Seriously. It's invisible to mortal eyes. It's bright red and big as a barn, but when you look, it just isn't there.
That's the only explanation I can come up with for the state of this poor minivan which I drive. It has numerous dents, dings, divots, scrapes, and a few growing rust spots. There are a lot of little dimples from the hail storms back in 2002, and missing paint all over the place. It looks really disreputable, and at some point my much-tried husband probably won't let me park it in front of the house any more. It's that bad.
I park it every day in a parking garage at work, and that's where the vast majority of the damage has occurred. There's always a big dent in the rear lift-gate where someone has backed into it. I'll come out of my office at the end of the day to discover a new one. I used to get these fixed, at great personal expense, but I gave it up as a bad job, because every time I paid to get that dent removed, some other klutzy driver would come along and replace it. I never see this happen, of course, because I'm at work. I just see the results. There's another big bowl-shaped dent in the passenger side now, but I did that myself. When my parking garage was closed last summer I had to use another one down the street which has strange traffic patterns and some very tight turns. I misjudged the tightest turn on my second day parking there, and got a wall with the side, and now there is a huge dent there to commemorate the occasion forever. But most of the damage has been caused by others. I can only assume it's because the van is invisible.
For instance--I have been rear-ended twice at stoplights. Why? I'm bright red and big as a barn! You'd think that would help, but it doesn't. People just don't see me. I've also been backed into at stoplights this calendar year--twice--the latest episode being just yesterday. I was waiting in line to exit the gas station (gas was only $3.83!) and the woman in front of me suddenly started going backwards at a fairly good rate of speed. In other words, it was on purpose, not just an accidental roll. I did the only thing I could--I applied myself with vigor to my horn. She slammed on her brakes, but too late. WHACK! Into my front bumper. The woman got out of her car to check damage (maybe a small scratch to her car, a much larger one to mine of course) and screamed "I thought you could SEE me!" and got back into her car and drove away.
This was deeply puzzling. Of course I could see her coming, but there wasn't a single thing in the world I could do about it. I can only imagine that, per usual, she couldn't see ME. Or I appeared so small and insignificant that perhaps my presence wouldn't actually matter in any way. My barn on wheels has gone stealth again, apparently.
Next year, when my daughter gets her driver's license, the van will be hers. I have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, it's magnificently pre-disastered, and since she has the shortest commute it makes sense that she'll drive the car with the lowest gas mileage. And since it's a big van just loaded with airbags, if anything hits her (or, let's be realistic, if she hits anything) the chances for personal bodily damage are low. So it makes sense. On the other hand, with that thing being invisible the way that it is, the chances are more than good that at some point she will indeed have a collision of some kind with someone who just didn't know she was there. Good luck kiddo, you're going to need it.
Love, Spud.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Fairwell Bathroom
We have a lovely house, with lots of old-fashioned wallpapers and mature trees. The selling point for me was the pantry, and the counter-top that was big enough to roll out pie crust on. The real draw-back is the kids' bathroom. It works just fine, but it is just plain ugly. It has dark mauve paint, a yellow and tan floor, deep peach (like bad makeup) sinks and tub that are full of pits and rust spots, yellow-gray tiles behind the tub, and a deep peach toilet with forty-some years of hard water stains in it. All in all, a very depressing sight. But it's a nice big bathroom, and a couple of years ago I invested in navy rugs and towels, and ocean-themed accessories and shower curtain, and it looked much better. The ugliness is still there, but when you look in there now you're distracted from the "what were they thinking" original colors by all the navy. Seriously--what were they thinking? I cannot imagine.
Yesterday, Phil, our cheerful remodeler, began demolition on the room. The noxious tiles came down, the sinks are gone, the tub goes out today. But before that happened, of course, I went in and removed all traces of rugs and towels and accessories. So now when you look in, you see the original room in all it's hideous glory, plus gaping holes in the walls and the inevitable construction dust. I found myself suffering a momentary fear that it would stay that way. But within the next few weeks it is supposed to be transformed into a white and gray masterpiece of bathroomness, and all my lovely blue things will move back in.
Lately I've been thinking that I resemble that bathroom. In the last few weeks it's become clear to me that there is a lot more phariseeism left inside me than I ever thought, too much rigidness, too much actual disdain for others (not everybody, mostly annoying drivers!) which is just judgmentalism. I'm puzzled by this. I've always tried very hard to give everybody the benefit of the doubt in every situation. Most people regard me as an optimist, especially when it comes to matters of faith. It's long been a goal of mine to extend the grace I have received to those who (probably unintentionally) offend or slight me. I'm a nice person, darn it! So where on earth is all this coming from? How could I not know it was all in there? How could I possibly be a nice person with all that deep down inside? Am I all just navy blue camouflage?
Lately I've felt that I have the makings of an iceberg--nice clean ice showing, with a massive dark blob underneath, hidden from view and potentially dangerous. It's dismaying to realize that my sin tendencies are thriving, despite all of my wishes to the contrary. This is such a classic Romans 6-8 scenario. Between what I've read and what I've seen in recent weeks, these things happen to be at the forefront of my mind--but I'll bet they exist all the time.
So how to think rationally about this? How to get back my spiritual sanity? How to remodel? Well, the bottom line is that I can't remodel. Just like I had to hire Phil to transform the bathroom, I have to "hire" God to transform me. I just can't do it myself. And much as I'd like to have that nice new bathroom today we have to endure the process--there are no good shortcuts. It'll be done when it's done, and to be done correctly it will have to take some time and inconvenience and dust. Much as I'd like to be a paragon of Christian womanhood, there are no shortcuts--I have to endure the process, and even then the results might not be what I expect. I may have seen the plans for the finished bathroom, but I haven't seen the plans for the finished me. And the honest truth is that I'll go to my deathbed with a good chunk of dark ice still there. It's not that God is not an excellent remodeler, it's that I get in His way all the time. My deeply ingrained habits and thought patterns persist. God works on them faithfully, and I help when I can figure out what He's working on now, but it's going to be a very long haul, and I understand that the job won't be done in this lifetime. That's painful to admit, but it's true.
This is the kind of issue that makes me long so for heaven. When I get there, the dark blob of underwater ice will be gone. I'll appear as the brand-new-shiny-clean person who will finally be a finished work, based on Someone Else's finished work. It's not even possible in this life to imagine how very wonderful that will be, because we aren't capable of realizing how very horrible we are now. Even at my best I fall so far short of what I will be when I am in the presence of my Lord and Savior at last and forever. Fireworks! Feasts! Giddy celebrations! Praise and thanksgivings! All these things come to mind when I try to grasp the reality that will surely come. And I'll take one good long look at where I came from, and wonder "What was I thinking?".
"Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus."
Thanks be to God.
Love, Spud.
Yesterday, Phil, our cheerful remodeler, began demolition on the room. The noxious tiles came down, the sinks are gone, the tub goes out today. But before that happened, of course, I went in and removed all traces of rugs and towels and accessories. So now when you look in, you see the original room in all it's hideous glory, plus gaping holes in the walls and the inevitable construction dust. I found myself suffering a momentary fear that it would stay that way. But within the next few weeks it is supposed to be transformed into a white and gray masterpiece of bathroomness, and all my lovely blue things will move back in.
Lately I've been thinking that I resemble that bathroom. In the last few weeks it's become clear to me that there is a lot more phariseeism left inside me than I ever thought, too much rigidness, too much actual disdain for others (not everybody, mostly annoying drivers!) which is just judgmentalism. I'm puzzled by this. I've always tried very hard to give everybody the benefit of the doubt in every situation. Most people regard me as an optimist, especially when it comes to matters of faith. It's long been a goal of mine to extend the grace I have received to those who (probably unintentionally) offend or slight me. I'm a nice person, darn it! So where on earth is all this coming from? How could I not know it was all in there? How could I possibly be a nice person with all that deep down inside? Am I all just navy blue camouflage?
Lately I've felt that I have the makings of an iceberg--nice clean ice showing, with a massive dark blob underneath, hidden from view and potentially dangerous. It's dismaying to realize that my sin tendencies are thriving, despite all of my wishes to the contrary. This is such a classic Romans 6-8 scenario. Between what I've read and what I've seen in recent weeks, these things happen to be at the forefront of my mind--but I'll bet they exist all the time.
So how to think rationally about this? How to get back my spiritual sanity? How to remodel? Well, the bottom line is that I can't remodel. Just like I had to hire Phil to transform the bathroom, I have to "hire" God to transform me. I just can't do it myself. And much as I'd like to have that nice new bathroom today we have to endure the process--there are no good shortcuts. It'll be done when it's done, and to be done correctly it will have to take some time and inconvenience and dust. Much as I'd like to be a paragon of Christian womanhood, there are no shortcuts--I have to endure the process, and even then the results might not be what I expect. I may have seen the plans for the finished bathroom, but I haven't seen the plans for the finished me. And the honest truth is that I'll go to my deathbed with a good chunk of dark ice still there. It's not that God is not an excellent remodeler, it's that I get in His way all the time. My deeply ingrained habits and thought patterns persist. God works on them faithfully, and I help when I can figure out what He's working on now, but it's going to be a very long haul, and I understand that the job won't be done in this lifetime. That's painful to admit, but it's true.
This is the kind of issue that makes me long so for heaven. When I get there, the dark blob of underwater ice will be gone. I'll appear as the brand-new-shiny-clean person who will finally be a finished work, based on Someone Else's finished work. It's not even possible in this life to imagine how very wonderful that will be, because we aren't capable of realizing how very horrible we are now. Even at my best I fall so far short of what I will be when I am in the presence of my Lord and Savior at last and forever. Fireworks! Feasts! Giddy celebrations! Praise and thanksgivings! All these things come to mind when I try to grasp the reality that will surely come. And I'll take one good long look at where I came from, and wonder "What was I thinking?".
"Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus."
Thanks be to God.
Love, Spud.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
How Do I Love Thee?
My husband and I have been doing a study of John's gospel for the last several months, and one thing that has come up repeatedly has been the Big Two commandments. Well, I'm here to say that I fail utterly at both of them! But it got me to thinking--*do* I love God? I have always assumed that I did, but how do I know? Considering it's one of the Big Two (I'll bet you think you know what number two is, but you might be wrong) it's worth thinking about. So here is Number One: You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. A tall order, to say the least.
So how do we know that we love anybody? It's somewhat easier with other humans, although still a bit nebulous. The clearest example for me is my own little family. I do love my tribe. There are four humans and two cats, and nothing makes me happier then when we are all in the same place together. If one of them is out, my ears stayed tuned to cell phones ringing for me, and door hinges squeaking. (I was really perturbed when a well-meaning friend oiled the front door hinges without asking, because then I could no longer hear my family coming in!) On long trips we have long conversations, an activity that fills my tank. We do things with each other and for each other. I miss them like crazy when they're gone, worry about them when they're ill, spread the news far and wide when one of them does something laudable or just plain amusing. If it would do any good, I'd throw myself in front of a speeding car to save them, but fortunately that particular need has not arisen. I like to think that they actually need me. Like many females, my nurturing instinct is fairly high, and feeling needed also makes me feel loved. It's probably perverse in some way, and I'm sure a psychologist would be happy to tell me how, but it's true.
So those things make me believe that I love my family--they are pieces of evidence that lead to a conclusion. I love them, they love me. Goodness prevails. But can any of this translate? You know, with my family or my friends, no matter how far flung, I can always pick up a phone, tap out an email, even hop in the car and go behold them in person--have some two-way communication, some face-to-face time. This is harder with God. For the most part He is neither visible nor audible in the ways that we are accustomed to. This is why I struggle some days with this question. It's possible I'm just over-thinking again, but considering the fact that it's one of two commandments, maybe it's important! I should keep thinking!
Do I enjoy our time together? Yes, but I'm sometimes a very poor initiator. God does not have skin on, and as the saying goes, out of sight out of mind. Not an excuse, just a reason. But there have been some times of prayer, particularly in times of stress or sorrow, that have been both painful and sweet, bringing an unexpected joy to my soul. You'd think that would bring me to prayer more often, wouldn't you? But like dinner-time conversations, not every one is sweet and affirming, and so in my wretched human state I often neglect Him. So if I love, I love poorly.
Do I do things for God and with God? Sometimes! As a parent, there are times when I need to push my daughter to do things that she would rather not do either because of laziness or fear. I could just let these things go, but I really do try to be a good parent, and I know it's a healthy thing for her to overcome laziness and fears. She'll grow and thrive and become a more mature and happy person for the experience. I love her, so I make her do these things for her own good. God doesn't make me do things, but I sure know that He WANTS me to do things. In recent years I've become a little more willing to stretch myself and go beyond my own comfort zone (which is pitifully small) because I know that I'll grow and thrive and become more mature and happy. And because I know God wants me to. I still love poorly, but I'm trying to get better.
Do I worry about God, and miss Him when He's gone? Of course not! I do sometimes worry greatly about the state of Christianity, and how God is being represented in the world. And thank the Lord, I'll never have to miss Him. The most horrifying thing in the Bible is Ezekiel's vision of God removing His presence from Israel. I can't think of anything more desperately awful than God not being there. I am so deeply grateful I will never experience that. Maybe I'm not loving quite so poorly after all. But do I spread the word when He does something extraordinary? Well, sure! But only to those whom I know already know Him and will be interested. And do I sacrifice for Him? More than I used to, but not enough. Okay, back to loving poorly again. Golly, I think I'm down to about a D+ at this point.
Does God need me? No, He doesn't. Not a bit. Ouch. But He wants me. In John 17, there is a bit where Jesus is expressing the fact that now He gets to go home, a desire that resonated with me, and then later He also says that those who are His will get to go there too. Jesus wants us to go be with Him, in His home. We are wanted. We are in His tribe. The joy and relief that comes with that knowledge is inexpressible. Even though I have no idea what is there, heaven is where my heart wants to be, and sometimes I just cry with tears because of the longing to go. Where did this come from? How can I miss a place I have never been? The Bible says that this world is not our home, that God's children have a true home somewhere else, and I think I must really love Him after all if I have such a deep desire to go there and be with Him.
The last thing, and the one that tipped the balance for me: I love the Bible. The more I read it, the more I study it, the more excited about it I get. God does not have skin on, and He does not speak audibly to me, but He does speak, and I get both puzzled and thrilled by what He says. The more I read, the more I learn about God, and the more I want to know more. This is what calms my heart regarding the whole issue of loving God. Even better than an email from friends, I value the fact that I have an enormous book of communication from Him. If I love His words, then surely it must mean that I love Him too. If we love Him, we are to feed His sheep, and do His commands, and love each other as HE loves us. I try. Oh, I do try.
Maybe I pass the test after all. God deserves better than He gets from me, much better, and I am acutely aware of this. And the fact that this bothers me is a good sign! With all my heart, soul, mind, and strength? Alas, no. Paul was correct in that a married woman is concerned with how she may please her husband (and children, and cats) and so my heart is dreadfully divided. This is the tribe that God gave me, and I'm trying to take care of them and love them well. Would I give them up if I ever had a choice between God and my family? You know, I don't know. Quite possibly I would. That is the definition of death, after all. But thanks be to God, even that won't be permanent. I get to have my cake and eat it too in heaven, where both my tribes will be together. Whew. I think I love God after all. I suspected I did. Some day, we'll all be home.
Love to you too,
Spud.
So how do we know that we love anybody? It's somewhat easier with other humans, although still a bit nebulous. The clearest example for me is my own little family. I do love my tribe. There are four humans and two cats, and nothing makes me happier then when we are all in the same place together. If one of them is out, my ears stayed tuned to cell phones ringing for me, and door hinges squeaking. (I was really perturbed when a well-meaning friend oiled the front door hinges without asking, because then I could no longer hear my family coming in!) On long trips we have long conversations, an activity that fills my tank. We do things with each other and for each other. I miss them like crazy when they're gone, worry about them when they're ill, spread the news far and wide when one of them does something laudable or just plain amusing. If it would do any good, I'd throw myself in front of a speeding car to save them, but fortunately that particular need has not arisen. I like to think that they actually need me. Like many females, my nurturing instinct is fairly high, and feeling needed also makes me feel loved. It's probably perverse in some way, and I'm sure a psychologist would be happy to tell me how, but it's true.
So those things make me believe that I love my family--they are pieces of evidence that lead to a conclusion. I love them, they love me. Goodness prevails. But can any of this translate? You know, with my family or my friends, no matter how far flung, I can always pick up a phone, tap out an email, even hop in the car and go behold them in person--have some two-way communication, some face-to-face time. This is harder with God. For the most part He is neither visible nor audible in the ways that we are accustomed to. This is why I struggle some days with this question. It's possible I'm just over-thinking again, but considering the fact that it's one of two commandments, maybe it's important! I should keep thinking!
Do I enjoy our time together? Yes, but I'm sometimes a very poor initiator. God does not have skin on, and as the saying goes, out of sight out of mind. Not an excuse, just a reason. But there have been some times of prayer, particularly in times of stress or sorrow, that have been both painful and sweet, bringing an unexpected joy to my soul. You'd think that would bring me to prayer more often, wouldn't you? But like dinner-time conversations, not every one is sweet and affirming, and so in my wretched human state I often neglect Him. So if I love, I love poorly.
Do I do things for God and with God? Sometimes! As a parent, there are times when I need to push my daughter to do things that she would rather not do either because of laziness or fear. I could just let these things go, but I really do try to be a good parent, and I know it's a healthy thing for her to overcome laziness and fears. She'll grow and thrive and become a more mature and happy person for the experience. I love her, so I make her do these things for her own good. God doesn't make me do things, but I sure know that He WANTS me to do things. In recent years I've become a little more willing to stretch myself and go beyond my own comfort zone (which is pitifully small) because I know that I'll grow and thrive and become more mature and happy. And because I know God wants me to. I still love poorly, but I'm trying to get better.
Do I worry about God, and miss Him when He's gone? Of course not! I do sometimes worry greatly about the state of Christianity, and how God is being represented in the world. And thank the Lord, I'll never have to miss Him. The most horrifying thing in the Bible is Ezekiel's vision of God removing His presence from Israel. I can't think of anything more desperately awful than God not being there. I am so deeply grateful I will never experience that. Maybe I'm not loving quite so poorly after all. But do I spread the word when He does something extraordinary? Well, sure! But only to those whom I know already know Him and will be interested. And do I sacrifice for Him? More than I used to, but not enough. Okay, back to loving poorly again. Golly, I think I'm down to about a D+ at this point.
Does God need me? No, He doesn't. Not a bit. Ouch. But He wants me. In John 17, there is a bit where Jesus is expressing the fact that now He gets to go home, a desire that resonated with me, and then later He also says that those who are His will get to go there too. Jesus wants us to go be with Him, in His home. We are wanted. We are in His tribe. The joy and relief that comes with that knowledge is inexpressible. Even though I have no idea what is there, heaven is where my heart wants to be, and sometimes I just cry with tears because of the longing to go. Where did this come from? How can I miss a place I have never been? The Bible says that this world is not our home, that God's children have a true home somewhere else, and I think I must really love Him after all if I have such a deep desire to go there and be with Him.
The last thing, and the one that tipped the balance for me: I love the Bible. The more I read it, the more I study it, the more excited about it I get. God does not have skin on, and He does not speak audibly to me, but He does speak, and I get both puzzled and thrilled by what He says. The more I read, the more I learn about God, and the more I want to know more. This is what calms my heart regarding the whole issue of loving God. Even better than an email from friends, I value the fact that I have an enormous book of communication from Him. If I love His words, then surely it must mean that I love Him too. If we love Him, we are to feed His sheep, and do His commands, and love each other as HE loves us. I try. Oh, I do try.
Maybe I pass the test after all. God deserves better than He gets from me, much better, and I am acutely aware of this. And the fact that this bothers me is a good sign! With all my heart, soul, mind, and strength? Alas, no. Paul was correct in that a married woman is concerned with how she may please her husband (and children, and cats) and so my heart is dreadfully divided. This is the tribe that God gave me, and I'm trying to take care of them and love them well. Would I give them up if I ever had a choice between God and my family? You know, I don't know. Quite possibly I would. That is the definition of death, after all. But thanks be to God, even that won't be permanent. I get to have my cake and eat it too in heaven, where both my tribes will be together. Whew. I think I love God after all. I suspected I did. Some day, we'll all be home.
Love to you too,
Spud.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Lack of Vision
I suffer from a lack of vision. It has nothing to do with my eyes, although they haven't always been that useful either, but more my ability to consider what could be. We live in a house, instead of an apartment or a trailer court, but it's not because of me. It didn't occur to me that we could afford a house, and I was resigned to apartment life, but my husband was not content with bug-infested places that had either too little heat or too much heat and landlords that had bad bookkeeping and a lack of concern. Why was I content? Who knows. Cowardice, I expect. But my husband took the figurative bull by the horns, and we moved into an itty-bitty house that we could actually afford.
I loved that first house. At first I dreaded going home to it because it was just ugly, but we took care of that problem and I was happy there. But we added to our family, and at some point our daughter put her foot down and announced that we just had to get another bathroom. Stu was okay with moving, because he was getting pretty claustrophobic in there. It didn't bother me at all, and I never really noticed because I was the one person who could actually stand all the way up in the basement, but apparently that house was a little short. So we started the process again, with me fretting that we couldn't afford a bigger house, and now here we are, where I never imagined we could be. But Stu imagined it, and it came to pass.
See, here's the thing. I hate taking risks. Although an optimist in many ways, when it comes to taking any kind of risk I become something beyond reluctant. I'm all too aware of how things can suddenly come unraveled at any time and I really fear dealing with the consequences when they do. This, not surprisingly, has big implications for my spiritual life as well. We're in a home church now because Stu said that it was high time, and despite my desire to stay put in my comfort zone, that too came to pass. And there are doubtless many ways in which God would really like me to change and progress, but with my lack of vision of where I could go, and my reluctance to go there anyway, I tend to stay put.
Thanks be to God, He sometimes grows me without my knowledge and consent. It's a good thing, too. Unlike me, God does have a vision for where He wants me to go and what He wants me to become. I just sit here and look at where I am and say "Ick". God gently sends people who will point me where I need to go. Some of them, of course, are gentler than others!
I've learned the value, in the last half-decade, of mentors. Some ladies have known they were mentoring me, some have not. Wouldn't they be surprised? There's a lot to be said for recognizing that someone is where you would like to be, and praying that God will help you get there. There's an elderly second cousin whom I admire more than I can say, and I would like even a portion of her wisdom and serenity. There's a woman who was consciously in a mentoring position with me, and although she might not see that I learned from her, I really did. She tells it like it is, and I'm learning to do that more, with less fear of the reactions I might get. Truth matters. There's another lovely lady I have met in the last couple of years who is warm and gracious to everyone, and full of good humor and honesty, and I pray that God will change me so that these things are reflected in me too, because she is the type of person who is just appealing to be around, and therefore likely to be able to influence others for God. It's more than just good manners, it's a way of looking at life and others. I've never had what you could call manners, but I'd rather have this.
So I'd really like to become a person who has genuine concern for other people, and remembers to pray for them on a more consistent basis, and ignores her own schedule more for the sake of others, and isn't afraid to be truthful. It wouldn't surprise me one bit to find out this is part of God's vision for me too, and if He wants it then it's more likely to happen. Guess we'll have to wait and see.
Love, Spud.
I loved that first house. At first I dreaded going home to it because it was just ugly, but we took care of that problem and I was happy there. But we added to our family, and at some point our daughter put her foot down and announced that we just had to get another bathroom. Stu was okay with moving, because he was getting pretty claustrophobic in there. It didn't bother me at all, and I never really noticed because I was the one person who could actually stand all the way up in the basement, but apparently that house was a little short. So we started the process again, with me fretting that we couldn't afford a bigger house, and now here we are, where I never imagined we could be. But Stu imagined it, and it came to pass.
See, here's the thing. I hate taking risks. Although an optimist in many ways, when it comes to taking any kind of risk I become something beyond reluctant. I'm all too aware of how things can suddenly come unraveled at any time and I really fear dealing with the consequences when they do. This, not surprisingly, has big implications for my spiritual life as well. We're in a home church now because Stu said that it was high time, and despite my desire to stay put in my comfort zone, that too came to pass. And there are doubtless many ways in which God would really like me to change and progress, but with my lack of vision of where I could go, and my reluctance to go there anyway, I tend to stay put.
Thanks be to God, He sometimes grows me without my knowledge and consent. It's a good thing, too. Unlike me, God does have a vision for where He wants me to go and what He wants me to become. I just sit here and look at where I am and say "Ick". God gently sends people who will point me where I need to go. Some of them, of course, are gentler than others!
I've learned the value, in the last half-decade, of mentors. Some ladies have known they were mentoring me, some have not. Wouldn't they be surprised? There's a lot to be said for recognizing that someone is where you would like to be, and praying that God will help you get there. There's an elderly second cousin whom I admire more than I can say, and I would like even a portion of her wisdom and serenity. There's a woman who was consciously in a mentoring position with me, and although she might not see that I learned from her, I really did. She tells it like it is, and I'm learning to do that more, with less fear of the reactions I might get. Truth matters. There's another lovely lady I have met in the last couple of years who is warm and gracious to everyone, and full of good humor and honesty, and I pray that God will change me so that these things are reflected in me too, because she is the type of person who is just appealing to be around, and therefore likely to be able to influence others for God. It's more than just good manners, it's a way of looking at life and others. I've never had what you could call manners, but I'd rather have this.
So I'd really like to become a person who has genuine concern for other people, and remembers to pray for them on a more consistent basis, and ignores her own schedule more for the sake of others, and isn't afraid to be truthful. It wouldn't surprise me one bit to find out this is part of God's vision for me too, and if He wants it then it's more likely to happen. Guess we'll have to wait and see.
Love, Spud.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Everything Old is New Again
Hymns--boy, talk about old. Some of the ones we know are centuries old, literally, and growing up in the church of my youth I was resigned to the weekly plowing through of these songs. I liked listening to my mom sing. She had a light and airy voice, but it was in tune, and I enjoyed standing beside her at hymn time in church, and strove to sing like she did. My dad tells me that his mother, who died when he was twelve, so I never met her, used to sing hymns all day long as she worked doing laundry or baking or whatever. I would have liked to have heard that, and some day I will, but there was a time when I couldn't understand why anyone would voluntarily sing hymns. They were dry, ancient, obligatory things--good for studying music theory with, but that was about it.
They also made good piano-lesson fodder. I had two piano teachers, one in my elementary years and one during junior and senior high school, and they were both fine Christian ladies. That meant that (once I had acquired the necessary skills) hymnals were fair game for lesson books. So I learned to play a lot of hymns. Do you know what that entails? It means that you play them every day, over and over and over. And that can get pretty mind-numbing, because it's actually the kinesthetic memory in your fingers that is doing the learning, not your "thinking" center. So I had a lot of time to think. What I chose to do (being the rabid reader that I am) was to read the verses of the hymns as I practiced. You know, a lot of people can sing one verse of a lot of hymns, but after the endless repetitions of the years of my youth, I could sing a LOT of verses from memory of an awful lot of hymns. And Christmas carols. Oh my yes; I still know many many verses of the Christmas carols, and I'm a formidable person to have along if you're caroling because I can keep going indefinitely.
Rabbit trail number one--It shocked me the first time I attended a Christmas-season service at an Episcopalian church. I thought I knew a lot of verses to carols. But the Episcopalian hymnal has at least twice as many verses as anyone else ever knew existed for each carol. These people were inexhaustible soldiers of hymn-singing. It was amazing.
Rabbit trail number two--As you may have guessed, although I was intimately familiar with the hymnal, I can't say I got any enjoyment out of it. There was one exception. There is a hymn in the Methodist hymnal written by John T. Grape. I can't even tell you what it's called, but I got a really unreasonable amount of happiness out of knowing that there was a hymn written by a guy named Grape. It's a dreadful hymn to sing, and goes up into the stratosphere at one point where very few people go with any kind of grace. Our church had a soprano who sailed on up there with glee, but she shouldn't have. Screechy would be a nice way of putting it. I remember her at one point saying that singing was the gift that God had given her, and she was happy to exercise it in His service for as long as she could. I would think "Oh please no, don't bother, really", but I never said this out loud. This is the one solitary example of tact from my entire misbegotten youth, and I'm very proud of it.
Why am I telling you this? Because of something I discovered. Once I got into a church that really taught the Bible, chapter by chapter every week of the year, something odd happened. After a few months of this extensive Bible-learning, I went back to my home town and visited my old church with my parents. Much to my astonishment, those moldy, dreary old hymns were suddenly packed full of meaning. I nearly wept (and sometimes I do) singing those songs written by people from years past who had obviously had a spiritual life rich with knowledge, and experience of God and His grace. What a difference! There wasn't anything wrong with the hymns, there had been something wrong with me! Once I really knew the God of which they had written, hymns became beloved things. I have a couple of wonderful CDs full of hymns that I listen to on purpose in the car as I drive to work. A good way to alleviate the miseries of a long commute, let me tell you.
One last rabbit trail--Since I was a violin major in college, I always played in the orchestra that accompanied the singing of Handel's The Messiah. It didn't matter that I was also in one of the choirs and had rehearsed my brains out singing it; since violin was my major area of study that's where I had to be--in the orchestra pit. It had long been a heart's desire of mine to sing the Hallelujah Chorus. Seriously, how full of meaning can you get? That's the epitome of Christian choral music. After I had graduated, a friend of mine in a more traditional church than mine invited me to come sing the Hallelujah Chorus with his church choir. Oh, that was so exciting. Finally, at last, I was going to get to express my joy vocally--the end of many years of yearning. So the great and sunny morning finally arrived, and I stood there in Eddie's church choir and the music swelled up and I opened my mouth--and burst into tears. I was so overwhelmed by the experience that I never managed to get out a single note.
But Hallelujah anyway.
Love, Spud.
They also made good piano-lesson fodder. I had two piano teachers, one in my elementary years and one during junior and senior high school, and they were both fine Christian ladies. That meant that (once I had acquired the necessary skills) hymnals were fair game for lesson books. So I learned to play a lot of hymns. Do you know what that entails? It means that you play them every day, over and over and over. And that can get pretty mind-numbing, because it's actually the kinesthetic memory in your fingers that is doing the learning, not your "thinking" center. So I had a lot of time to think. What I chose to do (being the rabid reader that I am) was to read the verses of the hymns as I practiced. You know, a lot of people can sing one verse of a lot of hymns, but after the endless repetitions of the years of my youth, I could sing a LOT of verses from memory of an awful lot of hymns. And Christmas carols. Oh my yes; I still know many many verses of the Christmas carols, and I'm a formidable person to have along if you're caroling because I can keep going indefinitely.
Rabbit trail number one--It shocked me the first time I attended a Christmas-season service at an Episcopalian church. I thought I knew a lot of verses to carols. But the Episcopalian hymnal has at least twice as many verses as anyone else ever knew existed for each carol. These people were inexhaustible soldiers of hymn-singing. It was amazing.
Rabbit trail number two--As you may have guessed, although I was intimately familiar with the hymnal, I can't say I got any enjoyment out of it. There was one exception. There is a hymn in the Methodist hymnal written by John T. Grape. I can't even tell you what it's called, but I got a really unreasonable amount of happiness out of knowing that there was a hymn written by a guy named Grape. It's a dreadful hymn to sing, and goes up into the stratosphere at one point where very few people go with any kind of grace. Our church had a soprano who sailed on up there with glee, but she shouldn't have. Screechy would be a nice way of putting it. I remember her at one point saying that singing was the gift that God had given her, and she was happy to exercise it in His service for as long as she could. I would think "Oh please no, don't bother, really", but I never said this out loud. This is the one solitary example of tact from my entire misbegotten youth, and I'm very proud of it.
Why am I telling you this? Because of something I discovered. Once I got into a church that really taught the Bible, chapter by chapter every week of the year, something odd happened. After a few months of this extensive Bible-learning, I went back to my home town and visited my old church with my parents. Much to my astonishment, those moldy, dreary old hymns were suddenly packed full of meaning. I nearly wept (and sometimes I do) singing those songs written by people from years past who had obviously had a spiritual life rich with knowledge, and experience of God and His grace. What a difference! There wasn't anything wrong with the hymns, there had been something wrong with me! Once I really knew the God of which they had written, hymns became beloved things. I have a couple of wonderful CDs full of hymns that I listen to on purpose in the car as I drive to work. A good way to alleviate the miseries of a long commute, let me tell you.
One last rabbit trail--Since I was a violin major in college, I always played in the orchestra that accompanied the singing of Handel's The Messiah. It didn't matter that I was also in one of the choirs and had rehearsed my brains out singing it; since violin was my major area of study that's where I had to be--in the orchestra pit. It had long been a heart's desire of mine to sing the Hallelujah Chorus. Seriously, how full of meaning can you get? That's the epitome of Christian choral music. After I had graduated, a friend of mine in a more traditional church than mine invited me to come sing the Hallelujah Chorus with his church choir. Oh, that was so exciting. Finally, at last, I was going to get to express my joy vocally--the end of many years of yearning. So the great and sunny morning finally arrived, and I stood there in Eddie's church choir and the music swelled up and I opened my mouth--and burst into tears. I was so overwhelmed by the experience that I never managed to get out a single note.
But Hallelujah anyway.
Love, Spud.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Possible Worlds
I see at the Holy Huddle that you're having your discussion on possible worlds tomorrow, and I realize that time is running out for me to state my opinion! Heaven forbid that I should not state my opinion! Well, heaven may actually be fairly neutral on the subject, to be honest. Some time ago I promised you a paper called God's Sovereignty and Doctor Who's Big Ball of Time. I still intend to write that some day, when my weekends clear up enough that I can, but for now I'll give you the bare bones of the beginning so you can take it with you tomorrow night and say "Here's the view of some crazy woman down in Ohio". Unfortunately I haven't spent a great deal of time thinking about it lately, so this may or may not be coherent in any way. We'll see!
Traditional 5-point Calvinism and current Reformed theology seem to hinge on one major point regarding the election of Christians--What did God know, and when did He know it? Doctor Who, strangely enough (I don't generally recommend him for theological input, but every once in a while he gets something right), made a statement that I think summed it up nicely. It was in an episode from last year, possibly Blink (which was the Best. Episode. Ever.) and he was talking about time. Now, this is not an exact quote, but it's pretty close:
"People always think that time moves in a straight line, because that's how they see it, but in reality it's a great big ball of wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey STUFF".
Time is a fairly fluid concept when you're talking about God, because there's evidence that He functions outside of time as we know it. As the good doctor rightly points out, we do see time in a linear fashion, because that's how we live it. We have no choice in the matter--time proceeds on from beginning to end in our lives, and what's past is past and what's future is anybody's guess. Much as we might like to, we can't see the future, only make educated guesses about it, and that's a good thing. But God is not limited in this way. He certainly sees the future as well as the past, and arranges the present to meet His purposes. A good study of fulfilled prophecy will demonstrate this pretty well. So if time really is a big ball to God, and that's as good a way of looking at it as anything since we don't have words for what we can't fathom, then the whole issue of election becomes a non-issue.
The Bible states that God does choose us--based on His foreknowledge. Don't neglect that last part--it's absolutely crucial. God sees all of time at once, and knows, because He can see that future with clarity, what we will have decided in regards to Him. Open theism is the theory, basically, that we change the future based on our decisions, and God then changes what He knows about the future accordingly. What rot. Is God in charge, or not? Certainly I do believe that we have free will to choose God or not (Ha! Now you know! Not dealing with a Calvinist!) but that He knew from eternity past what we will have decided--not because He determines that decision for us (although I do agree that there are some people He hunts down with extreme fervor) but because He can see all of time at once, and knows what decisions we will have made.
This is really hard to wrap our linear little brains around, because it breaks all the rules as we know them. But the bottom line is--is God sovereign, or not? Do we change the future, to which then HE must adapt, or does He know without error what the future IS? If He can see all of time at once without error (and if He can't then we are in big trouble as regards prophecies still to be fulfilled) then we can trust Him with our futures. If He can't, then the implications are staggeringly awful. Only a God who is truly sovereign can give us free will choices, because His hand is firmly on the helm regardless of how stupidly we mess things up, and His will is going to be done.
When I write this up in its complete form, it will have all sorts of Biblical backing, including a verse from Esther and a nice quote from Spurgeon, but that will have to do for now. Douglas Adams, of Hitchhiker's Guide fame, another unlikely and accidental theologian, actually had a pretty good handle on this, with his convoluted future tenses, and I may drag him into it too! Have fun with your discussion, and give me the low-down when it's over. Should be interesting!
Love, Spud.
Traditional 5-point Calvinism and current Reformed theology seem to hinge on one major point regarding the election of Christians--What did God know, and when did He know it? Doctor Who, strangely enough (I don't generally recommend him for theological input, but every once in a while he gets something right), made a statement that I think summed it up nicely. It was in an episode from last year, possibly Blink (which was the Best. Episode. Ever.) and he was talking about time. Now, this is not an exact quote, but it's pretty close:
"People always think that time moves in a straight line, because that's how they see it, but in reality it's a great big ball of wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey STUFF".
Time is a fairly fluid concept when you're talking about God, because there's evidence that He functions outside of time as we know it. As the good doctor rightly points out, we do see time in a linear fashion, because that's how we live it. We have no choice in the matter--time proceeds on from beginning to end in our lives, and what's past is past and what's future is anybody's guess. Much as we might like to, we can't see the future, only make educated guesses about it, and that's a good thing. But God is not limited in this way. He certainly sees the future as well as the past, and arranges the present to meet His purposes. A good study of fulfilled prophecy will demonstrate this pretty well. So if time really is a big ball to God, and that's as good a way of looking at it as anything since we don't have words for what we can't fathom, then the whole issue of election becomes a non-issue.
The Bible states that God does choose us--based on His foreknowledge. Don't neglect that last part--it's absolutely crucial. God sees all of time at once, and knows, because He can see that future with clarity, what we will have decided in regards to Him. Open theism is the theory, basically, that we change the future based on our decisions, and God then changes what He knows about the future accordingly. What rot. Is God in charge, or not? Certainly I do believe that we have free will to choose God or not (Ha! Now you know! Not dealing with a Calvinist!) but that He knew from eternity past what we will have decided--not because He determines that decision for us (although I do agree that there are some people He hunts down with extreme fervor) but because He can see all of time at once, and knows what decisions we will have made.
This is really hard to wrap our linear little brains around, because it breaks all the rules as we know them. But the bottom line is--is God sovereign, or not? Do we change the future, to which then HE must adapt, or does He know without error what the future IS? If He can see all of time at once without error (and if He can't then we are in big trouble as regards prophecies still to be fulfilled) then we can trust Him with our futures. If He can't, then the implications are staggeringly awful. Only a God who is truly sovereign can give us free will choices, because His hand is firmly on the helm regardless of how stupidly we mess things up, and His will is going to be done.
When I write this up in its complete form, it will have all sorts of Biblical backing, including a verse from Esther and a nice quote from Spurgeon, but that will have to do for now. Douglas Adams, of Hitchhiker's Guide fame, another unlikely and accidental theologian, actually had a pretty good handle on this, with his convoluted future tenses, and I may drag him into it too! Have fun with your discussion, and give me the low-down when it's over. Should be interesting!
Love, Spud.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
That Crazy Baptism
All right, Timotheus, here it is: the story of my crazy baptism.
While I was attending that Charismatic church, I became convinced (and rightly so) that I needed to become baptized. Yes, I had gone through a christening as an infant (I refuse to call that a baptism, but we can get into credo- vs. paedo-baptism some other day...) but I had absorbed enough basic doctrine to understand that I needed to do this as an adult. So I hopped onto the schedule one January evening and drove down to Ebenezer Apostolic Church with the others. We didn't have our own facility, but someone found out that they had an indoor baptismal pool, and they agreed to let us use it. So thus I was baptized in an African-American church on the questionable side of town.
I seriously don't remember how many other people were baptized the same evening, or even a great deal about it. This was even farther back in the mists of time than the Spudwoman sweatshirt, so things are a little hazy. But two things I remember very clearly.
The first thing is--it was cold. Not just cold, but C-O-L-D COLD. It was January, and I was in a bathing suit, going into water in an ostensibly-but-not-very heated church. You never saw anybody come up out of the water as fast as I did. Hint: If you have any choice in the matter, do not voluntarily get baptized by immersion in January. It's cold. Trust me.
The other thing is--what happened immediately afterwards. You see, I expected that I would be allowed to go get dressed and get warmed up, but that didn't occur right away. The others gathered around and laid their hands on me and prayed over me. Well, that was kind of pleasant, and nice of them, and generally I wouldn't have had a problem with it, but I was COLD! I wanted nothing in the world so much as to get warmer. But one must be polite, so I stayed there while they prayed. And prayed. And prayed. And prayed some more. And gradually, and to my horror, it dawned on me that they were waiting for something. They were waiting for me to speak in tongues, to prove that the baptism "took" and I was indeed a child of God. This I had not anticipated.
So after a suitable period of waiting, and with the realization that no strange languages were coming to the surface, nor were they going to, I did a dreadful thing. I faked it. And they all cheered, and let me go.
I can't even express what this experience did to me spiritually. For months I was sure that I was utterly under condemnation, and that God was disgusted with me. Surely that was the equivalent of blaspheming against the Holy Spirit, and there was no hope of heaven in my future. This faded after a while, as no lightening bolts came down to claim me and God did not seem to have rejected me the way I felt I deserved. What should have been a joyous occasion in my life turned into emotional disaster.
In the years since, I have discovered that I'm not the only one to have done this. A friend (and my dentist!) who went to a Christian college did the exact same thing, and for similar reasons, and there have been others. And this brings me to my point--the dangers of sloppy theology. Make sure you're looking at the whole of the Bible, not just isolated verses. When Paul says "All do not speak in tongues, do they?", he means it! The obvious answer is "no"! God does indeed dispense spiritual gifts to all Christians, but as He sees fit, not as *we* have decided He should, and not everyone gets the same ones. This is fairly plain from scripture, but only if you read the whole thing. Every verse must be studied in its context. No exceptions.
I'm still glad that I underwent baptism as an adult, and I joyously participate in the baptisms of others. I yearn for the day that my own daughter undergoes this wonderful ritual, and I'll be there, God willing. Wild horses could not keep me away. But there won't be anybody there insisting that she perform by exercising a gift that God has not given her--I'll make sure of that. What else are mothers for?
Love, Spud.
While I was attending that Charismatic church, I became convinced (and rightly so) that I needed to become baptized. Yes, I had gone through a christening as an infant (I refuse to call that a baptism, but we can get into credo- vs. paedo-baptism some other day...) but I had absorbed enough basic doctrine to understand that I needed to do this as an adult. So I hopped onto the schedule one January evening and drove down to Ebenezer Apostolic Church with the others. We didn't have our own facility, but someone found out that they had an indoor baptismal pool, and they agreed to let us use it. So thus I was baptized in an African-American church on the questionable side of town.
I seriously don't remember how many other people were baptized the same evening, or even a great deal about it. This was even farther back in the mists of time than the Spudwoman sweatshirt, so things are a little hazy. But two things I remember very clearly.
The first thing is--it was cold. Not just cold, but C-O-L-D COLD. It was January, and I was in a bathing suit, going into water in an ostensibly-but-not-very heated church. You never saw anybody come up out of the water as fast as I did. Hint: If you have any choice in the matter, do not voluntarily get baptized by immersion in January. It's cold. Trust me.
The other thing is--what happened immediately afterwards. You see, I expected that I would be allowed to go get dressed and get warmed up, but that didn't occur right away. The others gathered around and laid their hands on me and prayed over me. Well, that was kind of pleasant, and nice of them, and generally I wouldn't have had a problem with it, but I was COLD! I wanted nothing in the world so much as to get warmer. But one must be polite, so I stayed there while they prayed. And prayed. And prayed. And prayed some more. And gradually, and to my horror, it dawned on me that they were waiting for something. They were waiting for me to speak in tongues, to prove that the baptism "took" and I was indeed a child of God. This I had not anticipated.
So after a suitable period of waiting, and with the realization that no strange languages were coming to the surface, nor were they going to, I did a dreadful thing. I faked it. And they all cheered, and let me go.
I can't even express what this experience did to me spiritually. For months I was sure that I was utterly under condemnation, and that God was disgusted with me. Surely that was the equivalent of blaspheming against the Holy Spirit, and there was no hope of heaven in my future. This faded after a while, as no lightening bolts came down to claim me and God did not seem to have rejected me the way I felt I deserved. What should have been a joyous occasion in my life turned into emotional disaster.
In the years since, I have discovered that I'm not the only one to have done this. A friend (and my dentist!) who went to a Christian college did the exact same thing, and for similar reasons, and there have been others. And this brings me to my point--the dangers of sloppy theology. Make sure you're looking at the whole of the Bible, not just isolated verses. When Paul says "All do not speak in tongues, do they?", he means it! The obvious answer is "no"! God does indeed dispense spiritual gifts to all Christians, but as He sees fit, not as *we* have decided He should, and not everyone gets the same ones. This is fairly plain from scripture, but only if you read the whole thing. Every verse must be studied in its context. No exceptions.
I'm still glad that I underwent baptism as an adult, and I joyously participate in the baptisms of others. I yearn for the day that my own daughter undergoes this wonderful ritual, and I'll be there, God willing. Wild horses could not keep me away. But there won't be anybody there insisting that she perform by exercising a gift that God has not given her--I'll make sure of that. What else are mothers for?
Love, Spud.
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