Well... crap...

Evangelical Christians talk a lot about being "convicted" of their sin. It always sounds like this neat, orderly process - the Holy Spirit convicts them, they feel deep remorse for their wrong-doing, and they set about changing the sin in their life.

What I wonder, is does anyone else ever think, "well... crap..." when they feel convicted of their sin? 'Cause I do.

Let's face it - sin can be really fun. Recently I came to the realization of my sinful treatment of a person in my life. This person irritates me. Deeply. So, behind their back, I mock them, being bitchy and snarky in my commentary on my dealings with this person. I almost always get a lot of laughs, and I feel vindicated in my feelings about this person - after all, how can I be expected to be gracious and merciful with someone so irrational?

So when I came face to face with the sinfulness of my treatment of this person, my reaction was not to thank God for the work of the Holy Spirit in my life and gladly begin changing my attitude.

My reaction was to think, "Well... crap..."

Why was I reluctant to change my attitude? Because I want to be the hero of my own story, which means that everyone who comes against me to complicate my plans, is a villain.

Frederica Matthewes-Green talks about this attitude in her great little book, The Illumined Heart: Capture the Vibrant Faith of Ancient Christians. She points out the great flaw in our thinking of ourselves as heroes is that, "the person whom we're practicing heroics on is unlikely to recognize that he's the bad guy." In fact, "the plotline in his mental movie is different than ours," meaning that I might very well be the villain in their story.
No one blames the hero for not caring for the villain. And when I stop being bitchy and snarky and begin to see this person as an independent being whom I must respect and love and encourage in their walk with Christ... well, that costs me something.

According to Matthewes-Green, I and this person in my life are not enemies, facing each other with swords and weapons, but fellow travelers, bound together in a three-legged race of sorts. We make our way toward the finish line of transformation together, lurching and stumbling the whole way.

I want to ignore this. I want to run my race on my own, free from the cumbersome weight of another person's sin and issues, discipleship and transformation.

But I can't. Because Jesus says to love my neighbor as I love myself, and the light has nothing to do with the darkness, I must every day put my irritation aside and choose love instead of comfort, and even humor.

Am I the only one who feels this way? Am I the only one who looks at Jesus, sees how their behavior should be, and says, "Well... crap..."?

Death and the Resurrection

My paternal grandmother passed away this past Thursday. I was named after her, but I have never been very close to any of my grandparents for a variety of reasons. These reasons don't matter anymore, but our relationship can best be described by the fact that we simply have never understood each other. The years that separate us are significant years - wars, women's lib, a sexual revolution, the internet - major cultural changes have occurred, giving me opportunities and choices that my grandmothers never imagined. So at an age when they were getting married and starting their families, I was moving hundreds of miles away from my family to get an education.
In light of the divides between us, I've come to look at the resurrection and the world to come in a new way.
Often when we as Christians lose our loved ones, we comfort ourselves with the thought of being reunited with our loved ones, telling ourselves that they are not really gone, just temporarily separated from us. We rightly look forward to the day when we are together again.
But the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come promises us much more than simply a resumption of our current relationships.
When the Kingdom of God has fully come, when we live in the new heaven and the new earth and we are reunited with those we've loved and lost, we will not simply be the same frail and fallen people we are now.
In that day, we will be complete in our sanctification, we will be the people that God intended us to be all along. We will stop speaking past each other, and begin to truly understand the other. We will cease our impatience with each other and know what it is like to love and be loved in the light of Christ.
I look forward to that day, because I look forward to the day when my grandmothers and I can see each other, not across the distance of generations and decades, not from two different worlds, but within the Light of Christ in a world with no need of a sun.
That's what we have as Christians - not merely the promise of a relationship renewed, but of a relationship restored and redeemed. We look forward to the day when we are no longer separated by our differences, but united in our worship.

Icons and Saints

I was listening to a podcast of Frederica Matthewes-Green contemplating the Dormition (the death of Mary) as she cared for her own aging mother.
Until now, I did not know that there was an icon depicting the death of the Theotokos (God-bearer) and I think that is sad. I think I am a better person, and a better Christian, for being made aware of the tradition of John caring for Mary until her death, and for seeing it depicted in an icon.
I am sad for all that we as Protestants have lost in casting aside icons and saints. With the tradition of patron saints comes a knowledge that all of life can be brought into service of God. Patrick’s experiences as a slave are redeemed when he brings the gospel to Ireland, the land that had held him captive. St. Martin of Tours, the patron saint of beggars and soldiers, was approached by a beggar, and having nothing to give but the clothes on his back, he cut his own cloak in half and gave it to the beggar.
Women, neglected and abused in countless religions, both ancient and modern, find a place in the Christian tradition equal to that of men. They stand as saints beside their brothers in Christ, and so St. Brigid is respected as a patron saint of Ireland beside St. Patrick. St. Nina took the gospel to Georgia (the country, not the state) and St. Clare ministered alongside St. Francis.
Mothers, fathers, doctors, carpenters, teachers – they all find a kindred spirit in the lives of the saints. They are told, “What you do has worth” when they see icons of their patron saints. We are reminded that the saints of God are ordinary people, like us, and at the same time, role models, living the lives that we want to live, examples of the transformative power of the Holy Spirit.
I am sorry that we as Protestants have lost, in losing icons, depictions of the people who have gone before us, and the scenes, both dramatic and humble, that made their lives so captivating. How much easier to teach a congregation of the importance of caring for their elderly parents, to believe even the pain in our lives is touched with divine grace and meaning, when you can point to the image of Mary in her bed, surrounded by the disciples and say, “See? Even the very Mother of God grew old and needed care. Even the great Apostle John knew the bittersweet pain of caring for an elderly parent. And even the Apostles gathered around her and mourned her death.”

225

I have a friend who works in the public school system in our county, and this week, he had a conversation with a social worker and learned that there are 225 homeless children registered in the school system of our small, rural county. 225 children. And that's just the children who are registered in school. That doesn't count the children who aren't even registered in school (and thus getting at least 2 meals a day and a few hours out of the cold).

A cold spell is sweeping much of the country right now. When I was driving home tonight, the temperature on my car was 15 degrees. Many of the homeless shelters in the area are asking for extra blankets because of the cold. I can't imagine not having a home, even in the best of times, but in this bitter cold and snow, it's painful to think about.

Granted, this doesn't mean that 225 of these children are sleeping in the cold tonight. But it does mean that these 225 children aren't tracking snow through their own front door. They aren't cuddling with their mom and dad in their own bed, in their own room, reading a bedtime story.

Life's hard, but one think that I think of on a hard day, on a cold day, when my feet are wet and my ears are cold and my lips are chapped, is going home. I look forward to walking in my door, being greeted by the cat and swapping my wet shoes for my favorite fuzzy socks. I can't imagine not thinking of that. Wherever else you may go, whatever else you may do, it won't be home.

I can't imagine not being able to provide that for my child. Sleeping in a shelter, staying at a friend's house, crashing with family - it's not your home. It's not your child's bed. Maybe you've been able to hang on to a beloved stuffed animal, but fuzzy socks?

I don't know what to do about 225 children without homes. But I'm desperately concerned that we as a church, as the body of Christ, be aware of this and other problems and be prayerfully considering what we can do.

I'm slowly warming up in my warm apartment, with my fuzzy socks and my cat. But I can't stop thinking about 225 children who went through their day today without the thought of their own home to return to at the end of the day.

All We Need is Love

My paternal grandfather is not in very good shape here at the beginning of 2010. He's old, and well.... well anyway, I got to thinking today about my other grandparents, my maternal grandparents, who have both passed on now.

I was never very close to any of my grandparents. Why isn't really important, just th at we weren't really close. My maternal grandmother passed away a few years ago, and I went home to Georgia for the funeral. I remember distinctly walking into the living room of her house, and seeing my grandfather sitting in his chair, shoes in one hand, socks in the other, staring at them.

"Hi Pop," I said softly. "Can I help you with something?"

"I can't see to put my shoes on," he said sadly. Pop had macular degeneration and was nearly blind by this point. "Marie used to help me with these things."

Pop had these long, skinny pale feet that completely freaked me out through most of my childhood. He had thick, twisted yellow toenails and I avoided even looking at his bare feet.

Before this day, I would have told you that I loved my grandfather. I would have told you that we weren't close, and it bugged me that he told jokes about me weight or my hair, but I would have said that I loved him, because, well, because he was my grandfather.

I sat on the floor and put Pop's feet in my lap. I slowly worked the dress socks over his mangled toes and his long feet. I rubbed my warm hands over his cold, aching diabetic feet and gently put his shoes on.

And I loved him.

In that act, I learned more about love than at any other time in the years before of since. In that moment, I felt that I new what love was. That moment changed the way I saw my grandfather, even when he grew confused and difficult. I always saw us together in the living room, me working the socks over those toenails that so disgusted me, him missing the woman who had helped him put his shoes on, probably without him ever asking.

When Jesus washed the feet of his disciples, he loved them. He didn't just demonstrate service or give an example - he loved - action verb - by washing their feet.

I'm certainly not Jesus. But I see the value in that menial action - the action is, in itself, love. Not just an act of love, but love itself.

Boys and Their Toys

http://www.firstthings.com/article/2009/12/the-killer-instinct

This is an article that I recommend to any parent, any adult who volunteers with children in their church, anyone who cares how we raise our children.

The author, Sally Thomas, explores current trends that have emerged in the last 30 years or so in keeping violent toys away from young boys out of fear that they will learn violence. What the parent (or babysitter, relative, or friend) of any young boy can tell you, however, is that anything can become a weapon in the hands of a boy. "Give a girl a rock," she says, "and she will make it a pet. Give a boy a doll, and he will point it at your head and say, 'Bang'."

But we do live in an increasingly violent world. School violence, extreme bullying, frighteningly violent video games abound. The solution, according to the author, is not to withhold the sword, but to teach what the sword is for.

Thomas recounts a moving story about a boys club in her own parish. Pre-teen and teen boys who have formed a Eucharistic adoration society called the "Holy Crusaders". They offer hours of adoration and prayer. The club has grown from 2 boys to 20. The secret?

Knighthood. Each boy is initiated into the club with a stout whack of a real sword by the priest, in the manner of medieval knights. They pledge to be "men of prayer", "men of the church". They have rough robes, manly black and red knot rosaries, and their own store of stories to tell young initiates.

What an amazing idea! By allowing these boys to be boys in their worship, this priest has allowed the boys to make the church their own. It is no longer just their parents' church or their sisters' church - it is their church, and they are charged to protect it with the mighty weapon of prayer.

Women outnumber men by a 60/40 majority in most mainline churches. Men a disappearing from church leadership in mainstream evangelical Christianity. Catholic and Eastern Orthodox churches are faring some better. Fundamentalist churches are not short of men. But the mainstream church is becoming a largely feminine endeavor.

We could debate the theologies and liturgies involved. As an Anglican, I often find myself caught between evangelicalism and Catholicism. We could debate the mindset of contemporary spirituality that makes it more appealing to women, but it is a mindset that alienates many women as well. We could debate pop psychology and conventional wisdom. We could, and maybe we will (I certainly have my opinions) but for now, let's follow the example of these boys and see what we can learn.

God made boys. He made them rough and tumble, careless and idealistic. It should not surprise us that in being allowed to be rough and boyish, in being called to higher ideals and told that they can serve God as boys, they would find themselves at home in church. In being given a church to protect and defend, they are taught that God made them for a purpose, and it is a purpose that feels good to these boys. They learn to be men, to be defenders of the faith and the church, men that they already admire and wish to emulate.

I encourage anyone who cares about boys to read this article and consider how you can encourage the boys in your life to be truly counter-cultural by choosing to protect and defend, rather than destroy and abandon.

It's Time to Start Being...

I've wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember. I started my first "book" when I was seven. In class, when I was bored, I didn't draw or pass notes - I wrote stories. Bits of stories, openings, conclusions. Sometimes I would write my own version of books and stories I'd read, add in my own characters, re-write unsatisfying stories that I had read or seen on TV or in a movie. Now there's fanfiction sites, then it was just me doing what I absolutely had to - writing.

I'm 25. I'm working on my second master's degree. I figure maybe it's time I stopped wanting to be a writer, planning to be a writer, and start being a writer.

What do I want to write about? I guess we'll see. Books, movies. Faith, theology, and a Christian's view of the world. Not "the" Christian view of the world - just this one. My favorite novelist, Leif Enger, talks about people who have encountered God, how they "walk with a limp". I guess I think "with a limp" - all Christians do. You can't encounter the living God and not have it impact the way you view life and the world around you.

I almost titled this blog "Thinking with a Limp" but that sounded kinda... feeble-minded, almost. So we'll stick with this.

Stick around. Tell me what you think. Help me be a writer.