Ain't No Such Thing

Ain't no such thing as
white trash. 
Ain't no such thing as
folks less than folks, 
people worth about a
bucket of table scraps.
All y'all, all y'all and me too
are part of God's green garden--
green tomatoes climbing up high and
green beans on the ground
alike.

I got the South in my soul.
I got the South in my soul. 

To The Shadowman

What thoughts, what thoughts have I of you tonight!
What thoughts, what thoughts--
gleaming, glittering, as our orbits are slowly thundering,
converging upon the circus of years.

What thoughts, what thoughts.

Inextricably bound, irrevocably linked, we 
are always wrestling midst constellations
hovering in vacuums of truth and reason.

Bleeding then are we grasping for
one another through the scarlet trail
shimmering and shiny through teary mists--

I will never stop needing you.
I will never know what to say to you.

Transcendent, ineffable, our dance goes on
on, on, with words abiding, words confiding
somehow outside the realms of our movements.

Blessed be the shadowman.

Waiting

Waiting is really, really hard. Waiting for dinner, for Christmas, for summer, for healing, for love, for answers. Most people aren't very good at waiting. Now, I'm doing some of the hardest waiting I have ever done as I wait to hear whether I will be appointed as a United Methodist pastor starting in July, or not. What I have been thinking and praying about and preparing for, for over three years now, might happen in July. Or it might not. And the waiting is painful.
I don't think this is unique to Methodists in the itinerancy-- I'm pretty sure this anxious, exciting, terrifying waiting is something nearly everyone has to do at some point. 
But here is my consolation this Holy Week. Jesus knows what it's like to wait on pins and needles. How must he have felt on Palm Sunday, waiting, waiting for the cross? I don't think he knew exactly what he was getting into. Yes, the gospels tell us Jesus predicted the cross, and that he knew one of his best friends would betray him. But did Jesus know exactly how it would feel to take on all the principalities and powers, all the sins of everyone who ever lived, on himself on the cross? I doubt it. I wonder if Jesus struggled to get to sleep a few nights of Holy Week, puzzling over what exactly was going to happen. 
But I know the nights I struggle to sleep, my mind racing with possibilities and questions, Jesus is right there beside me. Jesus knows, knows it altogether, as Psalm 139 says. He knows the stuckness of waiting for Good Friday and for Easter. He's been in the wilderness too.
This Holy Week, I pray that everyone who is waiting will be able to wait beside Jesus for the coming victory of God, in whatever form it will come.

Palm Sunday

Hosanna, loud hosanna sang
The crowd as they spared no
Honor for you, spreading their
Cloaks and waving their palms
And pledging allegiance to the
King, and his Kingdom which
Stood for liberty, and the pursuit
Of whatever we want.

Were you there, were you there, O
My people, when they screamed
Hosanna! this week and the 
Next: Crucify him!

I was there. I was there. 

I said "Save us" and then "Go to hell."

I waved a palm branch and then threw a punch.

I took off my cloak and then covered everything up.

I did not hear, over my shouting, your weeping for Jerusalem. For me.

O You, O You, have mercy on me... 

The Good Enough God

Before I sound blasphemous, let me explain.
Throughout my time at Truman, I have gotten very interested in the psychology of religion. More broadly, God has posed this question to me: What is authentic religion? What is the kingdom of God like, or what shall we compare it to? Psychology of religion is a key piece of that puzzle. It helps me uncover disordered, unhealthy spirituality in myself, in others, and historically and institutionally. I'm not the only one with occasionally neurotic faith. It's every Christian who at least once has, for example, related to God as a wrathful primal father instead of the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. 
I think struggling with the question of what true religion is, is a biblically mandated act of discernment. And it's essential to the vocation of the clergy and the laity. Paul (or pseudo-Paul, if we're putting on our historical criticism hats) tells young pastor Titus, "You, however, must teach what accords with sound teaching." The Greek word "sound" means "healthy." Pastors are called to teach the healthy gospel, not neurotic, psychodynamically conditioned distortions. And laity are called to critically evaluate the health of the teachings advanced by their pastors and the health of their own religiosity.
That was a long intro to a more interesting idea-- the good-enough God. D.W. Winnicott, a psychoanalyst, is best-known for his contributions to the field of object-relations. Transitional objects can be anything-- the mother's breast (classically the first transitional object), the baby blanket, other people, a book or movie, even God-- that mediates between the "me" and the "not-me." It's a realm of play, developing the self and relationships. The baby initially doesn't know objects. The baby is his whole world, her hunger and thirst and wet diaper all that exists, and the mother an extension of himself. The baby learns that when she cries, the mother comes and fulfills every need, making the mother both merged with his psyche and indulging "the illusion of omnipotence," as Winnicott says. The baby sees the mother as under his control instead of an authentic object in her own right. This is necessary for the baby to become securely attached to the mother, and to more broadly develop a sense of their own security and self-esteem. But growing up means leaving behind the illusion of omnipotence. The solution is for the mother to a be a "good enough mother," continuing to care for the infant but gradually declining to cater to every demand and thereby slowly breaking the illusion of omnipotence. The baby, of course, doesn't like this process much. The baby has to try to destroy the mother, lash out against her, to slowly prove to himself that she is a separate being from him who cannot be destroyed by him. This is the crucial point: the baby must try but fail to destroy her mother.
Of course, the mother is not the only object. God, as some articles I read point out, is also an object. And when we are spiritual infants, God coddles us, and often we hold illusions of omnipotence, thinking we are in charge of God. I see this in my own spiritual life. When I was a new Christian, I had many mystical experiences of God's closeness. I remember lying on my bed, in the first house we lived in at Virginia Beach when I was eleven years old, reading John 15 and literally weeping for joy. I had other experiences like that too, that drew me deeper into relationship with God. I began to believe, even if I wouldn't consciously articulate it that way at the time, that God was at my beck and call. I asked God over and over for warm and fuzzy experiences of his presence. "Come close to me, God!" I would pray. And sometimes God obliged. But more and more often, he didn't. God was and is destroying my illusions of omnipotence. This is what it means for God to be a "good enough" God-- taking care of us without infantalizing us, giving us meat instead of milk.
And correspondingly, we try and fail to destroy God. Winnicott's framework explains some of the resisting of God we see in Scripture. "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" "Oh God, you enticed me, and I was enticed... But if I say, 'I will not mention him or speak anymore in his name,' there is within me a burning fire shut up in my bones" (that little gem is from Jeremiah 20; the Hebrew for "enticed" actually means "rape) "Oh Lord, why do you cast me off? Why do you hide your face from me? Wretched and close to death, I suffer your terrors wherever I turn" (Psalm 88, the most intense lament in all of Scripture, in my opinion) "He has besieged and enveloped me with bitterness and tribulation; he has made me to sit in darkness."
I would argue on one level all of these folks are lashing out at God by saying these apparently blasphemous things. They are attacking God, trying to destroy him, and each learns God can't be defeated, pushed aside, annihilated. We are maturing when we try to destroy God. This is the story of Jacob, who wrestles with God, who demands, "Tell me your name!" Tell me that you are real, tell me that you are something outside of my mind. "I won't let you go until you bless me!" Jacob shouts at the Angel of the Lord. I won't let go of you until you give me what you want, until you give into my demands, until you validate me as the center of my universe. And God, mercifully, blesses him in the wrestling, through the struggle miraculously confirms God's existence. This has been true in my own life. Reading Winnicott and some decidedly more spiritual interpreters of Winnicott really was insightful into my spirituality. I certainly have raged against God-- and in the raging learned that God was beyond my control, and learned to live with the understanding that God is outside of my own mind. And I'm fairly stuck in my own head at times, and it's easy to think God is just another idea running around my mind, instead of the living Lord. God's withdrawal and my own unwitting attempts to destroy God, in the Winnicott-ian sense, bring me closer to the living Lord.
As Thomas Merton said, "God, who is everywhere, never leaves us. Yet he seems sometimes to be present, sometimes absent... Those who love only his apparent presence cannot follow the Lord wherever he goes."
A few caveats-- God's withdrawing is balanced by times of God's presence-- hence the phrase "good enough." Jesus says he is with the disciples always, then ascends into heaven.  Jesus himself is declared God's Beloved, and then the Spirit whisks him into the wilderness. But I still believe this withdrawal is in terms of our sensing. Jesus sent us the Paraclete, to draw alongside us forever, but sometimes the Spirit's ministry weans us off warm and fuzzy feelings. Also, the anger at God, the efforts to destroy, are not the same as sinful rebellion-- although they can overlap. The psalmists and Jeremiah and the rest don't really hate God, and they don't really want to leave God. They are still, in a primitive and real sense, children of the Mother/Father God.
And a final important caveat-- it's easy to apply psychoanalysis of religion for reductive ends. Any theory can do no more than help our understanding. God, and for that matter our own messy souls, cannot be locked into rigid theories. If we try, in some ways we are merely caught in illusions of omnipotence, deluded that God is, even if we wouldn't consciously admit that we think this, a figment of our own minds instead of an independent Lord. Recently when on a wonderful road trip with friends, we were talking about some verses in the gospels and I blurted out, "Jesus is so Wesleyan!" They gently laughed at me and one said, "Haven't you got that backwards?" I certainly did. We can't trap God with theological, or for that matter, any other kinds of paradigms.
Wesley, speak of the devil, talked about the notion of assurance. God assures us of our status as God's children. And one way God does it is by paradoxically destroying our illusions of omnipotence, so we come to understand grace comes truly from without, a power beyond our control, untamed and incapable of our destruction.
Glory and honor to our good-enough God!

A Marine Corps Brat's Psalm

From Montezuma to Tripoli you are God
God of the yawning desert, of heat and danger
And barbed wire fences imposing cosmos on chaos
God of the coast, of boundless seas and brave tempests
And cool, salty air that makes lungs and smiles swell
God of the country, of oceans of grass and trees
And wild skunks and unearthly frontier quiet
God of the northeast, of swirling blizzard fury
And kingdoms of ice and sleet, unconquered by salt
God of the west coast, of relentless cheery sun
And indifferent mountains, towering, singing 
God of every place they sent us I will follow you, follow follow
[Montezuma to Tripoli]

Perichoresis

As when David danced 
Before you, shining with sweat
And every layer coming off:
Finally we are reckoning-- this 
Is the place where psalms ooze
Out, covered in blood and pus:
Religion is a nasty business
Especially the religion of
This living God, the bleeding
God who came down to partake
In scars and tears and dirty
Diapers at the Incarnation:
Meaty God, holy God, you
Know it altogether, better 
Than I know, beyond knowing
To the place of perichoresis 
Where you humbly, lovingly
Beckon me into your
Dance. 

Note: "Perichoresis" is the idea that three Persons of the Trinity abide in a kind of dancing relationship

Wrath

When he said 
"Let go of your anger"
He didn't realize
You couldn't because
The anger was part of you 
Now, as real as your
Hand, skulking, reaching and
Jesus said you'd have to
[Not let go but]
Cut it off and 
Throw it
Away. 

Moses' Call to Ministry (Exodus 1-3)

Moses was one of those folks
Who wasn't from anywhere.
A Hebrew by birth, and
Supposed to die, to be buried
With the holy innocents
Their blood a testimony
Their souls perched higher
Higher, waiting in the courts of heaven.

Moses, you are the true Hebrew
An Israelite, indeed
There is deceit in you
And narrowly, narrowly were you
Saved.

Moses lived, or so it was thought,
On the right side of the tracks.
In the palace: Servants, six course
Meals, hieroglyphics, girls like
Cleo, and walls too thick to hear
The howl of the moon, and the cries
Of the beat-down children of God.

Moses, fatherless boy, you were the first
Man delivered from Pharaoh: When you
Knew you didn't need him. When you
Stepped outside and emptied
Yourself.

Moses has a record. An anger management
Issue. Red flags on his psychologicals.
He killed the guy in red blood, killed him
With his bare hands, and he enjoyed it
Savored the Egyptian's loud terror and
Slammed his head into the sand, over
Over, even after the Egyptian's last breath
And the Hebrew's strangled cry.

Moses! What were you thinking, or were
you thinking? Psychodrama turned violent
Or righteous anger uncontained? Either way
God was thinking. Any way, you are
Known.

Moses decided to start over. But he couldn't
Start over, not really, for in the land of Midian
The priest's daughters were in trouble, and he 
Told those shepherds, scared the scoundrels
And even in exile he was a warrior, a rescuer 
His vocation crying out like the fearful and false
Shepherds.

Moses, you must have known when you bound
Yourself to the woman you saved, and gave
Her a son, Gershom-- stranger-- you were born
Not really a wanderer but a 
Lover.

Moses was in wilderness beyond wilderness
And on the first of many mountains when God
Showed up, or showed his face in a bush burnt
But not consumed and Moses, in true form blurted
Out: God, send somebody else! Better to run than
To risk (it all) anymore, better to forget his people
His problems, his fathers, his destiny
Unrelenting.

Moses, teeming and huge with wrath, were you
Angry, too, with this God who pesters and demands
Of you your life, who doesn't seem to realize
Somehow you are still the small boy in the basket drifting
Downstream?

Moses listened, though, and came out from the
Wilderness and the anger was no longer anger,
Not really, and he heard himself say Thus saith
the Lord and Let my people go! because now the
Lonely boy had a people and now God was his
King and Pharaoh was not his father and in the
Questions and terror and wild fight Moses 
Stayed.

Moses, how did you stand between Pharaoh and
God, doubt and faith, your wife and your people
Rage and love, yourself and the world? That's the
Captivity from which there's no exodus, that's the
Calling you could not shake, that's every shepherd's
Place.

Moses, who drug and shuffled his feet, made it
Through, but only because the Lord was with
His mouth, the mouth that ate the manna of
Pharaoh, that cursed the dead unburied Egyptian,
And only because the Lord bore his raging 
Doubts, his flying terror, and with strong
Hands, loving hands, a father's hands, held him
Fast. 

Lucifer's Epistle to the Fallen by Scott Cairnes

Lucifer, Son of the Morning, Pretty Boy,
Rose Colored Satan of Your Dreams, Good as Gold,
you know, God of this World, Shadow in the Tree.

Gorgeous like you don't know! Me, Sweet Snake, jeweled
like your momma's throat, her trembling wrist. Tender
as my kiss! Angel of Darkness! Angel

of Light! Listen, you might try telling me 
your troubles; I promise to do what I can. 
Which is plenty. Understand, I can kill

anyone. And, if I want, I can pick
a dead man up and make him walk. I can
make him dance. Any dance. Angels don't

get in my way; they know too much.
God, I love theater! But listen, I know
the sorry world you walk through.

Him! Showboat with the Heavy Thumbs! Pretender
at Creation! Maker of Possibilities!
Please! I know why you keep walking-- you're skittish

as sheep, and life isn't easy. Besides,
the truth is bent to keep you dumb to death.
Imagine! The ignorance you're dressed in!

The way you wear it! And His foot tickling
your neck. Don't miss my meaning; I know none
of this is your doing. The game is fixed.

Dishonest, if you ask me. So ask. God
knows how I love you! My Beauty, My Most
Serious Feelings are for you, My Heart turns

upon your happiness, your ultimate
wisdom, the worlds we will share. Me, Lucifer.
How can such a word carry fear? Lucifer,

like love, like song, a lovely music lifting
to the spinning stars! And you, my cooing
pigeons, my darlings, my tender lambs, come, ask

anything, and it will be added to your
account. Nothing will be beyond us; nothing
dares touch my imagining. 

This poem, from Satan's perspective addressed to humanity, fascinates me. How seductive he is, how subtly and skillfully he leads us from God. And there is truth in it, too; God's heart does not "turn upon your happiness." Hagar, Moses, Jonah, Jeremiah, Esther, Mary, Peter, Paul, and everyone else who tries to follow God learns that well. 

The Baptizer

Remember my baptism, remember it
For me-- when I was not yet three months
And it was the season of Christmas
Not Advent. Christ already born--
Now it was my turn. Wearing my 
Mother's wedding gown, altered:
Did you think, then, it was something
Strange, a baby getting married
In Chicagoland midwinter doom?
They tell me I was screaming,
Howling for all the world as though drowning.
And I was. 

Remember the pastor, remember him
For me-- I don't. I don't know his name.
But he was the interim, itinerant, wandering
The earth. And did he know, could he know
I, too, could be the baptizer-- cloaked
This time in a minister's gown, my gown
And drowning babies, momento mori 
Splitting parents from their children and giving
Them to God.

Remember the people, remember them
For me-- that little German congregation
Who welcomed me to the family of God. 
Their bruises incurable and wounds grievous
As Israel's in the days of Jeremiah-- what does
It mean to be welcomed by this people? Are they
Somehow with me still, and is theirs the voice
Calling me in the wilderness:
Make straight the path of the Lord and be thou
The next baptizer?

To Wrestle With God (Based on Gen 32:22-31)

He stays by the stream, he stays
Alone, and what must he be
Thinking, feeling in that
Eternal moment
That sparkling gleam
To which the whole orbit 
Of his years
Nature's years
Converged?

Jacob, Ya'aqov, deceiver 
Wanderer, Hebrew of Hebrews
Do you see his face daily
The face of your brother
The hairy man
The man's man
The son your father loved
Best?

He saw the figure on the other side
And it is nearly day
Dawn nearly shattering
Darkness-- Jacob 
Does not think to bow
Or weep or run or even
Kill but to 
Wrestle.

Jacob, for the first time in your
Life you must stand and fight:
No flight, no trickery
No mother to save you
You will live or die this
Day, this night of holy
Wholly relentless
Mystery.

He wrestles long, hard
Silently, silently
Groaning finally
His hip is out of joint. 
The man has hurt him badly--
Gasping, agony, pain beyond
Pain! He will not, cannot again
Run. 

Jacob, who is this stranger, this
Bearer of blessing, of pain?
Do you hate him? Is there anger
There, in your sweat and tangled
Limbs, the anger of the second son
The cast-out one? Is that why you're
Here-- avenging, bursting, let the 
Wrath spill over as you pin the angel
Down?

He grimly smiles as the stranger
Speaks: "Let me go, for day
Is breaking." But darksome still
The skies, still his heart-- and he
Won't! Won't let go, won't give
In, won't lie to himself, to the man
To the world. And with the cry of 
The anguish of the ages, replies:
"I won't let you go until you bless
Me."

Jacob, son of Isaac, son of Abraham
Who, too, knew our wild, craving
Untamed God, you too, will seek until
You find-- the blessing, the
Birthright, the promise, the Lord. 
Hail, you mighty warrior! Fiercer,
Bolder even than your brother, who
Strove with game, for you strive with
God.

He is incensed once more-- the stranger
Answers his demands with a 
Question, a boundless question: "What is your
Name?" Aching question of questions
Posed by daybreak, by burning nerve and
Pounding heart and sweating hands-- what
Is your name? Empty question, foolish
Mocking question, at once everything and
Nothing.

Jacob! Do you really know your name?
Or do you know visions and voices-- your
Soup on the fire, your father's dismissal, your
Ladder ascending, your father-in-law's demand?
Is it violent clarity, the terror of insanity
Rooting you to the ground before him
The stranger who so strangely asked your
Name?

He replied, in any case, "Jacob." And the 
Angel continued, without even a breath:
"You shall no longer be called Jacob but
Israel." Yisro'el, El, God! "For you have
Striven with God and prevailed." He tries on
The name for size, quietly feels its sound
Its newness, its foreverness, etched in him and in
Heaven. 

Israel, you are a new man, you will forever
Wonder about the stranger, the wrestling that
So strangely burst from your body. You will
Forever limp, forever feel it in your bones:
The darkness that renamed you. The God who
Claimed you. You might mourn your old 
Name, but you can never again cross that stream.
You wrestled with God and
Won.

He demands-- and it was surely a fair 
Demand-- "Please tell me your name."
And the stranger turned it around on 
Him: "Why is it you ask my name?" And
Then he blesses him, and he trembles and
Knows he could not have both blessings and
Answers. Questions are what named him, what
Brought him to Peniel, Penu'el, face of 
El. 

Israel, Israel, are you resigned or angry
Exhausted or enlivened, terrified or
At rest? Or all of it and more, gazing
Upward, as the sun prepares to rise
In your honor? For the world will speak
Your name with awe and fear, and nearly
Nearly worship you who bravely did not
Run from God but
Wrestled.

He goes forth, limping of course, and
Moved and bearing the hard-earned
Blessing, met his brother. The years
Disappear as they hug and kiss
And boldly, the mighty man whispers to
His older twin: "Accept my gift. God has 
Dealt graciously with me and I have
Everything I want." The wrestling match:
Everything.

Israel, did the hurt and anger between you
And your brother-- surely it was there, surely
There were fiery days for you-- Israel,
In the feverish fighting by dawn was it at
Least, for a moment: The face and voice of
Esau? And was that how, in the sun
In his arms, you gave and forgave and
Gave?

He is the father of the nation, brave man
Limping man, trickster, runaway, broken
Bruised beloved and blessed of God. Not
The nation of Jews only but every one who
Crosses the stream, alone, and strives with
God and with people in the dark and light.
And these, O Lord, are your people
Israel. 

A Postmodern Psalm

I ran across this microfiction piece by Sean Hill and knew it belonged in a sermon someday.  

Wondering if I am real. Am I just a character in a story? My past seems vague, my future limited. Please, if you made me, let me know. 

Letter to A Congregation Unknown, Loved

Letter to a congregation unknown, loved

Dearly beloved-- for that is what you are
The stuff of my dreams, my nightmares
Love is proportional to danger
Already you have captured my heart
Already, body and soul-- yours. 

I am not your hero.
I have no capes, no magic wands
No priestly robes, no powers of absolution
God loved you before I belonged to you
God will love you after I leave you.

I am not a bearded, biblical sage
Nor a dark, handsome man
A coddling, doting mother
I am younger than your carpet
Your conflicts, your wounds.

I am young enough to be your daughter
With tight jeans, an iPhone, and naiveté
But Joel says your daughters will prophesy
And I see visions of you, dancing 
Dying, rising, shining-- like Christ. 

The Point of Praise

A question skeptics ask religious people, a question many religious people have quietly asked, myself included: What is the point of praise? Doesn't God know God is great without us blabbering on about it? Wouldn't God, like any properly modest person, say to our hymns and, "Glad you like me, but hell, enough's enough!"
We forget about the majesty of God. In the midst of "Jesus is my boyfriend" culture and music-- (seriously, one Christian writer said we need to go on dates with Jesus and make sure to shave our legs for him because he deserves to see his princess all dolled up. Gross! I'm not shaving just for Jesus, that's for sure. And what, may I add, if you're a guy and not a metrosexual?!)-- we forget about John's vision:
 "I saw one like the Son of Man, clothed with a long robe and with a golden sash across his chest. His head and his hair were white as a white wool, white as snow; his eyes were like a flame a fire, his feet were like burnished bronze, refined as in a furnace, and his voice was like the sound of many waters. In his right hand he held seven stars, and from his mouth came a sharp, two-edged sword, and his face was like the sun shining with full force. When I saw him, I fell at his feet as though dead" (Rev 1:13-17). 
God is not our imaginary friend. God is the living God infinitely beyond our comprehension. Praise and worship are one level an assent to the fact of God's greatness, a fact unchanged by our worship or lack thereof. 
But that helps us see the original question-- why does God care about our praise-- in a whole new light. Why, indeed? Why does the Master of the Universe-- to use the Jewish phrase, and Jews are so much better at this reverence thing than we are-- give a flying flip whether I worship him or not? I'm just a speck on the cosmic landscape. As the psalter says:
"When I look at the heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars that you have established: what are human beings that you are mindful of them, mortals that you care for them?" (Ps 8:3-4)
As a mother loves even a chicken-scratch, construction paper Mother's Day card, so God loves our worship. He cares about our worship because he cares about us. He wants us to praise him because he wants us-- and not in the Jesus is my boyfriend way, but in this way:
"By the mercies of God, present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship" (Rom 12:1). 
He doesn't want our unshaved legs, or even just a couple pretty hymns on Sunday. He wants all of us, and part of that surrendering ourselves over to God includes worshipping the God whose glory is beyond compare, whose love for us nailed his Son to the cross.
But event the fact of the question-- What's the point of praise?-- betrays our rugged, unholy American productivity. Everything has to have a purpose, a point. But relationships don't work that way. Relationships don't have a point, and worship certainly doesn't have a point. There are times to work hard for the kingdom, interceding boldly for others, asking God for help, and generally striving. But there are times to just praise God. As Scripture says: 
"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places" (Eph 1:3).
The Jewish prayer formulation, "Blessed be God..." highlights the uselessness of praise. How can we bless the God who already gives us every blessing? But God wants us to bless him anyway. Because he loves us with the love that "surpasses knowledge" (Eph 3:19). 
Blessed, indeed, be God! 

What Song, Then?

One of many of Kathleen Norris' terrific poems. 

What Song, Then? 

When my life is alien soil

and a wind

like fear

makes restless ground

of all I have done—

what song, then,

to send out roots

that will drink the rain

that does not come—

how could I sing?

Watch light come

from dark and mist rise

from waters

as sky and shore

emerge out of night

and a tree half-green

half-bare.

Half-afraid of what is in me

(though God has called it good)

I sob over nothing,

desires I cannot name.

Sing us, they say,

a song you remember…

Thinking Theologically With A Four Year Old

If you want to really do some good practical theology, grab your favorite four year old. That's what I did over break. My sister, who is also my goddaughter, is four. And she and I did some good theology together.
"And a little child shall lead them" (Is 9:2). 
"Jessica, Jessica, will you read my Bible to me?" she asked with excitement, and ran and grabbed the white Beginner's Bible my parents gave me the Christmas after I turned five. It was the first Bible I ever had, and when I imagine Jesus sometimes I still think of that cartoon drawing-- Jesus wide-eyed and friendly, clad in royal purple, beautiful and alive.
We read about Adam and Eve, and my sister gasped after Eve took the fruit. "She shouldn't do that!" my sister exclaimed. 
When was the last time I gasped aloud at Scripture? 
"Truly, I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven" (Matt 18:3)
We read the Nativity story, since Christmas was approaching. "And Gabriel, the angel..." I began. "What's an angel?" my sister interrupted me. I, the amateur theologian, was taken aback. "Well," I stammered, "they're like God's helpers."
When we got to the journey to Bethlehem, with the picture of Joseph walking and Mary on the camel, my sister asked why they weren't driving. "They didn't have cars back then," I said, smiling. "But Joseph's feet will hurt!" she said. 
Yes, surely they did. And I had never thought of it.
"I want to read more stories with girls in them," my sister whined as she flipped through the colorful children's Bible. There she is, I thought with fierce pride, my budding little feminist!
The night I got back, over rich lasagna and ice cold, expensive milk, my mother said the other day my sister was in my room and picked up one of my books and announced, "Jessica really likes God's word." 
Oh, my lovely sister, I pray I will become half of what I am in your eyes. 
On Christmas Eve, my sister joined me in my room as I wrapped Christmas gifts for other family members. I put on some Bing Crosby Christmas hymns-- don't judge; he should be required Christmas listening for everyone at any age. Anyway, bent over the wrap-- isn't wrapping gifts a horrible chore? shouldn't Gift Wrapping 101 be a college course?-- I murmured along with Bing, "Do you hear what I hear?"
"What?" my sister asked with exasperation. "What do you hear?"
What, indeed. That, too, a parable.
Another day, we are doing our makeup together. Don't worry; I don't actually apply makeup to my little princess. We just pretend-- although I suspect she really thinks she is getting a makeover. One of my favorite hymns is "Stand Up, Stand Up For Jesus," and whenever she needs to stand up to let me tie her shoe or brush her hair or put on her jacket, I belt out, "Stand up, stand up for Jesus!" and she stands up! So as she stands up to dig through my makeup bag on the counter, she sings, "Stand up, stand up for Jesus! He sees you when you're sleeping; he knows when you're awake."
Grinning so broadly I disturbed my recently applied lipgloss, I asked my sister, "Who are you singing about?"
"Jesus!" she exclaimed, and continued to sing these lines loudly, proudly. May we all sing with my sister's exuberance and budding faith the glory of our God, who out of the mouths of babes ordained his praise. 
Another thing about my sister? Her middle name is Grace. 

I Am A Little Truck

I am a little truck
Blue, but many colors beneath
Filmy, dirty gray over top
A little androgynous
Compact, but not neat
Half turned in, half turned out
Slow and creaky with
New old noises.

I am faithful, mostly
But liable to slide
Liable to need a new this
New that; regularly serviced
And traveling, plodding-- on.