Why I Stay

I have a degree in Biblical studies and humanities and I am currently one semester away from finishing a master’s degree in theology. This is not the easiest thing to lead with when I meet new people, but any sort of holding back ends up making me look like a liar. Even if I mitigate the bachelor’s degree by telling them that it’s a degree in humanities (see also, English), that only buys me a few seconds of time before they ask, “So what are you doing now?”

“I’m in graduate school,” I say, foreboding in my heart.

“Oh? What for?”

“Theology,” I say, because what is the secular equivalent of a graduate degree in theology? (spoiler alert: there is none)

“Oh. What will you do with that?”

That’s pretty much the end of polite conversation (Boyfriend says I should respond, “I’m going to frame it” but I never manage that in the heat of the moment). There are too many unknown factors to navigate the murkiness with a stranger. Does she want to know about my dream to move back to Atlanta? Does he want to be reassured that I don’t want to be a preacher? Does she want to hear that I have no idea what I will “do with that,” that I am lost, confused, and continuing on this path only by the grace of God?

Perhaps the most honest answer is that I am doing this out of love.

Love for God.

Love for God’s people.

And love for God’s church.

There are plenty of valid criticisms of the church in the United States. And there are plenty of people who claim to know why “millennials” are leaving the church in droves (you can probably find at least four different explanations in your Facebook news feed. Just scroll down a bit).

I’m not going to talk about why millennials are leaving the church. And I’m not going to talk about the criticisms, not today, at least.

Today I want to talk about why I am staying and why I think you should stay.

When I say, “stay,” I want to make sure that we’re talking about the same thing: I don’t mean I have managed to maintain my belief in Christ, although that’s important. When I say “stay,” I mean I have stayed committed to a local congregation of believers: the body of Christ Incarnate.

I stay because I know a church where most of the young married and dating couples are in interracial relationships.

I stay because I know a church who has committed that they will provide their promised support for their missionaries, even if that means other areas (like staff salaries) don’t get funds.

I stay because I know a church where the music minister can happen upon a lady crying on the church steps afterhours and be late for his dinner date to pray with her and offer advice.

I stay because I know a church who continues to let the 80 year old organist play because she loves to play the organ…even though she’s awful. I stay because they care about her more than they care about looking good for outsiders and newcomers.

I stay because I know a church that welcomes, supports, and encourages people who are struggling through their sexuality and gender identity.

I stay because I know a church that focuses on missions in February when other churches are talking about dating, marriage, and sex, because Valentine’s Day.

I stay because I know a church that allows a woman to bring her dog with her to Sunday services because she is still mourning her son’s death.

I stay because while the church has problems, there is so much to hope for.

I stay because I am willing to work to make a change.

I stay because the church will be around long after I’m dead.

I understand the criticisms, and I know what keeps you away. I know I have been fortunate to find loving and supportive churches to belong to. But they’re out there. Everywhere.

I stay because Jesus loves the church and I love what Jesus loves.

Love in the Dark

I don’t know about you, but for me, this is a dark time of year. Literally: I didn’t see the sun at all yesterday. But more than that, it’s a dark time in my soul. I don’t want to get too melodramatic on you, but the end of fall semester is always the worst time of the year for me. It’s cold and dark and all I want is tea and blankets and pajamas and I have all this stuff to do that requires not-pajamas.

Actually, that's a lie: I do know about you: I talk to you, and I’m friends with a lot of you on Facebook and I know what kind of mood this group is in:

ALI HENDERSON: December 3, 10:26 am:

            “Let's take bets on how long it will take to write this 10 page paper, because I have 23 hours left to get it done.”

SARAH DAVIS: December 6, 11:00 pm:

            “Current Mood: Face plant Cat.”

ANDREW HARRISON COX: December 6, 4:00 pm

            “Study Tip: Stand Up. Stretch. Take a Walk. Go to the Airport. Get on a Plane. Never Return.”

ELIZABETH REID: December 2, 12:16 pm:

            “On the second week of Christmas, my teachers gave to me: 5 all nighters, 4 hours of crying, 3 mental breakdowns, 2 thoughts of dropout, and a month of anxiety.”

Are you feeling overwhelmed? I am. And so are you. You are feeling stressed, out of control, you are juggling work and school and extracurriculars and choir concerts and job interviews and interviews for grad school programs. You are freaking out about your future and your finals and maybe even about going home for break (don’t think we don’t know that home is not always a warm and relaxing place for you). You’re worried about decisions to be made and presents to buy for roommates and passing your final exams and where you’re going to live next semester and who you’re going to live with.

Even more, you have friends who are feeling stressed and overwhelmed, maybe with all of these things, but maybe with bigger things, too, things so big that you don’t understand them and you can’t talk about them and all you can do is sit in silence with them in their pain and cry.

The world we live in is overwhelmed, too. People are mourning the deaths of their children—of our children—of Tamir Rice and Michael Brown and Eric Garner. Of Peter Kassig, who was 26 years old when ISIS beheaded him. We are rebuilding in Gaza, after weeks of bombing left families without homes. We are fighting in west Africa, trying to get on top of this massively contagious disease that is killing entire villages of people.

We are overwhelmed. Our friends are overwhelmed and the world we live in is overwhelmed.

And despite that, despite all these things….you have come here. You could be anywhere else, doing any number of urgent things that must be done and you decided to come to church this morning.

That says something about you.

Maybe it means that you, like me, were raised in a family that only skipped church if you were bleeding or throwing up and neither of those things were true about you this morning so here you are.

Maybe it means that your roommate was too loud this morning and once you were awake, you decided to make the best of a bad situation.

Or maybe. Maybe it means that you came to church not despite the fact that you were feeling overwhelmed and out of control, but because you were feeling overwhelmed and out of control. Maybe you came here because this is the place you go when you need… something. Help? Companionship? Love?

As we’ve gone through 1 John, we’ve had this idea of love kind of bashed into our heads and you’re going to get it one more time:

“Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love. God’s love was revealed to us in this way: God sent his only Son into the world so that we might live through him. In this is love not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the atoning sacrifice for our sins. Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another....God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God and God abides in them. Love has been perfected among us in this: that we may have boldness on the day of judgment because as he is so are we in this world. There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love. We love because he first loved us. Those who say, “I love God” and hate their brothers or sisters are liars for those who do not love a brother or sister whom they have seen cannot love God, whom they have not seen. The commandment we have from him is this: those who love God must love their brothers and sisters also" (1 Jn 4.7-21).

The author goes on to say a little later: “Anyone who hates her brother or sister cannot love God; how can you love the parent without loving the child?”

We have been adopted into the family of God through Jesus’ death. God is our father; you are my sisters and brothers.

Love one another.

Love is not a feeling, but a response: God sent his son to die. Love one another like that.

Invest in one another.

Take care of each other.

Help each other.

Ask how you can help, don’t wait to be asked.

Pray for each other.

Ask about that, too.

Feed each other.

Hug each other.

Support each other.

Love one another.

If you don’t, who will?

When I look at the world, I am overwhelmed by their overwhelmedness.  Forget the world. When I look at this group, I see a group of people who are struggling. I know your struggles, I know your insecurities, I know your concerns. I feel them too! and I am here to tell you that the love you show each other will drive out that darkness.

Mysterium Fide

I have heard it said that when Peter first made his confession of faith, "You are the Christ," he didn't really understand what he was affirming. Jesus’ death was still in the distant future and certainly his resurrection was a surprise to the disciples.

Perhaps on the day of Pentecost, preaching his first sermon, Peter could see a bit more clearly what it meant to say that Jesus is the Christ but still he did not know the full demand that confession would make upon his life.

I have heard it said that when Peter was dying on a cross because of his confession, he still did not see the full picture. But certainly, by God’s grace, he saw it more clearly then than he did in the beginning.

The first time I made this confession was when I was baptized. I was 11; before much of life had confronted me, and I made it for a really bad reason. I am grateful that God honored that confession despite my ignorance.

The last time I made this confession was on Saturday when I participated in the Eucharist at my best friend’s wedding.

Like Peter, when I first made my confession, I did not understand what I confessed. By God’s grace, I see more clearly now than I did then, but anyone who knows the state of my heart will quickly see that my understanding is still incomplete.

My prayer is that I can continue to make this confession until I see fully.

The Faces of Jesus by Frederick Buechner

Frederick Buechner. The Faces of Jesus: A Life Story. Brewster, MA: Paraclete Press, 1974.

The Faces of Jesus, by Frederick Buechner is a biography. Buechner retells the “life story” of Jesus, in beautiful prose. The overall impression of the book is that of “the jerky haste of an old newsreel” (45) which mimics the gospel writers’ description of Jesus’ life as urgent and rushed. After all, Buechner reminds us, one doesn’t take time to draw detailed sketches “when you think the world is on fire” (ix).

Despite the haste, the face (or, rather, faces) of Jesus can be seen and understood in light of the gospels, argues Buechner, and his pacing does not detract from what is ultimately a gorgeously poetic account. At times, however, Buechner seems highly uncertain about the historicity of the gospels and his ambivalence requires him to focus on a more theological understanding of the text.

One example of his suspicion towards historical fact is his treatment of the virgin birth. Although Buechner includes a separate chapter on the Annunciation, he points out that our earliest sources, the apostle Paul, Mark, and Matthew, do not record that aspect of Jesus’ life (8). Buechner argues that there is “another kind of truth” (16) and ultimately his position falls uncomfortably between the two types of truths. No matter what happened on the night Jesus was born, the world changed forever. Perhaps, Buechner says, this is the only truth that matters at all.

When discussing Jesus’ earthly ministry, Buechner says that we must have a clear understanding of the world Jesus inhabited. Unfortunately, he is quick to add, this is a difficult task at best, and impossible at worst (31-32). While the gospels do tell the reader some things about the cultural, social, and political world Jesus lived and ministered in (mostly by inference), the majority of the gospels presuppose a familiarity with the milieu being described therein. No matter how much we learn about the peripheries of Jesus’ ministry, we will still never fully understand who Jesus was or what he thought about his life, much less what he would think about the way his followers changed and adapted his life to suit their own purposes (36).

As Buechner focuses on Jesus’ ministry and the events leading up to Jesus’ death, I found several points of contention. First, Buechner’s treatment of the woman at the well in John 4 strikes me as unkind and unduly harsh. There is nothing in the text to suggest that the woman is impressed with Jesus’ fortune telling abilities above and beyond his claim to be the Messiah and although it is true that she poses the question to the rest of the village, “Could this man be the Messiah?” it strikes me as rhetorical, especially since Jesus himself just confirmed it.

Perhaps his discussion of the woman at the well’s response to Jesus is a result of the author looking for ways to prove his thesis that Jesus’ ministry was less than a roaring success (49). Buechner argues that the parables are never understood and Jesus is never said to have made a single convert, and therefore his ministry is a failure. The gospel account, however, says that by the end of his ministry there are crowds of people following Jesus wherever he goes, excited and enthused to make him their king. Perhaps one might say that his ministry was not the success Jesus anticipated it being, but to argue that it is unsuccessful seems a stretch.

The most disturbing point of Buechner’s work is that the resurrection of Lazarus was not effective. In Buechner’s version, Jesus, shaken by the death of Lazarus and unwilling to accept that this is his fate as well, attempts a resurrection, which seems to be beyond his ability. “It is not a living man who prepares to come out again into the unsparing light of day but a living corpse” (52) writes Buechner. In view of these chilling words, Jesus decides that something more must be done and so he “set his face towards Jerusalem” and his death.

The mood of this story reframes everything Buechner recounts afterwards and it makes for great effect. However, the crowd’s response to this in the gospel does not seem to allow for such a Gothic Romantic interpretation. This reading seems closer to something in one of the Bronte sisters than the gospel.

“If there are certain events that [the gospel writers] cannot tell without improving on them a little with each retelling…there are others that  almost in spite of themselves they seem unable to tell except in the curt monosyllables of fact” (56). The Last Supper is one of these stories, says Buechner, and of all the stories in the gospels that we have read in an overly spiritual manner, it’s this one: Jesus, unafraid and confident in his coming death, and his disciples, blissfully unaware that the crisis is upon them. Buechner reinterprets the story to his advantage by adding an element of anxiety to the Last Supper that most retellings ignore. He sketches Jesus as afraid and uncertain, the disciples as confused and anxious about what will take place.

From an historical perspective, it is impossible to read the crucifixion as anything other than a tragedy. The madman, Jesus, has been caught at last and he dies at the hand of the very system he attempted to change. It is here out of necessity that Buechner turns to an almost entirely theological perspective. It is not just the man, Jesus, hanging on the cross, but Christ, the preexistent Word of God, who has been sent into time for this moment. “Out of this terrible death…came eternal life not just in the sense of resurrection to life after death but in the sense of life so precious even this side of death that to live it is to stand with one foot already in eternity. To participate in the sacrificial life and death of Jesus Christ is to live already in his kingdom” (74).

From an historical perspective, it is impossible to read the resurrection as anything other than a fairy tale or a myth told to simple, pre-Enlightenment people. “Who knows what the truth of it was?” (87) questions Buechner, and from a solely factual position, we cannot know. But, as Buechner concludes, we are aware of Jesus’ resurrection not through the absence of his body, but through the presence of his resurrection in our lives. “If Christ has not been raised,” Paul insists, “then our preaching is in vain and your faith is in vain” (93).

Overall, The Faces of Jesus is a beautifully written poetic retelling of the life of Jesus Christ. Buechner makes the story captivating and this is his primary strength. Good storytelling is a gift. It is obvious that he is responding to the third Quest for the historical Jesus and is working to maintain a theological perspective in his writing despite the general mood of society and at times this can make The Faces of Jesus seem slightly dated, as the concerns of the third Quest have mostly fallen to the wayside. However, Buechner takes a big step in integrating a theological perspective into an historical perspective. More Christians could learn from his example.

This and That

We put our Christmas tree up yesterday. Well, in the interest of honesty, we decorated it yesterday. My parents put the tree itself up last weekend. They were saving the decorating until I came home, a decision I was very much in favor of. Christmas in the Reid family has always been a bit of a homemade affair—another word I might use is “ramshackle.”

When my brother and I were growing up, a yearly tradition was to make a new Christmas tree ornament every year. Looking at our tree tonight, I see sheep, angels, snowmen, gingerbread people, and stars all in various states of artistic genius and carefully marked: “Elizabeth, ’96,” etc. This, mixed in with the usual lights and tinsel and store-bought gifted ornaments, makes for, as I said, a bit of a ramshackle effect. Our tree looks best as I’m looking at it now—lights off, illuminated by the tree itself and a candle or two on the window sill.

It’s a strange way to celebrate, I’ll admit. What does the mystery and awe of the Incarnation have to do with this tree and these craft projects and this rush to buy and wrap and bake and give? Why do we celebrate that like this?

It ought to be a familiar thought for us as Christians: Why do we celebrate that like this? Why do we eat this bread and this wine and call it the body and blood of Jesus? Why do we let ourselves be pushed underwater and call it our death, burial, and resurrection? Why do we look at this infant and say, “Behold, the lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!”? (Do we really mean it?)

This could change our lives if we let it. Take it out of the nativity scene. Lift it out of “Away in a Manger.” Forget about baby Jesus with a halo floating over his head. This is important—bigger than your nativity scenes, your Christmas carols, and your spiritualized understanding of what it means to celebrate Christmas. This is the culmination of a cosmic battle being waged for your soul since the dawn of time. I AM has waited long enough. The days are accomplished. The Ancient of Days is acting, moving into human history to undo every wrong which has been done since the dawn of time. God is about to turn the entire world upside down. Are you ready? Can you feel the anticipation? The whole world has been holding its breath for this.

It’s also so much smaller. The Ancient of Days moves into our world as a baby, only a few hours old. A baby, utterly dependent on its mother for everything it needs. Whose idea was this, anyway? How could I AM rest all hope and expectation on this tiny, hapless infant? How can this baby be that? He can’t even hold his head up yet.

Application lies in several directions. I could remind you that, as God acts, we also ought to act—the cosmic battle is fought and won in our own lives with our incarnational actions. I could urge you to make Christmas tree ornaments with your children in the hopes that one day they’ll think big thoughts while looking at their childhood hanging from a branch. I could ask you to consider: why do you celebrate this with that? And do you need to eliminate part of your celebrations in favor of a more genuine “that?”

But I won’t—can’t, really. The newly born Ancient of Days is beyond my attempts to speak. And for this I am glad.

These thoughts were fleshed out in a conversation I had with Andrew Cox tonight. I am deeply indebted to his influence.

Friends

The child was a mess. Belligerent, violent, adorable, but prickly like a cactus. Mischievous to the extreme. If you were watching him, you'd better make sure you never took your eyes off him. He had a grin as wide as his face and he flashed it right before you tried to reprimand him for running off or hitting someone. It was hard to stay angry when he was grinning at you. He had favorites, people he'd let in, and one of them was his teacher. His name was Jarred but we--the kids, the staff, his boss, everyone--called him Mr. Cat Daddy because he could do the Cat Daddy like no one's business. I'd seen him do it several times. Incidentally, Jarred was everyone's favorite, largely because of his ability to do the Cat Daddy.

At any rate, he and Cat Daddy were huge friends. I could not do the Cat Daddy, plus I am a girl, which is a giant liability in the eyes of a seven year old. On a good day, I was tolerated.

"Elizabeth." Mr. Cat Daddy obviously had his hands full. "Go make sure he's all right." Me? Are you sure? Okay. Cat Daddy sent me over to the pouting child. If he could've pushed himself INTO the wall, he might've.

"Hey, buddy. What's the matter?" Silence. Not that I'd expected a response. I sit down next to him and see that he's been crying. I'm no good with crying, but I try again. "What happened, buddy?" I can only assume that he was at his wit's end, just completely at the end of his seven year old rope (or maybe it was the grace of God) because he wails out this pitiful, barely understood story about hurt feelings and being angry. I make an effort at the problem solving techniques we've been taught, to little avail. He's still crying.

Then out of nowhere he says, "I miss my daddy!" He crawls into my lap and keeps crying. I rub his back and ponder. It's an appropriate reaction. Life is big and scary and sometimes you need your daddy. Heck, I missed MY dad and I had plans to see him soon. There was nothing I could do about it, though. I couldn't get his dad for him. I wasn't even sure if his father was in the picture. I couldn't heal his hurt feelings. I couldn't make it better. And so, I sat there with him on my lap and I cried. He was crying, I was crying. I don't know if he knew I was crying, but there we sat, crying together.

Afterwards, he and I were friends.

I am a Monad

I began this blog on Monday, May 17th, 2010, right around the end of my freshman year of college. Here's an excerpt from my first post:

"Female. 19. Follower of Christ. College student. Ridiculously interested in learning. Everything. Reading. Everything. Writing. Artistic ventures. Music: vocal and instrumental. I journal, I essay, I expound my personal life's philosophy for the world. "

Some of these things are still true. I am female. I am a Christ follower. I am still in school, although graduate seminary has replaced college, which would presuppose a love of learning, reading, and writing. I research, I journal, I write and write and rewrite. I think and begin the process over again.

In other ways, I am drastically removed from my 19 year old self. When I was 19, as you will see from some of the older posts on this blog, I was confused, lost, insecure, and mourning the lost safety of my sheltered childhood. At 19, I had a much firmer grasp on God and theology than I do now and than I ever expect to have again. At 19, I was still months away from my first real faith crisis, my first boyfriend, my first drink, my first solo vacation.

In many ways I still feel like a monad:

"Why monads? Our dear friend Gottfried Leibniz proposed monads as simple creatures which contain within them the course of the world and all the possible choices each individual could make. I am small and insignificant: no one knows me or cares about my writing. But maybe someday they will. Maybe someday I will take my potentials and turn them into actuals. After all, I'd hate for my monads to get bored and leave me, wouldn't you?

I am a monad, and I choose to participate in my own reality."

These things are still true: I want to say something that matters. I want to be an active participant in my life.

Except now I'd like you to participate with me.



As a disclaimer: I thought long and hard about either beginning a new blog entirely, or deleting all previous entries. I wanted my blog name--I feel very attached to these monads after all these years. Ultimately, I chose to leave most of them up, because I think it's interesting and important to remember where I started and to see the progress I've made. I would not currently defend many of the positions I wrote about. Of the positions I DO still hold, I would probably choose to express them much differently than I did. During the process of "tidying up" this blog, I made small changes to several entries to make them read more smoothly, but I did not change any ideas.

I suppose this disclaimer is asking you to give 19 (and 20 and 21) year old Elizabeth a bit of grace due her age and inexperience. I'm working on the same goal.

Mercy

Is this your idea of mercy, Lord?
Is this the best you can do for us,
For your people, who struggle and
Toil and cry and yell?
We work and we work and we search after you
And all we receive in return are
Broken hearts
Closed doors
Hopes destroyed.
Is this your idea of mercy?

Is this your idea of mercy, Lord?
Is this what you had planned for us
In your sovereignty?
We, who have left houses and fields,
Family and friends to follow you?
You take and you take and still you want more,
Unsatisfied in your quest for all of us,
Every part of us
Everything we've built, everything we've done
(we did it for you).
Is this your idea of mercy?

Is this your idea of mercy, Lord?
That all we have be shattered?
Endings, with no beginnings in sight?
For losses, failures, insufficiencies?
Is this your idea of mercy?

Beautiful

When I was working at City of Refuge, one of my daily tasks was to accompany another staff member on his route to pick up children from the community. Our fifteen passenger van careened around tight curves and narrow roads as our driver yelled, “Roller coaster!” which was his passengers’ cue to put their hands in the air and scream. In his van, I came to terms with my inevitable death many times. The children loved him. I, not so much.

That summer was one of paradox. I remember the shock I felt on our first morning (a shock that never really went away) when we turned a corner and there it was, filling our horizon. The Georgia Dome. As we traveled our bus route, I remember thinking, “What must it be like to grow up beneath the shadow (literally) of such wealth?” The children in the English Avenue community, Vine City and Joseph E. Boone are poor—food stamps, drugs, low education levels, out-of-wedlock children; every negative stereotype you associate with inner city Atlanta is true about this area. And they live within walking distance of a land of excess, where paying $180 for a ticket to a football game is a thing people do. Midtown—yuppie downtown Atlanta—is a short bus ride away. And these children and their families are struggling to live hand to mouth in the shadow of the Georgia Dome.

I’ve left Atlanta. I moved away and it broke my heart to leave the children and the city. I live under the shadow of the mountains now and it’s beautiful, just as beautiful as Simpson Street.

"In the Beginning:" A Modern Retelling

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. He created the sun and the moon, the stars, the ocean, and the land. He created fish for the sea and animals for the land—all kinds of beautiful and interesting creatures. God created dogs and cats, birds, ferrets, horses, trees, flowers, and grass—everything good and lovely. Lastly, he created a man, Adam. He was the first man and God put him in the garden with all of these wonderful things. God told Adam that he was responsible for taking care of the animals and the plants and God and Adam talked together in the cool of the evening. The world was as it should be...or was it? Adam was lonely.

That Wednesday, he went to his singles’ group at church and expressed his loneliness to his accountability partner. “I want to find a wife—someone I can trust and care for and who will care for me. I’m looking, but I just don’t see anyone who is right for me.” Adam’s accountability partner, who just so happened to be the singles’ pastor at his church, listened, but was unsympathetic. “Adam, if you want to find a wife, you have to take the initiative. As a Christian man, you have to pursue the woman. God made you to be the stronger sex and to initiate relationships. That’s why you’re still single. If you would just man up, you could be in a relationship right now.”

Adam listened, took his mentor’s words to heart, and the very next Sunday, asked Mary to have lunch with him. Mary was cute, cheerful, had a servant’s heart, and loved God deeply. But it was obvious that he and Mary weren’t even remotely compatible. He could see that any further relationship between them would end in disaster, so he quietly broke things off with her.

When his mother heard the news, she was upset. She and Mary had been close. Adam’s mother called him and accused him of being too picky. “You’re never going to find a woman who meets all of your qualifications. Don’t think of it as settling! It’s called making a choice, Adam. I’d like to see some grandchildren before I die. I’m not getting any younger, you know.” Adam hung up, feeling guilty and lonelier than ever.

Later that week, he met an old college friend for coffee. Adam shared his struggles with loneliness and expressed how hard it was to meet Christian women. “Dude,” his friend said, “I met Sadie,” his girlfriend of seven months “on ChristianMingle.com. I posted my profile, got thousands of hits, went on dates every weekend for months, then met Sadie. I’m pretty sure she’s ‘the one,’ you know? We just click.”

Sadie was beautiful as well as a godly woman, so Adam went home, and made his profile—MadeofMud0001—and began setting up dates. He found plenty women who were interested in dating him, but the more he dated, the more desperate he felt. After the fourth one dumped him, saying, “I just feel like God is telling me I shouldn’t date you anymore. I’m pretty sure you’re not my Boaz,” Adam quit the whole thing and deleted his profile (they kept spamming his email for months after that).

Discouraged and downtrodden, Adam went back to his accountability partner. “Nothing’s working. I’ve been looking for a wife for months and I just can’t find anyone I want to spend the rest of my life with. At this point, heck, I’d settle for a cat!” His accountability partner was as unsympathetic as he was the first time. 

“Adam, you’re so focused on getting a girlfriend that you’ve neglected your walk with God. Have you been praying? Reading your bible?”

“Actually, I have—” Adam tried to interject, for he and God were still walking together in the cool of the evenings, but his accountability partner ignored him.

“God won’t bring a girlfriend into your life until you cling to God. In fact, you should trust God to fulfill your emotional needs. If your relationship with God was right, you wouldn’t be lonely in the first place. Work on your relationship with him and when you’re spiritually mature, God will bring you a wife.”

Adam listened, but was increasingly impatient with the advice he was receiving from the world. That evening, he told God about the conflicting advice he was getting from his friends and family and how nothing seemed to be taking away his loneliness. “You know, Adam,” God replied, after thoughtfully considering everything Adam told him, “I’ve noticed this problem too, and I think you’re right: it’s not good for you to be alone. Let me tell you what I’ve got in mind...”

Adam slept and when he woke up, it was good.

I am a Pilgrim

"I am a pilgrim, but my pilgrimage has been wandering and unmarked.
Often what has looked like a straight line to me has been a circle or a doubling back.
Often I have not known where I was going until I was already there.

I have had my share of desires and goals, but my life has come to me or I have gone to it mainly by way of mistakes and surprises.
Often I have received better than I deserved.
Often my fairest hopes have rested on bad mistakes. 

I am an ignorant pilgrim, crossing a dark valley.
And yet for a long time looking back, I have been unable to shake off the feeling that I have been led--make of that what you will."

Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry

This book has changed my life. If I can make this a true statement for my life, I'll be content.

Hope Lives On

Every day on my way to school (whether I’m driving myself or taking the shuttle), I pass by the abandoned textile mills along Highway 29. Not too long ago, these buildings represented industry and productivity; prosperity for the community. They've been closed down for years, though, and are long since abandoned. Whatever they were, they still take up a huge stretch of the road. Empty buildings, once full of employees, life, and busyness, are now barely more than wasted space.

Since moving to the area, I’ve heard a lot about the mills and how, when they closed down, people essentially lost hope. The town is depressed, economically and emotionally (pardon me if I’m projecting [but then again, what is this blog beyond my personal projections?]). And there the mills sit: looming, haunting reminders of a time when things were different. Driving by them must be torture for some people, the ones who thought that it could never end, the ones who put all their hopes and dreams into the success of the mills.

They’re being torn down, you know. Someone told me that each of those buildings had about a million dollars’ worth of recyclable material in it. A million dollars sounds like a lot of money but in comparison to all the people who lost jobs and investments, a million dollars is a drop in the bucket. Soon the empty buildings will be gone forever—like the jobs and the hope are gone forever—and the only thing left will be an empty field. The reminder of lost hope will be gone, and maybe that’s for the best. When you’ve lost all possibility for what you hoped for, then is it better to just let the memories fade away? Is lost hope better than no hope at all?

I’m sure you’re all familiar with the Greek myth of Pandora’s Box. An overly nosy girl is told, “Please don’t open this box; you’ll regret it” and what does she do? She opens the box. Out fly Death, War, Sickness, Fear, Poverty, Pain, and any number of terrible things that should’ve remained shut up forever. As Pandora sits crying on the floor (regretting it), one last thing comes flying out of the box—Hope. As a child, I was told that hope is the best thing in the box, the one thing that makes the others tolerable. But what if that’s wrong? What if Hope was locked in the box not as a sort of consolation prize for death and sickness and pain, but because it is so dangerous? What if Hope is the most dangerous thing in the box, locked away to protect us from a very unique sort of pain?

These are the thoughts circling through my mind as of late and if you’re thinking, “Wow, that’s depressing,” you’d be right. It’s only half the story, though. The people living in the greater Valley area are renewing their hope because of new industry and because of the university’s move. We are playing a part in renewing their hope and that is such a powerful image of God. It’s scary; we don’t know what will happen. Will this transition be successful? Will we hammer out a place in this town and with these people (it reminds me of two newly married people trying to blend individual families into one) or will our presence be a cause for dismay? There’s a lot of potential here—for them and for us—but there’s also a lot of risk. Hope IS dangerous, don’t forgot, and it was put in the box for a reason. However, and this is important, every tragedy has potential for a new triumph.

The mills are being torn down, but the university is building. And hope lives on.

The Covenant

             My father’s god was always asking him to do strange things in strange ways. Mother’s favorite story was how they’d been the first family to move from my grandfather Teran’s home in Ur in five generations. “I thought he was crazy,” she’d smile, “hearing voices like that…but then your father’s god told me I’d have a baby…I laughed and he got angry. What? No, not your father, dear. The messenger. Nine months later…” she smiled and held her hands out as if to say, “The rest is obvious—here you are!” All her stories end with me. I’m not blind—I can see how old they are. My friends’ parents are all much younger and of course I’d heard whispers about my brother Ishmael and his mother Hagar. I was wanted—plain and simple.

            They’re not all like that you know. Babies, I mean. Some aren’t wanted—too many mouths to feed already or too few months since the wedding. My father is wealthy enough—and mother is perceptive enough—to take care of most of that under the table. An extra servant at supper when no one else was needed, leftover food dropped by a tent because, “We’d hate for it to go to waste.” Some babies aren’t wanted, but I have never been one of them. In a camp as large as ours, we have births every few months. When the babies are born, she holds them and whispers to them and you can tell: she always wanted more.

             I had a lot of freedom growing up. Father and Mother both had lots to do to make sure the camp ran smoothly, and although I helped Father with the animals and listened as he talked to his servants when he asked me to (“Someday, Isaac, this will be your responsibility.”) my most vivid memories of childhood are carefree. After the Fight, things changed.

“What?! No! Abraham, you must be out of your mind! How can you even consider such a terrible thing!?” Mother was angry. Mother and Father didn’t argue frequently and when they did, they made sure to do it quietly, where no one else could hear them. This time, Mother was standing in plain sight, in front of their tent, eyes blazing.

“Sarah, He told me to.” Father sounded tired, resigned. A little pleading.

“NO. He’s my only son. We won’t get another chance, Abraham, we’re lucky we have Isaac!” Her voice went up another octave and they were beginning to gather a crowd.

“Sarah. He told me.”

“Why?! Why, Abraham? Why would He give us something only to take it away? You must have misheard him. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—ask you to do something like that. That’s disgusting! It’s...wrong, Abraham, simply wrong.”

“Sarah, darling. He asked me to.”

“No! I won’t let you. Anything else He can have. He took my home—I left my clothes, my furniture, everything!—behind because I trusted you when you said He had asked you to leave. But this?! It’s too much! He cannot have Isaac! He’s my only son, Abraham. He’s all I have.” 

At this point, Mother was sobbing, and I was scared, although I didn’t understand why they were arguing about me. Father’s god had never talked to me in the same way He talked to Father, but I tried to do what Father told me to keep Him happy. I couldn’t think of anything I’d done to make Him angry. Father tried to put his arm around her, and lead her into the tent, away from staring eyes but she got angry, and began pushing my father away from her.

“Sarah,” he tried again. “Isaac already belongs to him.” Mother stopped fighting. She just stood there, dumbfounded, as if he’d hit her.

“What?”

“Isaac already belongs to him.”

We left early the next morning. Father and I went with two of our men into the desert. When I asked him where we were going, he kept quiet, as if he were afraid of the answer. We had wood for a burnt offering on the back of the donkey. I’d participated in offering sacrifices to Father’s god before and although we’d never offered a donkey before, I saw no reason why we couldn’t. It was a long trip—two days into the wilderness. The mountain range got closer and eventually, on the third morning, Father told the men he and I would be traveling on alone. I carried the wood. Father carried the knife and a smoldering coal for the sacrifice. I thought it was peculiar—we weren’t taking the donkey with us on the next leg of our journey? I asked Father what we’d use for the sacrifice. He looked at me—I’ll never forget his face—and said, “The Lord, will provide the lamb, my son. Did I ever tell you about the first time the Lord our God spoke to me?”

“Tell me again.” If the story of my birth was Mother’s favorite, this was Father’s.

“I thought I was dreaming. ‘Abram,’ God said (they called me Abram then). ‘Abram, you will have a son, an heir. Your property will remain with your family. Abram, look up—count the stars if you can. Your descendants will number more than all the stars in the sky.’ When I told your mother, she thought I was crazy. We’d tried for many years to have a child and all the midwives thought she was barren. And I was old, too, you know. We made a covenant that night—El Shaddai, God Almighty, and I. He named me Abraham—the father of many children. As many children as there are stars in the sky! I laughed when He told me. But who wouldn’t! What a preposterous thing, to think that at so old we would have a son. You—you are the fulfillment of that promise. You’re everything we could ever have hoped for.” We reached the top of the mountain. Father looked around and began gathering rocks for the altar. This was a familiar chore and I started to help.

“No, Isaac, you sit and listen. I trust God. I don’t understand him. Your mother—she thinks I understand why God says what He says to me. But I don’t! It never made sense for me to leave Haran. We were comfortable there. I was respected. But God said to me, ‘Go’ and I left. When he showed me the stars and told me I would be a father to many, I didn’t understand that either. And the sign of the covenant! You should have heard the other men argue about that command. But I trusted that God knew where we were going and here we are. No matter how crazy the order seemed, He’s never let me down. He’s never abandoned me. It’s always made sense in the end. You are the child of the covenant, the first to be included in the promise God made to your mother and me. You’re just as much part of this as I am.” Abraham—my father—stood up, looking old; older than he’d ever seemed before. I looked around. The altar was finished, the wood ready. There was no lamb in sight. “Do you understand, Isaac?”

“What?” I said, turning towards him.

“Isaac, do you understand what I’m telling you?” There were tears in his eyes. I’d never seen my father cry before. I did understand, although I wished I didn’t. What choice did I have, really? As he bound me to the altar, Abraham kept talking, telling me of his trust in El Shaddai. “You are my child, given to me by the Lord in fulfillment of the covenant,” he repeated, raising the knife over my head. I closed my eyes in terror, irrationally glad I was tied too tightly to try to escape. “You’re just as much a part of this as I am.”

“Abraham!” My eyes flew open and I searched for the person speaking. I had never heard that voice before. But, oh, I have heard it since.

He sobbed. “Yes, Lord!”

“It is enough. Untie your son.”

We made a sacrifice to my God on the mountaintop that day, and returned home to Sarah, who cried, and held me so tightly I bruised.

Not The Way We Thought It Was

It’s not the way we thought it was. Nothing ever is, I suppose, although we think it will be while we’re thinking it. I also suppose I’m not saying anything too remarkable, just what’s “common to man” and I’m sure when I get older I’ll say it again. There are no villains and there are no heroes, no princesses to rescue and nothing dangerous is lurking in the woods. It’s not what you thought it was, or what you thought it would be. But it’s good nonetheless.

Longing

A longing for Aslan to come and turn my winter into spring.
With just one glance he gives me hope
Never safe but always good; he comes like a Lion.
When he roars my fears desert me
When he breathes I have courage for today.
He grieves at my loss, he cares about my worries.
It isn't safe but I go willingly
Because he gave his life for a traitor like me.

"Safe? Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you!"
-Mr. Beaver

Final draft written on December 8, 2007

Right Here Now

"Where else would we go?" asks Peter, not because I don't have anywhere else to go, but because I'm exactly where I want to be.

Calling

I am a product of my parents' calling
and as such it is increasingly challenging to discover
a calling of my own.

At Least I Got a Car

"...don’t you want to just sit still?
Cause you can only run so fast and drive so far
And home might feel like a funny idea that you never understood
But you want it more than you want the car.


...Going home feels like the thing you ought to do
Because you can only drive so far..."


Don Chaffer

Until We Have Faces

"Do you think it all meant nothing, all the longing? The longing for home? ... All my life the God of the Mountain has been wooing me. Oh, look up at least once before the end and wish me joy. I am going to my lover. Do you not see now?"
                                                           ~CS Lewis

A Supper Conversation

It's incredible how comfort food is culturally specific. Faced with a night alone in the apartment by myself, and a trip to the grocery store later, I have a pot of stew bubbling on the stove and a bowl of sukuma wiki and chapatis* sitting next to me. When push comes to shove, I always head home. This is true in more facets of my life than my culinary choices.

When I'm confused about my life, one of my first impulses is to either call my mother and father or head home to see them. When my world shifts, I look for familiar, for comfortable, and for love. A cup of tea and a cuddle on the couch. A mug of hot stew and a biscuit in front of the fire while my parents and grandparents catch up. Grape Fanta, cheese puffs, and Reese's Cups. Whether you're a vegetarian, vegan, carnivore, or some variation, it's undeniable that food is an integral part of your life. My home is where my heart is. My home is where I get fed and feed my family and friends.

The professor who taught my Gospels class focused on how Jesus' actions fulfilled Old Testament expectations of the Messiah--like, in the Old Testament, God is described as the one who walks on the sea and when Jesus walked on water, the disciples would have made that connection. The Jews expected the Messiah to heal them, to cast out demons, and to provide the great banquet in heaven. A great part of heaven is food--we will sit down at the marriage feast of the Lamb and we will be fed everything we could possibly need. "Blessed are those who are invited to the marriage supper of the Lamb" (Revelation 19.9).

Ya'll, this is really freaking cool. On the night he was betrayed, Jesus ate with his disciples and told them how much he'd been looking forward to celebrating Passover with them. But then he adds, "I will not eat it again until it is fulfilled in the kingdom of God" (Luke 22.15-16) And then, hours later, he dies on a cross to fulfill his promise and and to invite us to participate in his marriage supper. We're not just invited to the reception; we're part of the ceremony! And at that feast, no one will go hungry and no one will be lonely or left out and all food allergies will be ancient history.

So when you celebrate the Eucharist with your church family, or eat comfort food at home, or find yourself staring at leftovers again, remember two things. First, this meal is just practice for the marriage feast of the Lamb. Second, Jesus died so that you could eat it.

Praise the Lord.

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*Please ignore the fact that chapatis do NOT taste the same with self-rising flour.