod me?
L: He will never, ever abandon you nor forsake you.
C: Or me that fought him? O which one? Is it each one?
L: I pray that you will, together with all the saints, know what is the height and the depth and the width of his love.
C: Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
L: This is our God, forever and ever, and surely he will be our guide even to the end.
All: Amen
Saturday, October 27, 2012
The Work of the People
Liturgy is the work of the people. I've always wanted to write an unflinchingly honest liturgy, in which people are forced to bare their souls to God and to each other, and do the hard work of admitting the truth. I'm not sure that kind of liturgy is practical in a real worship service. But I still want to try it. Bare with me.
Liturgist: Holy God, we have strayed far from your paths.
Congregation: The road was straight, and we made it crooked. Your voice was clear, and we drowned it out with our own.
L: We are afraid to confess authentically.
C: If we admit that we are wretched sinners, who will love us? Who will rejoice in us? And from where will our pride and glory come?
L: Hear and believe the good news.
C: But we are not listening, to hear the herald of God's word. We are not believing, to trust in the goodness of our God.
L: But the Holy Spirit will enlighten the eyes of our hearts, if only we let him in.
C: We ask the Holy Spirit to open us up, though we are afraid and do not know what this request could bring.
L: From God comes abundant life, life everlasting.
C: We must give up our pet peeves for joy, our grumpiness for trust, and mourning for holy laughter.
L: You must take up your cross and follow Jesus.
C: We must trade our smiles for godly sorrow, and empty mirth for the agony of the crucified Christ.
L: Repentance requires much.
C: A new teaching, with authority! We have never been asked to give much.
L: The kingdom of God needs you, if only you would come. And your God longs for you, if only you would love him.
C: We do not know to what we are agreeing. We do not know why we were chosen.
L: Give thanks and praise to God the Father! For only in the doubts and questions, the places we do not know, can he meet us.
C: This far we know and trust.
L: Give thanks and praise to God the Son! For he willingly laid down his life for poor sinners and wretches like us.
C: This far we know and trust.
L: Give thanks and praise to God the Holy Spirit! For he stands lovingly and boldly in our midst.
C: This far we know and trust. Amen.
Liturgist: Holy God, we have strayed far from your paths.
Congregation: The road was straight, and we made it crooked. Your voice was clear, and we drowned it out with our own.
L: We are afraid to confess authentically.
C: If we admit that we are wretched sinners, who will love us? Who will rejoice in us? And from where will our pride and glory come?
L: Hear and believe the good news.
C: But we are not listening, to hear the herald of God's word. We are not believing, to trust in the goodness of our God.
L: But the Holy Spirit will enlighten the eyes of our hearts, if only we let him in.
C: We ask the Holy Spirit to open us up, though we are afraid and do not know what this request could bring.
L: From God comes abundant life, life everlasting.
C: We must give up our pet peeves for joy, our grumpiness for trust, and mourning for holy laughter.
L: You must take up your cross and follow Jesus.
C: We must trade our smiles for godly sorrow, and empty mirth for the agony of the crucified Christ.
L: Repentance requires much.
C: A new teaching, with authority! We have never been asked to give much.
L: The kingdom of God needs you, if only you would come. And your God longs for you, if only you would love him.
C: We do not know to what we are agreeing. We do not know why we were chosen.
L: Give thanks and praise to God the Father! For only in the doubts and questions, the places we do not know, can he meet us.
C: This far we know and trust.
L: Give thanks and praise to God the Son! For he willingly laid down his life for poor sinners and wretches like us.
C: This far we know and trust.
L: Give thanks and praise to God the Holy Spirit! For he stands lovingly and boldly in our midst.
C: This far we know and trust. Amen.
Monday, October 22, 2012
The Faux Leather Purse
Well, it's almost time to register for classes. And I have no clue what I'm going to do. Drop the English major to a minor? Add a history major? History minor? Psych minor? Folklore minor? Sociology minor? The choices seem literally endless.
A couple weeks ago I went to the church rummage sale and bought a communion chalice, a piece of wood with a picture of my church decorated for Christmas back in the 80's, and a big faux leather purse, all for a dollar and sixty five cents. It was a transcendent moment. Seriously. I kept asking God what I needed to do with my life and I end up with a picture of a church and a communion chalice. That rainy, cold Friday afternoon, I almost decided I was going to turn my back on the idea of becoming a pastor. Pull the plug on the long drawn out process. And then here I end up with a church picture and a communion chalice.
"Calling" is such a confusing word. Biblically, I think it's something that God does and we do back. Grace is not something we passively receive. It goes back to the Wesleyan version of Arminianism: We have free will, and we can reject grace or receive it. But God is inside of you, prompting you to do the right thing. You can tune him out, but no way can you say "yes" without the grace that goes before (prevenient grace) every good thing we do.
I bought the communion chalice, church picture, and faux leather purse with my own change from my own change purse. But God whispered, drew me, called me, claimed me at the rummage sale down in fellowship hall.
Isn't it wonderful that God uses the mundane stuff of life to speak to us, to shape us? Who knew that a rummage sale would become a sacrament, where God meets us in the everyday? Life is full of sacraments. Baptismal founts, chalices, holy bread and wine are everywhere. Beware: a bike ride might be a baptism, the local diner a sacred altar.
My fake leather purse is a reminder that God is calling me to be a grown-up lady with a grown-up purse. One day soon I'll be pumping gas in a car I bought. I'll be paying electric bills, buying pantsuits. And that's as God wills it.
My grandmother used to say, "You can't eat something you like for dinner everyday." If you're a bad cook like me, or if you're living on campus, also like me, that saying is true. You can't create the perfect schedule, either. You can't major in Religion, Philosophy, English, Sociology, Psychology, and History. Life happens: lines get crooked, toes get stepped on, feet get lodged firmly in mouth. Love slips away, tears well up. The icky dinners and boring classes become sacramental-- God meets us and claims us there-- God redeems time.
It's time to accept it, thank God for it, throw the faux leather purse over the shoulder, and move on.
A couple weeks ago I went to the church rummage sale and bought a communion chalice, a piece of wood with a picture of my church decorated for Christmas back in the 80's, and a big faux leather purse, all for a dollar and sixty five cents. It was a transcendent moment. Seriously. I kept asking God what I needed to do with my life and I end up with a picture of a church and a communion chalice. That rainy, cold Friday afternoon, I almost decided I was going to turn my back on the idea of becoming a pastor. Pull the plug on the long drawn out process. And then here I end up with a church picture and a communion chalice.
"Calling" is such a confusing word. Biblically, I think it's something that God does and we do back. Grace is not something we passively receive. It goes back to the Wesleyan version of Arminianism: We have free will, and we can reject grace or receive it. But God is inside of you, prompting you to do the right thing. You can tune him out, but no way can you say "yes" without the grace that goes before (prevenient grace) every good thing we do.
I bought the communion chalice, church picture, and faux leather purse with my own change from my own change purse. But God whispered, drew me, called me, claimed me at the rummage sale down in fellowship hall.
Isn't it wonderful that God uses the mundane stuff of life to speak to us, to shape us? Who knew that a rummage sale would become a sacrament, where God meets us in the everyday? Life is full of sacraments. Baptismal founts, chalices, holy bread and wine are everywhere. Beware: a bike ride might be a baptism, the local diner a sacred altar.
My fake leather purse is a reminder that God is calling me to be a grown-up lady with a grown-up purse. One day soon I'll be pumping gas in a car I bought. I'll be paying electric bills, buying pantsuits. And that's as God wills it.
My grandmother used to say, "You can't eat something you like for dinner everyday." If you're a bad cook like me, or if you're living on campus, also like me, that saying is true. You can't create the perfect schedule, either. You can't major in Religion, Philosophy, English, Sociology, Psychology, and History. Life happens: lines get crooked, toes get stepped on, feet get lodged firmly in mouth. Love slips away, tears well up. The icky dinners and boring classes become sacramental-- God meets us and claims us there-- God redeems time.
It's time to accept it, thank God for it, throw the faux leather purse over the shoulder, and move on.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Texts of Terror Tuesday: Noah's Ark
Welcome to Texts of Terror Tuesday, the day where we look at a scary Bible passage and wrestle with it. "It's not Tuesday," you say? Well, that's how these texts of terror are. They confuse, they seem to lie, they seem to describe a God different from the God we meet in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Therefore, it's only appropriate to have Texts of Terror Tuesday on Wednesday.
That, and I was really busy yesterday. But I digress.
I want to start by looking at Noah. Quick summary: God creates a flood that wipes out the whole world, because they are all sinners, except for Noah and his family. They're supposed to put two animals on the ark and for forty days and forty nights, they hang out on the ark until God makes the flood go away. (Genesis 6-9, New Abridged Jessica Version).
Most people have heard this story, but if you stop to really think about it, it's scary. Why does God kill everybody? Does God only love "good" people like Noah? Why all the animals on the ark? Is this story only for those crazy creationist folk? Why is this even in the Bible?!
I want to start by saying I don't think this passage is for little kids, who are just learning to meet God, who think in black and white terms and can't grapple with the complex character of God. This is for grown-ups. And I'm not sure I'm quite grown-up enough to understand, let alone explain, this Noah story. But I'll give it a shot.
Genesis 6:5-7 says, "The LORD saw that the wickedness of humankind was great in the earth, and every inclination of the thoughts of their hearts was only evil continually. And the LORD was sorry he had made humankind in the earth, and it grieved him to his heart. So the LORD said, 'I will blot out from the earth the human beings I have created-- people together with animals and creeping things and birds of the air, for I am sorry that I have made them.'"
My Bible's commentary says the word "grieved" is the same word used for the pain of childbirth, and that a more appropriate translation might be "anguished." God is really, really hurting here. The pride of his life-- humanity-- has totally turned away from him. And it's killing him. I think it's something like when a parent watches their child grow up and turn away from them and get into self-destructive behaviors, only multiplied across God's thousands of children, raised exponentially because his love for each lost child is greater than any mother's love we can imagine.
And God is regretful, too. Have you ever worked really hard on a project only to see it fail? That paper you wrote got lost in cyberspace, or nobody showed up to the big event you spent weeks planning. Well, God's big project of creation failed. And God's miserable about it.
Because really, it's hopeless. "Every inclination of the thoughts of their hearts was evil continually." They've made their choice. They don't want God in their lives, they don't want to love others, and they never will. God knows it, and he's in agony. Clinically depressed, a psychologist might say.
But God has Noah and his family. So he has Noah make an ark and put the animals in it. Why not just take Noah and his family up to heaven? Humans have been just terrible, after all. But God wants to start over. He wants to give humans another shot, because as wayward and self-destructive as humans are, God loves them. A lot. And he's willing to start over, risk the pain again, because he just wants to be in relationship with humanity. Even if he has to go through a lot of crap to get there.
Notice, too, that Noah has to actually build an ark. If I were Noah, I might have been tempted to say (and definitely would have thought), "Lord, if you can make a great flood, why can't you save me some work and build this ark for me?" But it doesn't work like that. God wants partners, not pets, people who will work with him, not just receive from him. So Noah had to build that ark, every last plank.
And why the animals? Who really cares about them? God can just make new ones, right? Well, no. God wanted Noah to participate in this plan, take care of the animals too. Apparently even animals matter to God. Maybe, in our modern day tendency to ignore nature or bulldoze it over to build out suburbs and skyscrapers, we have grieved the God who wanted to make sure every last species made it on the ark.
Now, I'm no vegetarian, nor do I feel any guilt about killing a spider. But I could definitely appreciate God's natural creations more, since apparently God cares about nature. A lot!
And there Noah waits in that ark, waiting, waiting. Why is this taking so long? he's thinking. God made the world! Why not just get this flood done real quick? I don't know. Cliched as it sounds, Noah had to trust God. When we're in the ark, caught between the past and God's plans for the future, waiting, waiting, and the dove comes back to us... we trust. God will get it done, at the right time.
Fundamentally, I think the story of Noah's Ark is a love story. Yes, it's a warning that judgment will come upon us if we turn away from God. But a few caveats: these people didn't just forget to say their prayers or say a bad word when they stubbed their toe. "The earth is filled with violence because of them"; they were "continually" evil. And furthermore, God didn't like wiping them out. He was agonized, anguished, depressed about it. But he didn't have a choice. They weren't going to change. They literally chose hell for themselves, shook their fists at God and refused his kingdom. And God's not going to force people into heaven. The Flood was the most loving thing he could do, so he could start over and try this humanity thing all over again.
God still stands before us, begging, pleading that we not turn away from him like these people did, because it would break God's heart. And like Noah, he calls us to build arks, to enter these crazy plans of his and wait, wait, wait for his timing to come.
Do I think the Great Flood really happened? No. I think it's an inspired story that challenges all who read it while proclaiming the tortured depths of God's love for every lost child. And that's more real than any literal interpretation could be.
So, thoughts? Do you think I let God off the hook too easily? Is this still a text of terror for you? What are some other texts of terror in the Bible?
That, and I was really busy yesterday. But I digress.
I want to start by looking at Noah. Quick summary: God creates a flood that wipes out the whole world, because they are all sinners, except for Noah and his family. They're supposed to put two animals on the ark and for forty days and forty nights, they hang out on the ark until God makes the flood go away. (Genesis 6-9, New Abridged Jessica Version).
Most people have heard this story, but if you stop to really think about it, it's scary. Why does God kill everybody? Does God only love "good" people like Noah? Why all the animals on the ark? Is this story only for those crazy creationist folk? Why is this even in the Bible?!
I want to start by saying I don't think this passage is for little kids, who are just learning to meet God, who think in black and white terms and can't grapple with the complex character of God. This is for grown-ups. And I'm not sure I'm quite grown-up enough to understand, let alone explain, this Noah story. But I'll give it a shot.
Genesis 6:5-7 says, "The LORD saw that the wickedness of humankind was great in the earth, and every inclination of the thoughts of their hearts was only evil continually. And the LORD was sorry he had made humankind in the earth, and it grieved him to his heart. So the LORD said, 'I will blot out from the earth the human beings I have created-- people together with animals and creeping things and birds of the air, for I am sorry that I have made them.'"
My Bible's commentary says the word "grieved" is the same word used for the pain of childbirth, and that a more appropriate translation might be "anguished." God is really, really hurting here. The pride of his life-- humanity-- has totally turned away from him. And it's killing him. I think it's something like when a parent watches their child grow up and turn away from them and get into self-destructive behaviors, only multiplied across God's thousands of children, raised exponentially because his love for each lost child is greater than any mother's love we can imagine.
And God is regretful, too. Have you ever worked really hard on a project only to see it fail? That paper you wrote got lost in cyberspace, or nobody showed up to the big event you spent weeks planning. Well, God's big project of creation failed. And God's miserable about it.
Because really, it's hopeless. "Every inclination of the thoughts of their hearts was evil continually." They've made their choice. They don't want God in their lives, they don't want to love others, and they never will. God knows it, and he's in agony. Clinically depressed, a psychologist might say.
But God has Noah and his family. So he has Noah make an ark and put the animals in it. Why not just take Noah and his family up to heaven? Humans have been just terrible, after all. But God wants to start over. He wants to give humans another shot, because as wayward and self-destructive as humans are, God loves them. A lot. And he's willing to start over, risk the pain again, because he just wants to be in relationship with humanity. Even if he has to go through a lot of crap to get there.
Notice, too, that Noah has to actually build an ark. If I were Noah, I might have been tempted to say (and definitely would have thought), "Lord, if you can make a great flood, why can't you save me some work and build this ark for me?" But it doesn't work like that. God wants partners, not pets, people who will work with him, not just receive from him. So Noah had to build that ark, every last plank.
And why the animals? Who really cares about them? God can just make new ones, right? Well, no. God wanted Noah to participate in this plan, take care of the animals too. Apparently even animals matter to God. Maybe, in our modern day tendency to ignore nature or bulldoze it over to build out suburbs and skyscrapers, we have grieved the God who wanted to make sure every last species made it on the ark.
Now, I'm no vegetarian, nor do I feel any guilt about killing a spider. But I could definitely appreciate God's natural creations more, since apparently God cares about nature. A lot!
And there Noah waits in that ark, waiting, waiting. Why is this taking so long? he's thinking. God made the world! Why not just get this flood done real quick? I don't know. Cliched as it sounds, Noah had to trust God. When we're in the ark, caught between the past and God's plans for the future, waiting, waiting, and the dove comes back to us... we trust. God will get it done, at the right time.
Fundamentally, I think the story of Noah's Ark is a love story. Yes, it's a warning that judgment will come upon us if we turn away from God. But a few caveats: these people didn't just forget to say their prayers or say a bad word when they stubbed their toe. "The earth is filled with violence because of them"; they were "continually" evil. And furthermore, God didn't like wiping them out. He was agonized, anguished, depressed about it. But he didn't have a choice. They weren't going to change. They literally chose hell for themselves, shook their fists at God and refused his kingdom. And God's not going to force people into heaven. The Flood was the most loving thing he could do, so he could start over and try this humanity thing all over again.
God still stands before us, begging, pleading that we not turn away from him like these people did, because it would break God's heart. And like Noah, he calls us to build arks, to enter these crazy plans of his and wait, wait, wait for his timing to come.
Do I think the Great Flood really happened? No. I think it's an inspired story that challenges all who read it while proclaiming the tortured depths of God's love for every lost child. And that's more real than any literal interpretation could be.
So, thoughts? Do you think I let God off the hook too easily? Is this still a text of terror for you? What are some other texts of terror in the Bible?
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
While Breaking Basic Safety Rules
So when I was walking through downtown Kirksville today, listening to music on headphones (which is very bad, by the way; you should never wander around town with one of your most important senses cut off. But shoot, I did it anyway), the song "Piano Man" by Billy Joel came on. I immediately felt inspired. Which is weird because it's a) a bit of a depressing song and b) a weird song to even have. I guess I just like weird songs.
Anyway, I highly recommend you YouTube this. Great music.
I think "Piano Man" is a kind of parable about church, and God, and calling. My first thought, after "When exactly did I purchase this song?" was "Wouldn't it be great if church were like this bar?" I want to see a congregation with these bar patrons in it. John at the bar, a nice guy who gives Billy free drinks, who can't shake the feeling he'd rather be "a movie star." There's a crowd of businessmen, who "slowly get stoned." And Paul, "a real-estate novelist," walking the fine line between day job and daydream, Davy who will never get out of the navy, the "smiling" manager standing on the periphery, the waitresses who know how to flirt.
I want that congregation.
All of them ache profoundly. They are unhappy with the way life is turning out, and they don't know how to turn it back around. They are, Jesus says, "the poor in spirit." Do they know that Jesus loves them? Do they know that church is supposed to be the place where the questions that haunt them, the questions they try in vain each nine o'clock on a Saturday to drown out, are addressed to the God who cares?
If not, it's my damn fault. It's all our damn faults. "Damn" here being used in the religious sense-- God damns our failure to take to the streets and compel them to come in.
I pray that one day God will make me half the pastor Billy Joel is. (If, indeed, God is calling me to be a pastor-- that's a whole other story for a whole other time.) They talk to him, really talk to him, about the gashes on their souls. "Bill, I believe this is killing me," says John at the bar, and he knows Billy Joel won't laugh. Best of all, they ask him to sing them songs. Billy Joel takes their agony and turns it to song, so they can understand things about themselves they never knew before. And so they see God in the mess of their lives where they never knew God was, that God is redeeming them, and bartending and real estate and waitressing and the navy become high holy callings where the Lord is present!
I am not Catholic. But there's something sort of right about their understanding of priesthood: The pastor connects the people to God. The pastor stands between them, showing God all the ways his people suffer, showing the people all the ways God has been in their midst. The pastor must become the Piano Man. Or Piano Woman. And so must we all to each other-- this is not a distinctly pastoral calling, but for some reason tonight I can't help but see Billy Joel as an ordained elder.
It might seem like the Piano Man is the main event, but really the stars of the show are the ragtag parishoners/patrons, for whom every song is written. The Psalms are addressed to God and to Davy, who's still in the navy.
Liturgy is the work of the people. The pastor just gets to tag along.
"And the piano, it sounds like a carnival!" The kingdom of God is like a carnival, where we escape this dreary life of failed careers and negligent lovers, and find a new jubilant reality where, like children full of cotton candy, we smile at our Father who gave it all to us.
"And the microphone smells like a beer." Does it? Do the songs of the churches smell like beer-- familiar to Paul, the real-estate novelist, and comforting, yet full of grace he has never known? If not, it's my damn fault. It's all our damn faults.
Sing us a song! You're the Piano Man.
Here I am, Lord. Send me.
I think "Piano Man" is a kind of parable about church, and God, and calling. My first thought, after "When exactly did I purchase this song?" was "Wouldn't it be great if church were like this bar?" I want to see a congregation with these bar patrons in it. John at the bar, a nice guy who gives Billy free drinks, who can't shake the feeling he'd rather be "a movie star." There's a crowd of businessmen, who "slowly get stoned." And Paul, "a real-estate novelist," walking the fine line between day job and daydream, Davy who will never get out of the navy, the "smiling" manager standing on the periphery, the waitresses who know how to flirt.
I want that congregation.
All of them ache profoundly. They are unhappy with the way life is turning out, and they don't know how to turn it back around. They are, Jesus says, "the poor in spirit." Do they know that Jesus loves them? Do they know that church is supposed to be the place where the questions that haunt them, the questions they try in vain each nine o'clock on a Saturday to drown out, are addressed to the God who cares?
If not, it's my damn fault. It's all our damn faults. "Damn" here being used in the religious sense-- God damns our failure to take to the streets and compel them to come in.
I pray that one day God will make me half the pastor Billy Joel is. (If, indeed, God is calling me to be a pastor-- that's a whole other story for a whole other time.) They talk to him, really talk to him, about the gashes on their souls. "Bill, I believe this is killing me," says John at the bar, and he knows Billy Joel won't laugh. Best of all, they ask him to sing them songs. Billy Joel takes their agony and turns it to song, so they can understand things about themselves they never knew before. And so they see God in the mess of their lives where they never knew God was, that God is redeeming them, and bartending and real estate and waitressing and the navy become high holy callings where the Lord is present!
I am not Catholic. But there's something sort of right about their understanding of priesthood: The pastor connects the people to God. The pastor stands between them, showing God all the ways his people suffer, showing the people all the ways God has been in their midst. The pastor must become the Piano Man. Or Piano Woman. And so must we all to each other-- this is not a distinctly pastoral calling, but for some reason tonight I can't help but see Billy Joel as an ordained elder.
It might seem like the Piano Man is the main event, but really the stars of the show are the ragtag parishoners/patrons, for whom every song is written. The Psalms are addressed to God and to Davy, who's still in the navy.
Liturgy is the work of the people. The pastor just gets to tag along.
"And the piano, it sounds like a carnival!" The kingdom of God is like a carnival, where we escape this dreary life of failed careers and negligent lovers, and find a new jubilant reality where, like children full of cotton candy, we smile at our Father who gave it all to us.
"And the microphone smells like a beer." Does it? Do the songs of the churches smell like beer-- familiar to Paul, the real-estate novelist, and comforting, yet full of grace he has never known? If not, it's my damn fault. It's all our damn faults.
Sing us a song! You're the Piano Man.
Here I am, Lord. Send me.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
An Introduction
So, clearly, I am starting a blog. Why? For a few reasons.
1. Great procrastination tool! Who doesn't love guilt-free procrastination?
2. I realized I need to be more creative. I see people who are creative with music, art, etc., and I realized I'm not being very creative.
3. Writing is fun. It's fun to have something to say and find the best possible way to say it. I love the ways words bounce, slide, crash, clang, jerk, dance.
4. I do have a journal that's private, but it's good for me to write somewhat personal things that other people can see. It's good to get used to telling deeper truths in public.
I'm entitling this "Unlost Wanderings." Why? I feel like a wanderer. I have never lived in any place for more than three years. If you ask me where I'm from, I'll either say "Lee's Summit" and grumble to myself that isn't quite right, or truthfully say, "I don't feel like I'm from anywhere."
I also feel like a wanderer spiritually. I'm moving towards something, the way my friends Jim, Amanda, Alicia and I walked on the trails at Thousand Hills. The trails definitely lead somewhere. But you don't know exactly where. You have a map, but the map isn't always right. Yet I'm not lost. Lost is if you're in the middle of the woods with nobody to hear you shouting. I have friends to listen to me, to ask me if I'm okay and hang onto me when I feel myself drifting away. And I have my God, the only one who was there from the very beginning, in every place I ever lived, the only Friend who never forgot to write back. Lost is hell, literally and figuratively. Hell is wherever you ask to be really and truly left alone and get your wish. I am not lost. God reversed my lostness and set me on a wandering path. That's salvation. I just don't know quite where I'm going yet.
1. Great procrastination tool! Who doesn't love guilt-free procrastination?
2. I realized I need to be more creative. I see people who are creative with music, art, etc., and I realized I'm not being very creative.
3. Writing is fun. It's fun to have something to say and find the best possible way to say it. I love the ways words bounce, slide, crash, clang, jerk, dance.
4. I do have a journal that's private, but it's good for me to write somewhat personal things that other people can see. It's good to get used to telling deeper truths in public.
I'm entitling this "Unlost Wanderings." Why? I feel like a wanderer. I have never lived in any place for more than three years. If you ask me where I'm from, I'll either say "Lee's Summit" and grumble to myself that isn't quite right, or truthfully say, "I don't feel like I'm from anywhere."
I also feel like a wanderer spiritually. I'm moving towards something, the way my friends Jim, Amanda, Alicia and I walked on the trails at Thousand Hills. The trails definitely lead somewhere. But you don't know exactly where. You have a map, but the map isn't always right. Yet I'm not lost. Lost is if you're in the middle of the woods with nobody to hear you shouting. I have friends to listen to me, to ask me if I'm okay and hang onto me when I feel myself drifting away. And I have my God, the only one who was there from the very beginning, in every place I ever lived, the only Friend who never forgot to write back. Lost is hell, literally and figuratively. Hell is wherever you ask to be really and truly left alone and get your wish. I am not lost. God reversed my lostness and set me on a wandering path. That's salvation. I just don't know quite where I'm going yet.