Faith like a child

People were bringing little children to Jesus for him to place his hands on them, but the disciples rebuked them.  When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.  Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.” And he took the children in his arms, placed his hands on them and blessed them.

~Mark 10:13-16

In our house, theological discussions often include the phrase, “what does Blomberg say?”  My husband and I enjoy mulling over theology, turning scripture over in our minds and processing it out loud.  Because we own a few Blomberg texts (and the bibliographies therein are great jumping off points), we like to start there.  Dr. Blomberg has done more research than either us will (undoubtedly) be able to in what remains of both our lifetimes.  Thus, for the sake of expediency, we generally start (after reading the scripture up for discussion) by “getting the Blomberg.”

Our kids are privy to these discussions; sometimes originating at the dinner table (“what’s God showing you today?”), sometimes in the car (“this week I was reading…”).  While they’re not always attentive, the kids are aware.  This is evidenced by a question posed by the 5 year old at the end of one such drive.  Sighing deeply, he asked, “Mom do grown-ups think talking is fun?”

“Yes,” I replied.  “Why?”

“Because you do it so much!”  Obviously, for the 5 year old, a robust theological discussion of the discipline of God, in the context of Hebrews 12, is not on par with an epic battle of small, plastic army men. 

The 8 year old rolled her eyes, and informed her brother, “Of course they like to talk.  It’s all they do.”  Again, our conversation not as riveting as the original Nancy Drew series. 

And sponges that they are, they can ignore us to a point and still soak up what’s being said.  There was the day when Mommy had to get her reading done, and the 5 year old wanted nothing to do with his daily, quiet reading time in his room.  “Alright,” I bargained, “you can sit in my lap and I’ll read my book to you.”  He clammered up, delighted at having won his way.  I smirked, opening the Blomberg text, knowing that within a few moments, he’d head off to his room to find something more entertaining.  I started reading.  The assignment had to do with a passage in the New Testament regarding baptism; certainly not dry, but far enough, I assumed, over the 5 year old’s head that he wouldn’t last long. 

The 5 year old stayed.  He held still.  He listened.  And at the end of the passage, he said, “Mom, I think I should get baptized.” 

The youngest, baptized by the former Bible Man [then pastor] in August of 2012

 

I was mute with surprise.  He’d absorbed what I just read; he hadn’t been absently turning the wheels of his motorcycle?  “Can you tell me why,” I asked when my faculties rebooted enough for a response.

He proceeded to give me a rundown of the points listed in the Blomberg text regarding baptism.  The 5 year old said, though it wouldn’t forgive his sins, it was what he wanted to do because he wanted to follow Jesus with his whole life.  He wanted the whole world to know that he never wants to turn away from Jesus.  Because Jesus died on the cross for the 5 year old’s bad choices, so the 5 year old could be forgiven. 

“And because,” he concluded, rather importantly, “I already asked Jesus to live in my heart.”

What argument could I offer?  That our church says you have to be at least 8?  That I’ve heard and digested valid arguments for believer’s baptism, and have been generally warned against baptizing one so young?  Yet, his was one of the most efficient and straightforward presentations of the gospel I’d heard in a long time. 

Though I shouldn’t have been surprised, coming from the kid, who less than 3 years ago heard that in order to get into Heaven, Jesus has to live in your heart.  So he daily prayed that Jesus come into his heart; usually from his carseat, which begs to question my driving...  One day, during this phase, when he asked me if dogs can go to Heaven, I hesitated, not wanting to be wrong, but not wanting to give a false answer.  “Well, buddy,” I started, “the Bible doesn’t really say…”

Hoping up from his chair, he bent over the supine Huskador on our kitchen floor, and said, “Oso, do you want Jesus to live in your heart?”

The dog lifted his head and licked the boy’s nose. 

“Okay, buddy,” the then-3 year old held a paw, “Jesus, please come and live in Oso’s heart so he can live with you when he dies, because You forgive all the bad things in the world.  And Oso needs his bad things taken away, too.”  Lifting his head, the boy beamed and declared, “Now Oso can get into Heaven.  Jesus lives in his heart!”  He proceeded to evangelize our Labrador and pray for her salvation as well.

There was never a question in his mind: Jesus, as far as his 3 year old understanding held, would live in your heart and forgive your “bad things” if you asked Him to.  And then, when you die, you get to be with Him forever.  Faith.

And to this 5 year old, the Bible says if you claim to be a follower of Christ, you need to be baptized.  So, he asks, in the black-and-white mindset of 5 year olds, why shouldn’t he be baptized?  Jesus said to do it; therefore I should do it.  Faith.  Obedience. 

My mind still turning over why he could/couldn’t be baptized, he looked at me.  His gaze was firm, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say almost condescending.  Sighing, he added, “Mom, Dr. Blomberg says so, too.”

There it was, the truth: I was relying too much on the wisdom of humanity.  I have to engage theology intellectually.  I have to hear the arguments for and against; I have to weigh the evidence.  I need to know that someone smarter than I has put their mind to this topic and come to a well thought out conclusion.   I don’t have the easy faith of a child.

It’s what Jesus cautioned his disciples against.  It’s what adults do: reason our way to confusion.  Muddy the waters.  Complicate simple truth until we don’t know which way is up anymore.* 

What I need to do, is complicate things less.  Scripture says that if you want to follow Jesus, repent and be baptized.  Who I am to prevent anyone (5 or 95 years old) from this?  God created the world with dogs in it; and God promises both a new Heaven and a new Earth.  Who says there won’t be dogs there?  (Though if you only see a black Huskador and Lab, you’ll know how they made it.) 

What if I approach the Bible with the faith and innocence of a child?  What if I simply believed that God is who He says He is; and He will do what He says He will do?  What if, like my little boy, I simply took God at His word, instead of looking to humanity to make the call for me?

What if I had the faith to trust God enough to let him outside of my box, without prior expert handling?      

Our eldest, being baptized by the Officer and me in 2011.

* Now, I’m not saying that we should take everything on what some would consider blind faith.  Faith, in order to be genuine, has to be reasoned out.  It has to be compelling.  We are admonished to test everything, hold all teachings (both inside and outside the Church) up to scripture and ensure their trustworthiness.  And everyone needs to express their faith within the context of a responsible, scripture-based community; so that we are protected from being misled, and can correct misleading that we see in others.  But I believe that each Christ follower can do this, while engaging God on a personal and abandoned level.    

To Lucy, on her 100th birthday. With love, from Ethel

Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art.... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.  ~C.S. Lewis

A week or so ago marked the 100^th anniversary of what would have been Lucille Ball’s birthday.  No doubt there were I Love Lucy marathons, and boxes of chocolate.  Perhaps somewhere someone concocted a bottle of “Vitamina Vegamin” or two.  But certainly, no celebration would have been complete without a nod to Ethel; the fictitious Lucy’s closest friend, dearest confidant, and greatest accomplice. 

Lucy and Ethel, Thelma and Louise, Scarlet and Melanie, Ruth and Naomi. And more recently, Aibileene and Minny.  Women who were stronger, better, more alive because of a single common denominator: her best friend.  It is interesting to note that some of the most oft used scripture in wedding ceremonies wasn’t spoken between lovers, but between women.  Ruth doesn’t pledge to follow Boaz, make his people and God hers; she promises this to Naomi, her destitute mother-in-law who is throwing verbal rocks at her (a la Timmy and Lassie), trying to get Ruth to abandon her.  But Ruth stays.

Women stay, for the sake of each other.  Thelma and Louise have their fateful cliff.  Aibileene and Minny together motivate an entire community of women to share their stories, for change.  Melanie opens her home and heart to Scarlett, despite the later continually throwing herself at Melanie’s husband.  Each of us needs a friend of this sort.  The kind that will spoon food into your mouth, just to keep you alive when you haven’t the strength anymore.  The kind that always, always assumes the best about you.  The kind that calls you forward into the person you’re supposed to be.

In the first chapter of Luke, tucked neatly into the nativity narrative, is a small passage so often overlooked by any expounding on the miracle of the Christ child’s birth.  It’s in between the glorious Annuciation and the Magnificat.  Seven verses, in which Mary leaves her home, supernaturally pregnant with Jesus, and visits her cousin, Elizabeth.  Scripture doesn’t illuminate Mary’s emotive state during this visit; but she is a teenage girl, betrothed yet unwed, and pregnant, though still a virgin.  Great though her faith must have been, I doubt that she was as carefree on the road to Elizabeth’s, as she likely was before the angel visited her. 

Her song, a few verses later, is one of the most beautiful in scripture; a hymn likened by some to Hannah’s (1 Samuel 2), when Hannah dedicates her son to the Lord.  A statement of faith so rich in theology and yet personal enough to apply to a teenage Jewess, that has been studied, memorized, and quoted at great length.  However, Mary does not break into song immediately after the angel’s announcement that she is to be the mother of the Messiah.  No.  Mary, without her parents or betrothed, hurriedly travels to her cousin, Elizabeth.  Some speculate she was trying to escape public disgrace; perhaps even save her family and betrothed from embarrassment; but scripture is silent on the why, so we can only know that Mary sought out company with Elizabeth.  Elizabeth, the older, married antithesis of Mary, is also miraculously expecting a baby.  And like Mary, Elizabeth is experiencing a type of isolation born from her pregnancy; her husband has been struck mute for his disbelief, and will not speak again until after their child is born.              

The instant these women are in sight of one another, their very presence encourages the other.  Elizabeth is filled with the Holy Spirit when Mary calls out to greet her, and the baby within Elizabeth’s womb leaps.  Her delight that Mary would visit her pours forth in her greeting, as Elizabeth loudly proclaims truth over her, calling Mary “the mother of my Lord” and saying, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the child you will bear” (Luke 1:43, 42).   And it is when she ends with, “Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her,” that Mary is able to praise her Lord for His promises to her (Luke 1:45).  Perhaps until that point, this promise seemed more like a burden; her fiancé had intended to divorce her quietly and she was likely the recipient of public ridicule (John 1:19).  But with Elizabeth’s Holy Spirit inspired speech, Mary is able, in spite and because of her circumstances, to “glorify the Lord” and “rejoice in God [her] savior” (Luke 1:46-47). 

It takes another woman, not her parents, not her betrothed, not even an angel, to give the Messiah’s mother a voice for praise.  It is the relationship between these two women, grounded in their faith and infused with the Holy Spirit, that washes their loneliness and fear away with truth.  This friendship takes each woman where she is, and points her ever closer to God, moves her to a place where she can see above her current circumstances to the provision and abounding grace of God the Father.  This is the kind of friendship that illuminates God’s fingerprints on our lives.  It highlights His promises and awakens our hearts to movements within and around us.  It is the model of friendship that we each so desperately need; that we all are called to.

May you have and delight in such a friend.  And may you be this friend to others.

     

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

All losses are restored and sorrows end.

~William Shakespeare

    

Through My Eyes

I’ve recently found a blog that I check every day.  Its transparency encourages me.  Its simplicity overwhelms me.  And its truth envelops me.  In the spirit of http://www.lovesonnetsfromgod.com/ , I have been asking myself : Where are God’s fingerprints on my day?   What does His love look like through my eyes?



A bouquet from my garden, gathered by my beloved daughter.  Just because.

 

 Love is a little girl, gathering flowers; so many that her tiny hands can’t hold them all.  Because she yearns for a visible reminder of just how much she loves her uncle, after they’re parted.     



A note, for while he’s away, to remind me daily.

 

 Love is standing under a web of twinkling orbs, holding my hand and facing my past with me; lending his strength and belief in who I am now, to combat the doubt and fear that I am still the one I was.



The gift of study, sprinkled with beauty.

 

Love is my editor and teacher.  It stays up late to impart wisdom, and to refine my tongue.  It helps, even when I am too proud to ask for it.



A quiet spot, just for me; to enjoy a cup of tea and Jesus.

 

Love delights in my presence and calls me out of myself.  It laughs with me, long and loud.  Love opens my eyes to possibilities and dreams with me.   Love requires that I do nothing more than be.

 

Be still.

Be at rest.

Be what I was created to be.

Red Numerals

I am sitting at my computer, waiting for my student loan forms to load on the internet.   And I am squeamish.  The number indicating how much assistance I am accepting, in red no less, is frightening.  I want very much to say, “Money is not my god.”  But when I see that number (and yes, I have adjusted my schedule because I need my award to more closely match my tuition), I shrink.  Wow.  That’s a lot.  How am I ever going to pay that back?  (And how will I ever graduate if I keep dropping classes?)

I panic.  And begin been trolling internet job sites.  “I could do that.  I mean I’ve never welded anything in my life, but surely I could be a master welder in no time.  Right?”  [To all my welder friends out there, I apologize.  This is merely an example of my desperation; anyone who would hand me tools involving fire is more than slightly off their rocker.]  And then I consider taking 1 class per semester... for the next 13 years.  Ridiculously depressing.  That thought, in turn, causes me to throw in the towel, “forget it!  How can I put my family through this type of financial strain?”   Though this is mostly due to the little voice screaming in the back of my head, “Student loans are evil!  Get out of debt; don’t dig in deeper” a la Dave Ramsey; coupled with the admonition of a pastor, who implied that education merely for the sake of more education is a waste of resources.   

But do you want to know the funny part (not laugh-out-loud funny; more of an audible smirk)?  Just last night (rather, very early this morning), I committed to an utterly abandoned following after God in my life.  I literally said, “I will not let any obstacle, of other’s or my own making, stand in the way of me doing the good works for which You have made me.”  Do these require a degree?  Likely not.  Though I know I was called to go.  It was so present, so palpable, when I first felt it.  And when I’m there, even on the nights of tests (yeah, I don’t handle stress well) or paper’s due dates, there is this wide open space within my spirit; an expansion, a hope  that permeates my entire being.  When I drive away from campus, I feel it closing behind me; and I have this desperate desire to pull it with me, to share it with the world, to take it with me into the darkness.  I know it’s not the commentaries, or the lectures, or the theories that awaken my spirit.  It’s finding new [to me, as He is unchanging] facets of God; glimpsing a little more of Jesus.  It is opening my God box a little wider, letting Him out of my parameters a little bit more; letting Him show me who He is.  And then, like the Samaritan woman, I want to run and call everyone to Jesus.  See!  Look!  He is the hope for our lives; He is the rescue from our darkness!  He is so much more than I ever could have imagined.  He is beautiful.

So how do I reconcile that desire with the glaring, red numerals extracting my resolution?  By recalling the time not two semesters ago, when I sat in the office of a gentleman theologian; he encouraged me to follow my calling, while admonishing me that this will be an uphill battle the entire way.  It will try my resolve.  It will be a test of endurance.  Basically, (in my coarse paraphrase), it’s gonna suck.  But most things that are worth doing require great effort, some sacrifice, and an exorbitant amount of grace; as well as an adjustment of my attitude.  So as I click the “submit” button on my loans, I am engaging in a breath prayer.  I breathe in, “YHWH-Yireh” [the God who Provides] to recognize that God is the source of my sustenance and His provision is always more than sufficient.  And I breathe out: “money is not my god,” to remind me that in spite of their scariness, they are just numbers after all.

Prism

 

Recently, I was listening to a friend describe a particular “Christian” program that, to this day, is spiritually abusive to the women and children under its regime.  The stories, and particularly the “scriptural” justifications thereof, turned my stomach, caused me to burn with anger at the malignment of God’s character, and broke my heart for the people who suffer this ill-advised and harmful system.  “What does this say about who God is,” I demanded.  “How can people project such a counter-scriptural version of the gospel?”        

It is easy to judge the obviously harmful dogma of some[1]; however, upon meditation, I was forced to ask myself: how am I degrading the gospel in my life?  What do others know of God through their interactions with me?  Is God merely prohibitive, because I won’t let my kids play violent video games or watch provocative movies?  Is He easily frustrated by the failings of His children, as I at times am with mine?  Does He expect us to do for ourselves, as I have chided my husband?  Does He get bored?  Is He tired?  Does He hold a grudge?  Will He forget what’s important to others?  Does He tune people out from time to time?  Is He selfish? 

The answer to each and every one of the above is: no.  Those are all my qualities (though there isn’t anything “quality” in any of those behaviors); those are Jen.  Who, then, is God, based on my life’s communication of His gospel?

Perhaps first, I have to ask, “What is the gospel?”[2]  The gospel is not a set of dogmatic practices or personal beliefs.  It is immediately as simple as John 3:16 and as complex as the entire process of sanctification.  A rainbow birthed from a crystal, it is something I can hold in my palm; yet the moment I close my hand proprietarily around it, it is just outside my grasp.  I cannot own it, nor bend it to fit my design.  If I want to keep it, I have to sit, to focus upon it.  I have to follow it as it moves.  Yet watching it, interacting with it, delights me and ignites joy.

To carry the metaphor further, I am the dusty chunk of rock that will eventually be a beautifully chiseled crystal; through which the light of Christ may be filtered so that it explodes onto the surface of my environment.  And is then caught in the hand of someone who needs that Light.  The gospel is not the source of the Light; yet it is partly what changes me, and it is the alluring beauty that points back not to me, but to the Light. 

However, for the gospel to be seen in and through me, I have to be willing to be cut; to be changed and transformed from what I am now, to what I was meant to be.  I must submit to the Designer, to allow the ugliness, the dirtiness, the world, to be separated from me and thrown away.  I must give the gospel sway in my actions, words, and thoughts.  And I cannot do that without being in direct and constant contact with the Light through prayer, study, and submission to His instrument, the Holy Spirit.       

Which means that for today, instead of merely judging those who propagate abuse in the name of Christianity, I can listen to the stories and weep with those who suffered from it.  I can gently assure them that this idea, this projection of God’s character is not who the Great I AM is.  I can say, “What happened to you is not okay, I will not tolerate it; but most importantly, God yearns to show you who He truly is.”

And hopefully one of my cleaner, more beautiful facets will catch the Light; so that through me, the rainbow of the gospel might delight the heart of someone in desperate need of beauty, truth, and love.     

---

[1] Certainly, spiritual, emotional, and physical abuse should never be tolerated within the body of believers.  And it is the responsibility of the healthy members to effect change, offer safety and healing for the victims, and even discipline those responsible when necessary.   

[2] Granted, this is a topic that is better suited for seminars, courses, and even entire degree programs (to include doctoral studies).  However, for the sake of this space, brevity is key. 

Summertime!

Remember when you were little, in particular, the elementary school years; remember that first day of summer break?  The whole world was ripe with possibilities; the air pregnant with days hanging upon endless days of potential adventure.  You could taste the freedom; the earth seemed to give off the smell of it.  It was palpable, tactile.  The world thrummed to the beat of it. 

I’m having that same experience today.  I got up, the kids are still sleeping, and had no pending obligations (no papers or tests on the near horizon, no reading that I should be doing).  All at once, I wanted to take a nap (because I could), read a fluff book (but I haven’t been to the library for fun in a few months), write letters, scrapbook, paint something (not a room, but something completely frivolous like a canvas), sit on my porch and do nothing but drink a cup of coffee.  And I couldn’t decide, because at this point, they were all viable possibilities.  The openness, the unfettered days of summer stretching out before me, tantalizingly spacious.

It is intoxicating.  No, literally.  I get this way every year: actually intoxicated with the possibilities that summer holds.  I make grandiose plans fully intending to see each one through.  It’s headier than the New Year for me.  I have a “this-is-the-summer-I-will-[fill in the blank]” condition.  And it’s chronic.

Last summer was the “I-will-teach-the-children-Spanish-and-how-to-play-the-piano” summer.  Granted, in order to teach them Spanish, I would first have to learn myself.  And I was forced to admit, (I humbly apologize, Mrs. Curtis) that I could only read the treble clef, after much line and space counting.  So a basic C scale was all we learned last year.  But we did spend a week with my family on the beach in North Carolina.   And we camped a few times, attended the Renaissance Festival, caught a few Rockies games, and took in the DCI tournament at Invesco Field.  So while the summer was hardly a bust, I am aching to plan this year’s activities.

After heeding the multiple warnings from the school and experts, I have vowed to do some form of math, reading, and writing with the kids every day.  We wouldn’t want the children losing 20% of their knowledge base in 3 short months!  We will go to the library once a week, hit the Denver Art Museum once a month, concoct science projects, seek out classical concerts.  We will find somewhere that lets 5 year-olds volunteer and do something that will make a difference.   Instead of Spanish, since I’m diving in next term, I think this would be a great time for the family to learn Greek (my husband who is years ahead, can teach us simple songs and vocabulary; though I have yet to run this plan by him).  Of course, there’s still the piano sitting unused in the living room, aching for someone to play.  (And studies show that children who play music perform better in math and science; so not teaching them piano might actually be detrimental.)   

Or, we could sleep in every day.  Hit the pool, take some bike rides.  Do art projects, spend more time getting to know God, each other, and our neighbors, find little ways of making this world a nicer place to live.  Hike, camp, fish.  Relax.  Follow each day wherever it takes us.  We read daily anyway; and math is everywhere.  Instead of a perfectly planned couple of weeks, we could have another summer filled with new experiences that lead to memories, laughter, friends, and family.

Maybe for me, this-is-the-summer-I-…quit expecting too much.

What about you?       

Ding-dong...he is dead.

Osama bin Laden.  Is.  Dead. 

Nine years, seven months, and twenty-one days after the attacks made on American soil, targeting American civilians.  Osama bin Laden is dead. 

For my generation, this name was the name with which we equated evil.  The Ace of Spades.  This man, the man behind 9-11-01, is now dead.  At the hands of Americans soldiers.  This which we vowed, a decade ago; revenge: blood for blood.      

I hardly count myself among the war-mongers; those who tout rockets as diplomatic measure.  Yet, I can hardly forget that morning, almost a decade ago.  I was living on a military installation at the time; and my aunt frequently flew the American Airlines route to Dulles airport.  It was her “all is well” call that alerted us (we were on Alaskan time) to the tragedy.  My then-military husband and I watched, live, as the towers fell.  I was numb as he packed his ruck sack, kissed my head, and said, “I’d better go ahead and go in early today.  Don’t know when I’ll be back.  I love you.”  And he, like so many others, left; clad in combat boots and BDU’s.  Fighters were scrambled, gates were locked.  America was under attack.  On her soil.  Against her people.  Innocents had perished.  Men waited, impotent to stop the battle that targeted those whom they vowed to protect.   

And her civilians did what they could think of.  They crowded churches, flooded recruiters’ offices, volunteered to donate blood; locals rushed to the scene, aching to help. 

How old were you?  What were you doing, when the world stopped?  Two generations before, young men and women lied about their ages to avenge the deaths of mere soldiers.  It is rumored, that after bombing a military target, a Japanese Admiral said “I fear we have only woken a slumbering giant.”  Yet, in the 2000’s, we took 11 days.  11 days until the stock markets returned to their pre-attack numbers.  11 days for the fervor of patriotism to pass.  11 days before her citizens decided this was too “imperialistic.”  Let us bury our dead, and go back to our anesthetized lives; our self-centered, over-indulged existence.  Let us not think about the pain.  Let us not replay the traumatic images.  Let’s move one.  Let’s forget.      

But we have not forgotten.  Our military forces, who along with their families have paid the ultimate sacrifice, have persisted.  And we have conquered our foe.  We have announced to the watching world that no matter how long it takes, America will prevail.  She will remember her fallen.  They will not have died in vain.   

 And so, whether pacifist or imperialist, I urge you to remember.  Remember who and where you were on September 11, 2001.  Remember those who, then and in the interim, have given their lives to this cause.  Remember that women who burn dinners under bin Laden’s regime are themselves burned and left for dead.  That boys not yet old enough to taste beer, gave their lives to eradicate this foe.  That children both in the towers, and on those planes, were forced to forfeit their lives in that attack.  Remember that while not perfect, America stands for justice.  And that her enemies, particularly those who attack her innocents, will pay the ultimate price. 

Osama bin Laden.  Is.  Dead.

May God have mercy on all our souls.