So I Changed the Look.

Of my blog, that is.  Feel free to tell me what you think.  Whoever you are.

I’m not sure, myself.  Part of me was tired of things looking exactly the same around here.  After all, it has been a whole year.  Another part of me misses the stacks of old books that I can actually feel and smell when I look at the picture.  But I thought it was feeling a little flat lately, so I looked at some other options.  I went with this one because I think–I think–it makes my giant ramblings look shorter and less intimidating.  I think.  I also went with it because there’s a pen at the top of the page and I’m trying to remind myself that I used to write.  A lot.  Writing used to be . . . well . . . everything to me.  It was what I thought I’d do with the rest of my life, it’s what kept me alive–no hyperbole there–it was like breathing.  Anyway, the pen reminds me that writing was once a big part of me and it’s a skill I’d like to recover, to hone and develop.  It also reminds me that back in the olden days when I was doing all that writing, people actually did use pens.  It’s what we used to design the first wheel.

For the three-millionth time . . .

Theology matters.

The problem could lie with me, but I have encountered many people who are resistant to hear my going on and on teaching about theology. People-in-the-pews (though, in this case, they’re actually sitting around a table for a study) effectively saying (though much more politely and “churchly”) “Will ya shut up about Calvin already?!!” Or “I don’t want to hear the word Reformed ever again!” Or (and this one is closer to verbatim) “Why do we need all this theology talk anyway? Can’t we just read the Bible?”

I’ll be honest. Sometimes it hurts my feelings. I’m led to question my greatest intellectual passion and pretty much my whole perceived reason for being, not to mention everything I’ve done with my brain for the last 10 years and-then-some. Other times I don’t care. I might look at is as my hobby, my fun and games. Some people crochet, I theologize. At those moments, while I’m not really changing my ways, I am buying into the opinions of my naysayers, and discrediting the global value of my intellectual pursuits. Right or wrong. That’s what I’m doing.

So, I get in this place where I think there really is no value in what I’m doing/thinking/studying/ranting beyond my pure enjoyment and, occasionally, dragging someone else in on my intellectual gymnastics for a little fun. Just for kicks.

And then. And then I have an encounter with a person who has been seriously messed up by the theology they’ve been taught, the theology they’ve been steeped in, the theology that has shaped their walks. And then I have a stark reminder that theology does, indeed, matter. It matters very much.

The reality is that we can’t “just read the Bible.” We as human beings bring our own baggage and junk to the Bible, read into it and out of it things that are informed by our own experiences and biases. If it were indeed possible to “just read the Bible” or have simply “Bible-focused theology,” there wouldn’t be thirty-five million (give or take) denominations. Most everybody thinks they’re being faithful to the Bible, nobody’s throwing the thing out. I think groups are better or worse at recognizing their own cultural biases and personal lenses through which they read Scripture, but at the end of the day, everyone’s got them.

So, my point in all that rambling is that everybody has a theology, everybody has some sort of driving doctrine, even if they claim otherwise. And the shape and scope of that theology, each flavor, each doctrine, matters. Real people get real hurt by crappy theology.

There. I said crappy. Call the cops. I’m being judgmental. But crappy is as crappy hurts. I spent Sunday afternoon with a woman of immense faith. By that I mean she was raised in the church, switched denominations upon marrying, but continued to be a faithful member of a church. She has taken as completely unquestionable truth the identity of Jesus Christ as Lord. She believes and knows to her core that Jesus Christ is God incarnate, Lord of all; that he died on her behalf, taking with him her sins, defeating death to rise again, all to reconcile her to God. In other words, in the words of another tradition, she is saved. Period.

And she’s scared to death. Better said, she’s scared of death. And she’s scared of God. And she’s scared she could never possibly be good enough to get to heaven, that were Jesus to return right now, she’d be spending eternity burning in the fiery pit of hell. She spoke of hating when one of her pastors would speak of how wonderful Jesus’ return will be. She trembles at the thought. She has been convinced by the same people who convinced her of the truth of the gospel that her salvation is in her tenuous grip, that one wrong move and it’s all over. She fears the consequences of some life changes she’s made in the last several years that has led her to keep company with an Irish Catholic. She has now entered the fast and slippery track to hades as she has begun to drink an occasional glass of wine (*gasp*) and journey to gambling establishments a couple of times a year. I nearly worded that last sentence “She enjoys the occasional glass of wine and trip to casinos,” but I’m quite certain she doesn’t truly enjoy any of it, so convinced is she that they are contributing to her purchase of a one-way ticket to you-know-where. Instead she almost enjoys herself, while at the same time resigning herself to her fate of eternal damnation. Happy times, I tell ya.

I know I’m supposed to just appreciate the differences between denominations. I know I’m supposed to agree to disagree. And most of the time I do. I might joke to the contrary, but I really have an appreciation for how the personalities that go with each denomination and the emphases each brings to the table all work together to present a fuller picture of all we can understand about God this side of the Kingdom.

But sometimes . . . sometimes I’m confronted with the consequences of a theology other than my own and I think, No. Some ideas about God are just wrong. I’m not claiming that I’ve got it all together, I’m not. But when a teaching about God, one’s words about God, leave a person trembling in fear–leave a believer trembling in fear, something is terribly wrong.

When we read the epistles, we find joyful anticipation of Christ’s return. The epistles, even Revelation, are words of hope to a struggling community. How many of the first Christians would have signed on if doing so not only threatened their lives through persecution but also left them scared to death of . . . well . . . death. What’s the point?

“If we have hoped in Christ for this life only, we are of all men most to be pitied.” (1Cor 15:19)

To that I say, “You’re not kidding, Paul.”

I admit I haven’t researched this alternative theology extensively for my little ramblings here, but this much I know is true. The Gospel is, literally, Good News. That’s what the word means. It is good news. And good news don’t leave the believer fearful and crawling under the pews. It just don’t. Sure, preach your fire and brimstone if you want, if you truly believe it a good means of conversion (though the million ways I disagree with that would take at least another post.)
But when you’re preaching to the believers, to the people who have been convinced of the truth of the gospel, preach them some good news, will you? Preach them the kind of news that helps them sleep at night and get out of bed in the morning. Preach them the kind of good news they can cling to when they’re faced with major surgery and old age and, especially, major surgery in old age.

If the gospel taught and received leaves the recipient hopeless and filled with fear, or scrambling to keep up, to keep the law, to be good enough, this is no good news at all. I dare to say it is a different gospel, not that there is another gospel, from the gospel of Christ (Gal 1:6-9). For the gospel of Jesus Christ is a good news of hope and assurance, news of salvation.

Theology is just that: words about God. The words we speak about God, matter. And the words we speak, after we stop reading and lift our heads up from the Bible, are indeed theology. So, for the three-millionth time: theology matters. It is a matter of life and death: both how we live our life (in hope or dread?) and how we face our death (in hope or dread).

Coffee post time?

So I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been preaching more lately or what, but I don’t seem to be having the deep thoughts lately.  But I still want to write some bloggy stuff.  Sooo . . .

Haven’t had a coffee post in a while.  What the heck?  How’s about another?

So I think coffee is rotting a hole in my stomach.  Or totally demolishing that little muscle–whatever she may be–at the top of my stomach.  You know, the one that’s supposed to stay closed to keep the food and acid and general yuck down in my stomach where it belongs?  Something is going horribly awry with my stomach.  And I’m suddenly suspecting the coffee.

No one warned me.  My dear husband who encouraged me to drink coffee, strongly encouraged, cajoled, dare I say? pushed me to drink coffee over the course of 17 years never told me it would rot my stomach out.  Has it been his secret plot all along to get me to join him in his stomach woes?

To this point I’ve had stomach of steel.  I’m of good, fine Lithuanian stock.  Our stomachs can handle diets of nothing but potatoes, sour cream and bacon.  I can eat what I want, how I want, when I want with nary a second thought.  But now.  Suddenly. . . . yick.

I blame the coffee.

I share my fears, my woes, my pain, my concern with my dearly beloved.  And what does he say?  “You just have to push through this uncomfortable time, till those nerve endings in your lower esophagus become deadened by the acid and you no longer feel anything there and then once again you can eat and drink anything you want.”

OK then.  As long as the man’s got a system.  I’m going to have to think about this . . .

Funny kids say funny things . . .

I think it’s been a little while since I’ve had a funny kids post. And I’ve had little of significance to write about for the last several days, so I thought I’d write about significant little things. Which, you know, is pretty much the biggest story of my life these days: trying to savor all the little, teeny-tiny, mundane things beautiful life with beautiful little children brings in abundance. Knowing that this stage of life will be gone in a flash, I want to try to not get bogged down in the frustrating junk, the relentless cycle of dirty-clean-dirty-clean, wash-brush-dress-eat-play-eat-play-eat-undress-brush-wash, just-keep-swimming, that is the other big story of my life these days.

So. A moment to pause. And chuckle at my silly kids.

Heard in the kitchen last week: A fly was buzzing around the kitchen, in fact, there were lots of flies buzzing around last week, not sure why, but there we were in the kitchen with a buzzing fly. Hannah says, “Shoo, fly! Shoo!! Shoo!!! . . . I have a shoe!” (scurries over to her cubby and pulls out a bejeweled flip-flop, raises it in attack) “Shoe, fly!! Shoe!” I confess I did stop her from squashing the fly with her shoe on my counter. But I did it with a straight and understanding face.

Heard at the breakfast table this morning: Ruth was eating pancakes (pay-pates) with syrup (see-up).  “I put mine finger in mine nose!  I put mine finger in mine nose!”  (lighthearted response)”Oh, yucky, Ruth.  Don’t put your finger up your nose.  Yuck.”  . . . . minutes pass . . . . (very excited pronouncement) “I hat see-up in mine nose!”  “You have syrup in you nose?!”  ::sneeze:: “Yeeaah!”  ::sneeze::  ::giggle giggle::  Maybe it’s just because I’m her mom, but this one  cracked me up.

Big Enough God, And How!

So as briefly alluded to in my last desperate post, my husband was out of town this past week. He left around two on Sunday afternoon and returned at nine o’clock last night. The anticipation of this trip was part of what sent me off the deep end on Sunday. I am so not that mother.  You know, the one who does everything around the house, all the cooking, everything to take care of the kids, is the only one whose sleep is disturbed by children that go bump in the night.  I am so not that mother.

I am the mother whose husband picks up food from the grocery store on his way home from work, walks in the door and gets to cooking.  Except on the evenings I throw the children to him and take on the task of cooking the food before I cook the children.  And except for the evenings I throw the children and the dinner prep at him and hide away somewhere.  I’m that mother.

So, when the Daddy leaves town, things change around here.  The whole system changes.  And it scares me.

But you know what?  This week was amazing.  Starting with the eye-opening encounter with God on a beautiful country road on Sunday and continuing on through to Thursday:  miraculous intervention.  Miraculous patience, miraculous drive.  All week long I kept my eyes on the two feet right in front of me, paying no attention to the days-without-husband that stretched before me.  In fact, the hardest day was yesterday when I knew it was almost over and I kept looking past the task at hand and toward the top of the knoll.  It was then that I began tripping, losing momentum.

Until that point, I simply did what was right before me.  Change this diaper, not “Urgh, all these diapers!!!“  Toddler decides to awaken 3 1/2 hours before I go to sleep?  OK.  Get up and love on sleepless toddler.  Don’t think about how tired you’re going to feel all day long.

Maybe some of you are saying, “Well, of course!”  But this is not my way.  This is one of my biggest struggles, to get so lost in the scope of the entire task (whatever it is) that I’m left paralyzed and unable to take a single step toward accomplishing it.  Not so this week.  This week I took things one thing, one moment at a time.  I did set some longterm goals, however.  1.  My husband will come home to a house neater and cleaner than the one he left and 2.  I will get all of these clean clothes folded and put away.  And I surpassed these goals by a mile.  One pile of toys at a time.  One basket of clothes at a time.  When I looked in my room full of clean clothes yesterday (and I do mean full) I didn’t succumb to paralysis, I picked one pile and got to work.

I can’t count the number of times this week I raised words of gratitude to the One I know was responsible for this transformation.  I really had been in a dark spot these last few weeks, going through a cycle of questioning all of my faith.  The whole thing, the whole God story, seemed so distant, so unreal to me.  And then I yelled at God on Sunday.  I did.  I yelled and argued and essentially told him I wasn’t buying what he was selling.

And how did he respond?  With a swift smite?  No.  With grace.  With grace sufficient and abundant.  With more grace than I knew I needed or could imagine available.  Without a doubt I know that God met me this week.  Met me on the pretty road to nowhere, with windmills off in the distance and brown hay on either side.  Met me in each gross never-ending-this-kid-eats-entirely-too-much-fiber diaper.  In every solo bedtime with crazed toddler and tired olders.  In every minute of each and every day.  His grace was sufficient.

His grace is sufficient.  For yesterday, today, and tomorrow.  Praise be to God!