“Amazing grace that saved a wretch like me.” How many of us are willing to look at our own wretchedness? It is easy to point the finger at another’s obvious shortcomings rather than take a good, honest look at ourselves. Some of us are rather lucky – we can cover up our wretchedness and hide it from the scrutiny of society. Others are not so fortunate.
Over the last several months, I have had a few encounters that have left me pondering the idea of sin, judgment, and grace. A family friend became pregnant out of wedlock and a cloud of shame followed her. She lost her job because she could not hide her “mistake.” Her family thanked me for being so kind and understanding as if harsh criticism was the anticipated response. I had a second encounter with a woman who has struggled with obesity her entire life. She cannot hide her coping mechanisms – her body announces to the world that she finds comfort through food. Lately, I find myself thinking of these encounters and wondering how my life would be different if my own “mistakes” and shortcomings were open and obvious to the world around us.
There is a spiritual practice known as “the examination of conscious.” One obvious purpose of this practice is to identify areas in our own lives that need to be confessed, absolved, and forgiven. Recently, I have begun to understand another dimension to this practice, that being to increase our capacity for humility and grace towards others. When I take a look at my own ugliness I realize I am no different than anyone else, I can just hide it better than some.
Ever played the “what if” game? I do. I think about a friend of mine. We had similar obstacles to overcome and we both sought means to escape our difficulties. I chose the socially acceptable escape of church activities and she chose marijuana. We both got what we desired; an escape from reality and a high. My high came through singing and dancing, hers through chemicals. Our intent, motivation, and outcome were the same. We got a break from the world that annoyed us (my mom frequently thought I was using drugs at church because I came out of youth group so “altered.”) When it comes right down to it, I was avoiding pain, but because I chose church activities as my escape no one questioned my morality. Sure some of my motivation was a desire to know God, but if I am honest, this was only a small percentage. If my thoughts were exposed and obvious to those around me, I am certain I would have met the critics of society like my friend who chose marijuana.
Christ, in his Beatitudes talks about the “pure in heart.” The law was summed up as “Love the LORD your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength.” When I consider pureness of heart and the pursuit of God with the entirety of my being as the mark, well, I can say I have yet to attain it. My thoughts and motives always have some degree of selfish gain. If I am honest, I am a wretch in need of amazing grace. Who am I to cast the first stone at those with obvious blemishes?
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Why not suffering?
A few years ago, there was a tragic accident involving Taylor University students. Two girls, one who died and one who was severely injured were misidentified. For months, one family grieved the loss of their daughter while the other sat hopefully by the bedside awaiting healing and recovery. It was only after several months of mourning and waiting that the two families learned the identities were mistaken. In an instant, one family “got their daughter back from the dead” while the other sadly buried their daughter. In national interviews following the breaking news of the tragedy surrounding the mistaken identity, the mother of the child who died was asked “Did you ever ask God why he would allow this to happen to you?” Her response surprised me as she answered with great wisdom, “No. Why should I be exempt from tragedy.”
As a mother, I cannot imagine anything worse than losing a child. I do not know if I would have the same maturity to not give a regular shout out of “Why me!” While I can speak rationally now and know that I am not entitled to a life free of tragedy, I cannot say what I would honestly do in the throws of grief. But, bad things happen to people everyday. It is not only the evil or the deserving that face suffering. Likewise, it is not only the good and gracious that reap rewards and bounty. A six year old suffers abuse and neglect while a greedy middle-aged man cruises around the world in a multi-million dollar yacht. Life’s ledger simply does not balance.
There are those who believe that if one asks enough, or has enough faith then they will be spared suffering. In essence, this makes God into a “genie in a bottle.” I rub my lamp and God grants me my wishes. Believing this raises me to a “god status.” I know what I need and want and therefore I control and manipulate God to get what I want through my insistence and faith. I become entitled to blessing. Then, there is Abraham. God wanted to destroy Sodom in its entirety and Abraham convinced God through negotiations to spare a few people. It appears through Abraham’s pleas that God’s mind was changed. I cannot deny that God is not moved by our prayers and pleas. But, I am not entitled to get what I want (like that two-door soft-top Jeep Wrangler.)
Suffering takes us into some really dark places. Places we rightfully would prefer to avoid. I love hiking through the Appalachia Mountains. One of my favorite spots is along the bald ridges of Roan Mountain. It is a vast area of grass top hills, and no trees. To get to the top requires a long and winding hike through a dense valley of rhododendron, pine trees, and other wildlife. It is easy to lose one’s footing in the valley – tree roots are hidden under shallow piles of leaves, rocks are moss covered and slippery, and following the spring thaw and rains, the rivers and creeks can make parts of the trail nearly impassable. Little sunlight breaks through the thick cover of the forest. If it were not for the white hash marks marking the Appalachian Trail, it would be easy to lose one’s way.
On top of the bald ridges, the views are spectacular. One can see clearly for miles upon miles. I learned the hard way that mountain tops are no place to set up camp. With no trees to block the wind, tents are battered and fire does not light. With no creeks or streams, there is no place to refill empty water bottles. While it is a beautiful place to stand and bask in the sun and openness, one cannot stay there. One must enter in to the valley in order to find life. Suffering takes us through the valleys and it is there, in the midst of our desperation that we find life.
As a mother, I cannot imagine anything worse than losing a child. I do not know if I would have the same maturity to not give a regular shout out of “Why me!” While I can speak rationally now and know that I am not entitled to a life free of tragedy, I cannot say what I would honestly do in the throws of grief. But, bad things happen to people everyday. It is not only the evil or the deserving that face suffering. Likewise, it is not only the good and gracious that reap rewards and bounty. A six year old suffers abuse and neglect while a greedy middle-aged man cruises around the world in a multi-million dollar yacht. Life’s ledger simply does not balance.
There are those who believe that if one asks enough, or has enough faith then they will be spared suffering. In essence, this makes God into a “genie in a bottle.” I rub my lamp and God grants me my wishes. Believing this raises me to a “god status.” I know what I need and want and therefore I control and manipulate God to get what I want through my insistence and faith. I become entitled to blessing. Then, there is Abraham. God wanted to destroy Sodom in its entirety and Abraham convinced God through negotiations to spare a few people. It appears through Abraham’s pleas that God’s mind was changed. I cannot deny that God is not moved by our prayers and pleas. But, I am not entitled to get what I want (like that two-door soft-top Jeep Wrangler.)
Suffering takes us into some really dark places. Places we rightfully would prefer to avoid. I love hiking through the Appalachia Mountains. One of my favorite spots is along the bald ridges of Roan Mountain. It is a vast area of grass top hills, and no trees. To get to the top requires a long and winding hike through a dense valley of rhododendron, pine trees, and other wildlife. It is easy to lose one’s footing in the valley – tree roots are hidden under shallow piles of leaves, rocks are moss covered and slippery, and following the spring thaw and rains, the rivers and creeks can make parts of the trail nearly impassable. Little sunlight breaks through the thick cover of the forest. If it were not for the white hash marks marking the Appalachian Trail, it would be easy to lose one’s way.
On top of the bald ridges, the views are spectacular. One can see clearly for miles upon miles. I learned the hard way that mountain tops are no place to set up camp. With no trees to block the wind, tents are battered and fire does not light. With no creeks or streams, there is no place to refill empty water bottles. While it is a beautiful place to stand and bask in the sun and openness, one cannot stay there. One must enter in to the valley in order to find life. Suffering takes us through the valleys and it is there, in the midst of our desperation that we find life.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Confessions of an ex-feminist
For years I assumed that to value woman’s rights and equality meant that men and women should be treated equal. Equality meant that differences among the sexes were to be ignored. As a feminist, I fought for the right to be able to do all that a man can do, both in the workplace, the home, and within the religious realm. I fought hard battles . . . and mostly came out wounded and feeling misunderstood.
My first “real” job was as a youth minister in a large evangelical church. I had entered a boys club – from church leadership to fellow colleagues, I was surrounded by men with few exceptions. I believed that my role was to be just one of the guys. This was not too difficult for me as I played guitar, loved sports, and had a general disdain towards nail polish and dresses. By silencing the woman within me, I short-changed the ministry.
It was not until my late twenties that I began to respect my feminine side. It was not until I entered motherhood that I began to see it as a blessing and not “the curse of Eve.” In watching my husband interact with our children, it became apparent that I would never be a father. Likewise, my husband could never be a mother. Roles were quickly prescribed. I was the bearer of our children – I carried them in my womb and fed them in the middle of the night. These were two things only a mother could do (with exception to bottle feeding.) As the bearer of the miracle of life, I had the gift of holding something sacred in my womb. I was an intimate part of creation. My husband made it clear that he was not fond of the common cliché “we are pregnant” for clearly it was only me, the mother, who had the distinction of being pregnant and ultimately birthing our children. A part of me became sad for all men, and especially my husband for I had the rich blessing of knowing, holding, nurturing, and loving our children within my own body for nine precious months. I was the first to hold them and look intently into their eyes. Even now, it is mommy they ask for when they are scared or injured and I have the unique ability to make it all better with a simple rub on the back and a kiss on the boo boo. For I am woman, hear me love.
As a Catholic convert, the adoration of Mary, mother of God, became a difficult doctrine/religious practice to embrace. My feminist blood equally had difficulty with the concept that only men could become priests and ultimately the “head of the Church.” As I began to further settle into loving my own identity as mother, the idea of honoring THE God-bearing mother became natural. Even more, she became an example of how to nurture, love, and fulfill the roles in ways only a mother can. And the priest – well, watching my husband embrace his role as father and realizing I could never be father to my children convinced me to try and be “father” to the Church would only rob the Church of a much needed mother.
My first “real” job was as a youth minister in a large evangelical church. I had entered a boys club – from church leadership to fellow colleagues, I was surrounded by men with few exceptions. I believed that my role was to be just one of the guys. This was not too difficult for me as I played guitar, loved sports, and had a general disdain towards nail polish and dresses. By silencing the woman within me, I short-changed the ministry.
It was not until my late twenties that I began to respect my feminine side. It was not until I entered motherhood that I began to see it as a blessing and not “the curse of Eve.” In watching my husband interact with our children, it became apparent that I would never be a father. Likewise, my husband could never be a mother. Roles were quickly prescribed. I was the bearer of our children – I carried them in my womb and fed them in the middle of the night. These were two things only a mother could do (with exception to bottle feeding.) As the bearer of the miracle of life, I had the gift of holding something sacred in my womb. I was an intimate part of creation. My husband made it clear that he was not fond of the common cliché “we are pregnant” for clearly it was only me, the mother, who had the distinction of being pregnant and ultimately birthing our children. A part of me became sad for all men, and especially my husband for I had the rich blessing of knowing, holding, nurturing, and loving our children within my own body for nine precious months. I was the first to hold them and look intently into their eyes. Even now, it is mommy they ask for when they are scared or injured and I have the unique ability to make it all better with a simple rub on the back and a kiss on the boo boo. For I am woman, hear me love.
As a Catholic convert, the adoration of Mary, mother of God, became a difficult doctrine/religious practice to embrace. My feminist blood equally had difficulty with the concept that only men could become priests and ultimately the “head of the Church.” As I began to further settle into loving my own identity as mother, the idea of honoring THE God-bearing mother became natural. Even more, she became an example of how to nurture, love, and fulfill the roles in ways only a mother can. And the priest – well, watching my husband embrace his role as father and realizing I could never be father to my children convinced me to try and be “father” to the Church would only rob the Church of a much needed mother.
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