Submit and Obey.

Some weeks ago, someone asked me to consider writing on the Ten Commandments. She noted that of the ten, several had commentaries or lengthy explanations with few exceptions (adultery, murder, and bearing false witness.) I loved the invitation to wrestle with my own thoughts on this subject. And being that I am one to wrestle, chew, and then wrestle some more on specific thoughts, I am finally ready to respond to the request.


The idea of following commandments strikes two struggles for me – obedience and authority. I do not think I am alone in my resistance towards surrendering my will towards another authority. Like many, I often would prefer to be my own god – be my own measure of what is right and wrong and choose my own path in life. After all, I am an intelligent, competent, strong woman who has a high moral ethic by which I follow. Surely the combination of these characteristics makes me quite suitable to be my own guide. And then again, perhaps not.

The life I would direct for myself is a good path. I believe in being a loving mother toward my children, a faithful and devoted wife to my husband, being compassionate towards those experiencing physical and emotional poverty. I have a strong work ethic that directs me to always doing my best and strives to avoid laziness. If I chose to be my own god, I am fairly confident that I would lead a worthwhile life and I would be known for a being a good person. But, I believe we are called to something more than a good life. I believe we are called to belong and be connected to something bigger than ourselves. Here is where obedience and Authority come in to play.

Obedience and submission to an Authority recognizes that there is a Way beyond what I can see and know. Following that Way, despite not fully understanding requires trust. I must recognize that my vision for my life and my understanding is limited. I must trust that what I cannot see is True.

Submission to an authority is counter toward my natural human instinct to keep my shame in hiding. From the time of Adam and Eve, humanity has worked hard to cover up our faults and shortcomings. We are natural deceivers, even to ourselves. It does not come natural for me to enjoy dwelling on all the ways my thoughts and actions have harmed other people (though I am fairly critical of myself when I do make a mistake). I much prefer to ignore my faults and focus on how awesome and great I am. It is easy to become proud and self-serving. As my own god, I do not have to address my ugliness. But in submitting to an Authority I must allow my dirty little secrets to be brought into the light.

Not long ago, I went to Confession to address my envy and pride. Confession is submitting to an authority. It is an act of letting another see the dark corners of my soul, and then submitting myself to their direction for reconciliation. From my vantage points, I saw my pride and envy as keeping me depressed and angry. Ironic that even my attempts at removing this sin from my life was still focused on me. Submitting to the authority and guidance of a priest serving as the Authority’s representative, I soon saw that my envy and pride kept me from being able to love. There is no room for love where envy and pride are present. My sin was not only hurting me, but what I failed to see was how my envious and proud thoughts were harming those around me. They were robbed of being loved – robbed of being treated with dignity and respect because I hated them for having such great things in their lives.

My envy led to a self-indulgent pity party. I focused on what I did not have; focused on the financial stress I experienced. I closed my eyes to the wealth and abundance I do have – a warm house, transportation, jobs, healthy children, the ability to afford health care, a loving spouse . . .. In my self-indulgence, I failed to see the poverty of those around me – to see the AIDS orphan, the hungry, the dying, the lonely, the cold . . .. The more energy I pour into dwelling on myself and/or covering up my ugliness, the less energy I have to pour into others. The world is robbed of compassion and love when I am my own god, my own measure of goodness, and my own director of my soul.

I believe that Christ called us to the Way, the Truth, and the Life. That if we submitted to his commands to love God with all of our being – soul, mind, and body, and if we truly loved our neighbor with a pure heart free of selfish motives to use or manipulate one another, then the Kingdom of heaven would be more visible here on earth. I believe there would be respect for personhood – that all people would matter and have dignity. If we can stop being our own gods and submit to a higher way, I believe poverty would be eradicated. Child abuse, murder, theft, rape . . . this would all go by the wayside. If only . . .. I believe this is the vision of Christ and His Kingdom.

May I follow completely; submit to the Authority over me, and obey the commands laid out for me.

Waiting in Line.

When I was in grad school studying to be a therapist, we had a saying that the answer to any Marriage and Family question was “both/and.” Unsure of the answer to an exam question? Fall to the back-up, answer “both/and” and you were guaranteed to pass. While there was jest among us, we were also wrestling with a complex truth. In the world of therapy, there is a little room for black and white thinking. People are not so clearly defined. There are not simple solutions to life’s problems. After all, if there was such a quick fix or simple solution then there would be no need for therapists. Instead, there is a myriad of resistances, narratives, and personal histories that keep us in the place of doing what we do not want to do and not doing what we desire to do. We enter into counsel (whether that is formal therapy or coffee with a trusted friend) to help uncover our blind spots; to know more about the roadblocks that stand in the way of our hopes, dreams, and true desires. We enter into the world of complexity where simple advice, while good and true, is not quite enough to free us from our chains and propel us to perfection.

This past week, I have been picturing myself waiting in line – a fun line, like the winding path leading up to “The Beast” at King’s Island. For those unfamiliar with “The Beast”, it is an amazing wooden roller-coaster (and my personal favorite ride.) On a side note, the first time I rode “The Beast” was with my late grandmother – I was twelve, she was seventy. It was her first roller coaster ride, and a memory that will forever be etched into my mind as simply wonderful. Now back to the point.

Waiting in line is an uncomfortable place to be, at least for me. I grow anxious in the anticipation. Fearful of what lies ahead of me. Impatient at the slow pace, inching my way forward tiny little baby steps at a time. There are moments of standing still and wondering if something is wrong, if the ride is broken, or if I will ever get my turn. And then that rush of excitement when the line suddenly moves forward several hundred feet. And of course that last wave of nausea when I am next in line. The space within the line is complex. My emotions roller coaster as much, if not more than, the ride itself.

And I start to think, the line is that “both/and” space of the spiritual journey. I have arrived, but I am still journeying toward. I believe, but Lord, help my unbelief. I Know with a capital “K”, but I do not know. I wonder if this waiting is worth it; or worse, in the moments when the pace has seemingly stopped, I worry if I am even in the right line. My anxiety suddenly clouds my ability to trust.

At times when I voice this to others I become even more frustrated with the quick answers and advice that come my way. Frustrated may be an understatement.  Outraged is probably more accurate.  My honesty seems to be met with harsh judgment.  But, faith is both simple and complex. It is my experience that belief and doubt coexist – that neither can be ignored. Doubt becomes the struggle which strengthens the faith. Faith becomes the hound dog that never stops hunting the doubter. Its dance is full of complexities.

This leads to the question, do we have room for the both/and of our faith life? Do we allow space to struggle and wrestle with the complexities in our own lives or that in our neighbor? Can we tolerate and welcome the myriad of emotions that come with waiting in the long line of earthly life?

It seems easier to resort to black and white thinking. Too easy to enter into a state of self-righteousness and separate the sheep from the goats prematurely. Too easy label those who are saved and those who are damned. Too easy to see ourselves at the finish rather than still in the line.

Touch.

I read a quote this morning by the ancient scholar, Jerome (342-420). “The kingdom of God is in your midst. Faith beholds Jesus among us. If we are unable to seize his hand, let us prostrate ourselves at his feet. If we are unable to reach his head, let us wash his feet with our tears. Our repentance is the perfume of the Savior.” Two Gospel stories come to my mind – the woman who reached out and touched the tassel of Christ’s garment seeking healing, and the woman who poured out the alabaster jar and washed Jesus’ feet with not only the precious oil, but her tears and hair as well.  I was drawn into this quote with the concept of touch.

My mind has been meditating on the idea of touch for a few weeks. To be more specific, I have been chewing on the idea of tangible experiences with God, my family, and the Community that surrounds me. Or even more specific, I am confronting my reluctance to place myself in a position of being able to be touched by God and others and my stubbornness that refuses to prostrate myself and thus make myself available to receive such abundant grace. Let me unpack this a bit.

At birth, I was identified as the baby that “did not want to be held.” There are reasonable explanations as to why I did not want to be held. My birth was complicated by the fact that I spent two days stuck in the birth canal before I was finally rescued by Cesarean section. I spent twenty hours in the NICU – twenty hours before I came into physical contact with either of my parents. Thirty-four years ago, this was common practice. Now we know that those are critical hours for forming a bond. Regardless of the circumstances, the legacy followed me. I came to believe the words, “I did not want to be held.”

At the age of five, I stumbled into toxic touch, and discovered despite its dangers, I did indeed long to be held. I wanted it. It felt good; at times it felt wonderful. But it was toxic. The pleasure was tainted with shame and at times pain. In kindergarten, I discovered a really big word . . . ambivalence. I loved to be held and I hated that I wanted it. I was being pulled into two different directions. The tension was torture – I pictured myself on the medieval rack. I was stuck in the middle of two opposing forces.  I was paralyzed.

As I aged into the great maturity of adolescence, my belief system shifted from “I did not want to be held” into “I do not need to be held.” And such birthed a new era of fierce independence. I engaged the world, and God armed with a sword of sarcasm and hiding behind a steel wall of self-protection.

In sixth grade, I had a Sunday school teacher who concluded class with “holy hugs.” It was an all-girl class, and at the end we were to join together for a large group hug. I maintained the facade of hating these hugs. I resisted; often standing with my arms crossed and a scowl upon my face. A few were brave enough to step into my fortress of solitude and give a one-way hug. While I never hugged them back, I was secretly grateful they were brave enough to find me.

The truth is I did want to be held. I did want to be touched. I did not want to admit it. Honestly, this is much to do with shame. Shame that I found pleasure in the throes of toxic touch. Shame that a part of me sought it out because drinking poison was better than dying of thirst. And then there is this little voice inside of me that whispers, “You do not deserve to ask for pure touch.” And another voice that whispers a little louder, “Don’t ask for it; you will only be disappointed.” And disappointment on this level is devastating.

I can put my therapist hat on and see right through the lies I have come to believe. And I know they are lies. What I cannot seem to do is get myself untangled from the sticky web they have strung around me.

And this is precisely the truth I need to hear. I cannot get myself untangled. My own hands are tied. My feet are tied. I need help to break free. I cannot do it alone, and I have exhausted myself trying.

As a therapist, I share with clients the importance of having enough positive experiences to counterbalance the negative. But, I stress this takes risk. This means putting ourselves out there in order to be available to receive such experiences. It is risking that sometimes we may judge a person wrong and be reinjured or further disappointed. But regardless, we must take the risk in order to get on the path of healing. I found this to be true in my own path of discovering love, intimacy, and empathic connection with others.

I find this to be true again as I wrestle with touch. I risked asking for a hug from a friend in a time of need and I got it. And it felt safe, comforting, and wonderful. I risked asking another friend to carry an emotional burden with me, and though we were 600 miles apart, I felt her holding me ever so tenderly. And so I say to myself, if this is what comes from friends – from the imperfect Community of humanity, how much more must there be from Christ himself?

Believing that a God I cannot see is eager to embrace me, all of me, including the yucky parts is difficult.  It is especially difficult to believe I will have a real and tangible experience.  Blind faith is a risk-taking adventure.

Today, I am grateful for the physical Community around me here on earth offering the gift of positive experiences. I am indebted to those who are truly being the Body of Christ – the incarnational presence of love, tenderness, and mercy. Their hospitality is indeed healing. They are counterbalancing the negative. And because of them, my faith is slowly, but surely becoming a little more tangible.

Serious Laughter.

I am a serious woman. I take my work seriously, my life seriously, and my religion seriously. Another way to look at it, I do not laugh nearly enough.

I have moments of impish desire. I work with a math teacher, and for some reason I cannot walk past her classroom without shooting her a silly face. There are a few other playful souls that have the ability to pull out my silliness, but unfortunately these moments seem few and far between. I thought a good New Year’s resolution would be to laugh more each day. I did not make this “official”, but wouldn’t you know it is creeping its way into my life despite having a formal invitation.

Let me take you back to Wednesday night. I am tucking my three preschoolers into bed. We have a routine. I go to each individual bed and sing two lullabies, say a series of “I am thankful for . . . “, and conclude with praying the “Our Father.” It is a sacred time of ritual and routine, of deep felt affection and connection as mother-child and also with God. It is a serious time.

I failed to remember preschoolers are not always serious. Instead of praying, “Our Father, who art in heaven . . .,” prayers went more like, “Our Father, who are in Pinkie . . .,” followed by an eruption of laughter (Pinkie is my oldest’s stuffed pig). Our children all sleep in the same room, so not only was the laughter contagious, but so was the improvisation. Before I left the room, Pinkie was well blessed by three small mouths and my children continued laughing from their toes for another forty-five minutes. Even I left the room unable to hold back a quiet giggle and a beaming smile as I shook my head.

Laughter eventually won me over, but not without a struggle. Prayers are to be reverent, devout, and serious. I kept thinking this is the prayer that Christ himself taught us to pray and my children are making a mockery of it. I tried to say, “No, we say the words we are supposed to say because we love and honor God.” But I too caught the case of the giggles and was unable to complete a sentence with sincerity and parental authority. I left their room in tension – I was smiling and I was struggling.

What my children offered up that night was pure joy. It was innocent laughter. I began to wonder what the more “perfect” prayer is. Is it the right words or the spirit behind it? I am fairly certain that Wednesday night, I was the student and my kids were my teacher. Their message: don’t hold back. Give it your all. Bring it from your toes and let it out – whatever the “it” happens to be.

There is a time to get the words right; to be serious in my devotion. God does deserve our devotion, our awe, and our reverence. And this is serious business. I am picturing what would happen if the same “Our Father, who art in Pinkie . . .,” erupted in church. The person in me who cares what others think of me, who fears being judged as a “bad mom”, and who is anxious about getting things absolutely perfect is freaking out by that mental image. And as I confess what is behind my desire to get it right, I realize just how much I am missing. I become aware that my motives for reverence are as much about appeasing my anxieties as it is to honor God.

Christ said, “Let the little children come unto me.” And being a mom of little children, that would include laughter, temper tantrums, and blueberry stained fingers. And he said again, “You must become like one of these.”

Confessions of a Reluctant Observer.

I started re-reading one of my favorite books today, Return of the Prodigal Son, by Henri Nouwen. For those unfamiliar with the book, it was largely inspired by Rembrandt’s painting by the same title. I find the painting, Nouwen, and the Gospel parable all to be incredibly inspiring and relevant to where I am today. In the book, Nouwen depicts his own spiritual journey as seeing himself as the three main characters of the painting, the lost but returning son, the jealous and faithful son, and the embracing father. But Nouwen begins his introduction by noticing the four observers in the background and shares his temptation to remain an observer of the father’s welcoming embrace rather than allowing himself to be held and comforted.

This is where I found myself this morning. Standing in the backdrop. I watch others find comfort in the surrender of the Father’s embrace. All the while I am burning with jealousy at the gift they are receiving, but finding difficulty in allowing myself to be a recipient of such gracious comfort.

It is safe to be an observer. I can see it. I can smell it. I can experience it vicariously. It looks absolutely amazing. I know that is in the midst of the action where I long to be; where I need to be. To have my spirit, my needs, my sorrow, my hope, and my joy held in the arms of a loving Father is my deepest desire. But to actually go there myself . . . that scares the pants off of me. It is easy to write about it. It is quite another to do it.

I see my prodigal ways, at times with a harsh, critical eye. I am neither proud nor ashamed of them. They are what they are. I cannot undo my choices or any subsequent damage afflicted. I can seek forgiveness. I can work towards reconciliation and healing. But I fear I too often keep this process cerebral. “Yes, God, I seek your forgiveness.” “Yes, neighbor whom I harmed, I humbly admit I wronged you.” I remain on the outskirts nodding my head in agreement with the son’s whole-self approach towards the father, but rarely do I seek the close proximity of the actual embrace. Rarely do I throw my emotions, my soul, and my whole being at the feet of a merciful God. God gets my thoughts and my writing, but I hold back my relentless expression. I seem to believe that such an embrace is not for me.

I suspect much of this is a pride issue. Part a reverse pride that I am the exceptional one not worthy of such an embrace. And part an egotistic pride -- I am often too proud to admit that sometimes I just need to be held in the midst of my sorrow, my confusion, and my fear.

I suspect another part of me is still struggling to realize that this embrace is really for me. Struggling to trust that as I lay myself bare, open, and vulnerable I truly will be welcomed. That I do not have to earn it or even deserve it, but it is truly mine simply to have because I am who I am, a beloved daughter.

And this is where I begin 2012. My prayer has been to grow deeper in my understanding of grace and mercy. I am shifting that prayer. It is now to grow deeper in my experience of grace and mercy.