I see things I don't like in other people, and I build a case as to why I am justified in not liking them, why they are not the saints they pretend to be, and why I am, in fact, better than they. It is as though the two of us are standing before the judge, and I must prove my case against my sister, prove why I should be acquitted and she found guilty.
Oswald suggests that God allows us to see failings in other people -- actually reveals their faults to us -- so that we might intercede on their behalf. It's not that I am some sort of Hercule Poirot wannabe, ferreting out the weak spots in the pool of suspects around me. The pool of suspects surrounding me is the Body of Christ, and the weak spots are revealed to me by a loving Father so that I might pray. "He reveals things in order that we may take the burden of these souls before Him and form the mind of Christ about them . . ."
It is as though the two of us stand before a judge. The judge looks with loving compassion upon my sister. As I converse with him, he creates in me a like mind and, at the same time in some mysterious way, gives my sister life.
A bit of a stretch this analogy, but it means something to me: People frequently ask my husband the chef for recipes, and he gives them away freely. No trade secrets with this guy. Good food is a gift, and he's more than happy to share. Only, people don't usually follow the recipes. They think there's too much butter, so they cut it in half, or they substitute skim milk for cream, or the wild salmon was outrageously priced, so they buy farm-raised instead. And, then, no great surprise, their dish doesn't taste like Frank's; so they're either turned off the dish or certain Frank didn't give them the real recipe.
I think God wants more of me than I can give, so I make token efforts. They don't turn out well. I'm disappointed, and my heart hardens toward God. Oswald's first few sentences are so true of me that I am obliged to repeat them here: "The reason many of us leave off praying and become hard towards God is because we have only a sentimental interest in prayer. It sounds right to say that we pray; we read books on prayer which tell us that prayer is beneficial, that our minds are quieted and our souls uplifted when we pray; but Isaiah implies that God is amazed at such thoughts of prayer."
Oswald describes prayer as "a work that taxes every power," one in which we seek to attain the mind of Christ about the one for whom we pray. I want my mind to be quieted and my soul uplifted, but to tax my mind, my emotions, my strength? I groan inwardly at the thought. I came home today after a disappointing, frustrating day at work, and I wanted nothing more than to escape. I took a nap on the couch. I watched mindless television. A few arrow prayers were all I could manage, and I put off this blog until 10 p.m. My flesh is so terribly weak, and God calls me to so much more. Is there any hope?
I'm not sure I have ever read Isaiah 59 before. It is beautiful. Here is a little piece: "So justice is far from us, and righteousness does not reach us. We look for light, but all is darkness; for brightness, but we walk in deep shadows. Like the blind we grope along the wall, feeling our way like men without eyes. At midday we stumble as if it were twilight; among the strong, we are like the dead. We all growl like bears; we moan mournfully like doves. We look for justice, but find none; for deliverance, but it is far away."
And God's answer to this dilemma: "The Lord looked and was displeased that there was no justice. He saw that there was no one, he was appalled that there was no one to intervene; so his own arm worked salvation for him, and his own righteousness sustained him."
My family and I were at Pike's Place Market in Seattle today. We went into a store full of Mexican art -- colorful tiles, decorated skulls and crosses, bright toothpick demons -- an interesting mix of the religious, the mundane and the morbid. A table in the middle of the store featured milagros or "miracles" -- tiny arms, legs, fish, animals and kneeling figures coarsely shaped from metal. A sign explained that people in Latin American countries often pin these figures to wooden crosses or statues of the saints to petition the saints for help or protection -- a symbolic act representing a prayer or an internal posture of the heart.
I was thinking about Oswald's comparison between being religious and being spiritually real in light of those milagros. The tiny pieces of metal pinned to a cross in and of themselves mean nothing. They cannot heal or protect. They have no inherent power. That's easy enough to see, but do I see that the same is true of my religious acts -- going to church, caring for the poor, carrying my Bible, listening to Christian music, writing this blog -- if they are not powered by a love for Jesus Christ?
"If we are going to be ready for Jesus Christ, we have to stop being religious (that is, using religion as a higher kind of culture) and be spiritually real" -- Oswald.
I have generally thought of today's Scripture passage in reference to Christ's second coming, but I love Oswald's use of it in a more everyday sense -- expecting Christ at every turn.
I want to obey Jesus with "glad reckless joy" as Oswald suggests. "Reckless" implies some kind of adventure or new direction, abandoning the safe road, going out on a limb -- metaphors I would welcome at this point in my life. The problem is I haven't heard God calling me to go to Judea or Haiti or anywhere else. Oswald writes as though God has made his plan clear to each of us, and we are trailing behind, dragging our feet, evaluating whether it is safe to follow. I think it's more about distinguishing the call from my own selfish desires and dreams. Undeniably, part of his plan is staring me square in the face: I have a husband and four children; I am part of the Body of Christ; I work for a homeless shelter. How can I know that something new, something different, is really his calling? Occasionally, Frank and I get brilliant or not-so-brilliant ideas about how God might want to use us -- Frank dreams of starting a restaurant where he could hire men coming out of the Mission and train them, I dream of writing a book -- but what moves an idea from dream to calling? How does one decide to veer off the well-defined road of responsibilities and plunge into something new? I'm not sure the problem is so much fear of the plunge as conviction that the plunge is part of the plan.
I have been tempted of late to give up this blog. Partly, the temptation arises from the demands of life -- job, motherhood, Frank's job, sickness, unhappiness, domestic duties -- but mostly, I wonder if it's accomplishing its purpose. Am I growing in my relationship with God? Do I have any better understanding of what that means than I did when I began this blog three months ago? I'm not sure. But then, have I given it enough of a chance?
I love the idea of the tableland Oswald describes where -- rather than pick my next step with painful care -- I can move about freely within the boundaries of God's grace. I do not want to agonize over every step, every decision. I long for freedom -- to dance about within a prescribed area. My life seems too much about fear -- of doing life wrong, of failure, of disappointing someone. And who is that someone? God? or me? I think good relationships are centered on freedom, and while I do not know if I'm on the right track, I still believe such a relationship with God is possible.
So, for now, I am committed to continuing this blog because I cannot think of a better alternate course. If not this, then what? And, there's Oswald's challenge: "Compare this week in your spiritual history with the same week last year and see how God has called you up higher." This blog, if nothing else, will be a record of where I am this year -- something to which to compare my position next year . . . Perhaps I will be encouraged.
"Blessed are the pure in heart; for they shall see God," Matthew 5:8.
A quick perusal of an online concordance suggests that the word "pure" is most often used in the Bible to describe gold with a smattering of references to nard, incense and the heart. In each case, "pure" modifies an object of great value.
"Who may ascend the hill of the Lord? Who may stand in his holy place? He who has clean hands and a pure heart, who does not lift up his soul to an idol or swear by what is false," Psalm 24:3,4.
"Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me," Psalm 51:10.
Oswald writes that purity comes from "sustained spiritual sympathy with God." Sustained means to keep up over an extended period of time, over the long haul. Spiritual implies something beyond the physical and mental, that which involves the spirit or affects the soul. Sympathy means mutual understanding or affection.
Blessed are those who commit themselves over the long haul to a pursuit of the intangible, who search with their spirits, their entire personality, the essence of their beings, for a connection, an affectionate understanding or relationship with God . . . for they shall be rewarded. They shall see Him face to face.
"The greater part of the life is not conscious obedience but the maintenance of this relationship -- the friend of the Bridegroom" -- Oswald. I am glad to hear Oswald put this fundamental premise so plainly (especially since I've had it backwards for most of my life). Christianity is not primarily about obedience. It is primarily about having a relationship with the Creator of the universe, the Savior of the world.
So . . . how do you have a relationship with God? I've been making a conscious daily effort since I started this blog, and it's been a two steps forward/two steps back kind of thing. I can talk to him, but it's worse than a phone conversation (and I am not a phone person). I cannot see his quizzical facial expressions or hear his murmurs of affirmation. We cannot go out for coffee or talk about our husbands. I cannot take him flowers or invite him over for dinner. We cannot play Pictionary Man or Cranium. There is too much guesswork in this relationship and not enough laughter. I would like to laugh with God. Do you supposed he would like that too? I wonder. To laugh the way my children make me laugh at times -- until I cannot breathe and tears are creeping out the corner of my eyes. Can God laugh when the world is so messed up?
I have been wishing lately that God were like a big red happy button, that I could go and lean against him and suddenly be awash in good, happy feelings. But relationships are not like happy buttons. There are people in my life who make me feel good, but that is not their job. I guess it's not God's job either.
So . . . how do I have a relationship with God? Be intentional. Seek him out. Talk to him. Listen. And when my mind wanders -- as it always does -- hit "clear" and start listening again. Read his book. Be honest about me. Believe the best about him. Invite him in -- all the way in.
Oswald's principle today is fundamental to rescue work. You can hear the danger in the job title -- rescue. There's something very gratifying about saving people, and being needed can become addictive. Not a big danger for a writer, however. Today's devotional spoke to me not in my position at a homeless shelter but in my role as a mother.
In some ways, I am called to be Christ to my children -- to represent his unconditional love and sacrificial care -- and for years, rescuing was part of the job. One broken leg, lots of stitches, hurt feelings, fights, unkind words, emergency rooms, tubes in the ears, allergic reactions, nightmares -- my role was to fix things, to make the pain go away -- remarkable, even to me, was the power of my love -- but my role is changing. "He must become greater; I must become less."
I still want very much to make everything OK for my children, so it's probably a good thing my abilities are limited. If I were superhuman, I would rush in to give them fairy tale lives. Oswald's words bring me up short: "If you become a necessity to a soul, you are out of God's order." I do not want my children to have upsets, havoc and crumblings of health -- and I cannot imagine rejoicing with "divine hilarity" when they meet them -- but I do want them to know the living Christ.
Lord, help me to live with this disparity. Help me to know when and how to become less so that you might become greater. And please never allow me to stand between you and my children. Amen.
Oswald confuses me here. First, his points as I understand them:
Only the regenerate soul is aware of its carnality (that which is related to the passions and appetites of the body) because it is the conflict between the Holy Spirit and the flesh which creates the awareness in the first place.
Unregenerate man has no such conflict and, hence, no such awareness.
Carnality disappears with sanctification.
When biblical truth produces a rebellious spirit within me, that is proof of my carnality.
Here's the line that confuses me: "If sanctification is being worked out, there is no trace of that spirit left" -- and the last paragraph where Oswald suggests that I will marvel at God's work in my life. I will know without doubt that carnality has left. The evidence will be irrefutable.
My confusion: Who fits into that category? Aren't we all in process? Are we ever without a trace of rebellion? And doesn't that marveling at God's work in my own life come awfully close to a pharisaical obsession with my own whiteness?
Are there really levels of sanctification? If it is the regenerate soul who is aware of the struggle, then hasn't sanctification already begun in him? Isn't the awareness itself part of the sanctification? Working in a homeless shelter, I know Christians -- former addicts and felons -- whose lives have changed radically in ways very visible to the outside world. I am also good friends with people whose lives have undergone much more subtle, less visible changes. Is one more sanctified than the other? One certainly might have a harder time pointing out irrefutable evidence of transformation . . . But God looks at the heart. He knows the changes he has wrought.
I guess my question is this: Is the absence of carnality attainable in this life? Oswald seems to indicate that it is, but that has not been my experience.
"We need to learn the secret of the burning heart . . . We cannot stay on the mount of transfiguration, but we must obey the light we received there, we must act it out" -- Oswald.
I wish I better understood what Oswald meant by "the secret of the burning heart." We were exhorted at church yesterday to think carefully about the words we sing, recite and use in everyday language, so I've been thinking about these words all day but haven't gotten very far. The disciples on the road to Emmaus used them after they had been with the risen Christ. The sense seems to be: Wasn't something within us brought to life as he spoke and explained the Scriptures to us? Just before they spoke of their hearts burning, Luke wrote that their eyes were opened. As Jesus broke the bread for their meal, blessed it, and handed it to them, they realized who he was, and after he disappeared, they acknowledged that while there, he had made an impact on them. That impact created a burning sensation, and Oswald tells us we must learn to sustain that sensation.
We use the word "heart" to refer to the seat of our feelings and thoughts, the core of our beings. It is also the organ pumping life-giving blood throughout our bodies. "Burning" relates to fire, heat and light. Its connotation is often negative -- from toast to homes, burning destroys -- but here, the meaning is positive. Like the medieval fire that was not easily re-lit, this burning means life. Our spirits woke up inside us when he was near. He is not dead. We are not dead.He has blown on the smoldering coals and rekindled the flame within us.
Relationship -- the presence of Christ in our lives -- walking alongside him -- is what creates the burning sensation. We must stay present with him -- abide in him like the vine and the branches -- or we will lose it.
I have never known Christ's physical presence, and the Word promises that I am never without his spiritual presence -- "I will never leave you nor forsake you" -- so why do I not always feel my heart burning within me?
Ah . . . all of that just to re-state the question.
We have an expression at my house -- "excusey girl." We use it when someone is making excuses. Feel free to use it on me now.
My excuse: I have a stuffed up head for the third time in two months. I do not feel spiritual. I do not feel like thinking hard. It is nearly impossible to be contemplative when your head is too heavy for your neck, your nose is sore from blowing it repeatedly, and mucus is your constant companion . . . so today's blog is stolen from my husband. He gave a mini-testimony at church this morning. It was/is a beautiful picture of grace and a perfect illustration (in my estimation) of Oswald's "faith which has overleapt all conscious bounds." I cannot tell you (and neither, I would guess, can Frank) how my husband became the man he is -- a loving, attentive, faithful spouse of 26 years; a caring, affectionate, sacrificial father to four children; a trainer of men; a man of God. And, that is the point. God's work -- God's grace -- in his life and Frank's own response of faith overleap conscious bounds.
Frank's testimony follows. (It helps to know that he is a chef.)
I don't think about my childhood very much. It was rough. I prefer to think about my wife, my kids, my job, food, the availability of fiddlehead ferns, the price of morels . . . But recently, Merlin Olsen died, which made me think of the time I met him. It was 1971. I was 12. We were at the Hollywood Boys' Club Boy of the Year party. I was the boy of the month in arts & crafts for July of that year. I only remember a few things from that event: It was held at a fancy place. I got a trophy. I wasn't Boy of the Year. I met Merlin Olsen. I had chocolate mousse for the first time, and I thought it was magical.
I was lost as a kid. I grew up on welfare, the oldest of four children. I had three sisters. We moved a lot -- went to a bunch of different schools, sometimes three or more within the same school year. We survived. Hid from creditors, didn't answer the door, had an unlisted phone number. I went to the Boys' Club six days a week that summer because we lived in a motel, and there was no place to play. My friend and I used to clean the stems and seeds out of bricks of marijuana for his mom. We used to steal coins out of the wishing well ponds at Grauman's Chinese Theater on the way to school. And more. None of the kids I knew lived with their dad or went to church.
I shake my head when I think back. How did I make it out of there? God. His grace.
I still love chocolate mousse, and I have always thought fondly of Merlin Olsen.
That's the end of what Frank said this morning. Nora, Izzy and I then passed out little cups of chocolate mousse Frank had made. Grace. Indefinable grace. One thing Frank didn't say that he models for me and for my kids on a daily basis -- his heart is saturated with gratitude.
I love Genesis 18. Not sure I understand it, but I love it. Friendship with God. Abraham is hanging out at the entrance to his tent in the heat of the day when he looks up and sees three men. Here's the first thing I don't get -- verse 1 says that the Lord appeared to Abraham; verse 2 says Abraham looks up and sees three men. Now is one of these "men" actually God? Is he the pre-incarnate Christ? Who are the other two -- angels? Abraham seems to know the men are important or perhaps he doesn't get many visitors or perhaps all visitors are important. At any rate, he invites them to sit under a tree to rest and wash their feet. The text doesn't say this, but I'm thinking servants came to wash their feet and wait on them while Abraham saw to the arrangements for an impromptu feast. He had Sarah bake bread and a servant slaughter a choice calf. But he doesn't eat with them. He stands nearby while they eat. The Lord tells Abraham that he will return in a year's time and that Sarah will have given birth to the long-promised son. Sarah laughs, and God reminds the couple that nothing is too difficult for him. Then Abraham engages in a back-and-forth bargaining with God over the future of Sodom and Gomorrah. He is amazingly bold in his pleading that God spare the cities for a handful of righteous men. God agrees that for the sake of ten righteous men he will not destroy the cities, and the chapter ends. Laughter, food, foot-washing, conversation, boldness, a direct promise -- the stuff of real friendship.
In today's devotional, Oswald suggested that I think back to the last thing I prayed about. I prayed about my lost shoe. Disgustingly trivial, I know. Clearly, I am a long way from the scene described in Genesis 18. God has refugee camps flooding in Haiti to think about, and I'm bothering him with my lost shoe. The thing is, however, God's mind has no limits. I am not distracting him from more important things when I ask about my lost shoe, and God knows how immature I am. He knows how quickly I lose perspective when hunting through the house for one of the five or six things I lose every week. He knows how I deteriorate into self-abasement over my abysmal housekeeping and organizational skills, and how that grumpy tone affects not only my day, but all the people with whom I come into contact over the course of my day as well . . . so I prayed about my lost shoe. Was I devoted to my desire or to God's? Well, certainly at one level, my desire was to find my lost shoe, but on another level, I think my desire was to bring God into my everyday life. And, let's face it, sometimes my life is trivial.
I don't mean to imply that God is obligated to help me find my shoe, or a parking place, or any of the other trivial matters that I face on a daily basis, but neither do I believe that he is disgusted with me for turning to him. He knows that I am but dust, and in his patience, he teaches me patience, as well.
"The life of faith is not a life of mounting up with wings, but a life of walking and not fainting" -- Oswald.
My faith must be a faith of everydayness. Many of my favorite writers find beauty in the everyday, ordinariness of life -- Billy Collins, Ted Kooser, Annie Dillard, Frederick Buechner, Pablo Neruda. Neruda even wrote a series of poems -- Ode to Common Things -- like socks and ironing and salt.
I think the heroes of the faith in Hebrews 11 must also have found beauty in the everyday, not only beauty but heaven. Most of them did not have the written Scriptures. They did not get to witness the coming of the Messiah, and they did not have the Holy Spirit. They had to hold tightly to unseen promises. "All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance. . . They were longing for a better country -- a heavenly one," Hebrews 11:13, 16.
A short poem by Ted Kooser speaks to me of this bringing the divine down into the everyday:
If you can awaken inside the familiar and discover it new you need never leave home.
Mostly, I just want to feel good. Shallow, but true. Shortly before I started this blog, a friend told me about her experience of God like a comforting Father. I painted a mental picture of myself as a little girl laughingly bouncing on God's big strong knee and falling back into a huge, life-giving embrace. Contentment. I like that picture, and I began this blog partly in pursuit of it. Here's the catch: relationships, this side of heaven anyway, do not always feel good. Yesterday, I sensed this blog taking a new direction for me. I felt like God and I were in a relationship, but it didn't feel good.
I was in a bad mood after work and just wanted to veg in front of the TV with my girls, who were already watching Gilmore Girls, a bewitching show for me. In half an hour, I can begin to believe that the perfect body, the perfect outfit and the perfect man are the answers to life's most pertinent questions. After one episode, the futon enveloped me, the remotest desire to accomplish the smallest task disappeared. All I wanted, all I needed, were some stale nacho chips and the inside scoop on Lorelai's latest love interest. Somehow, I managed to drag myself away for a walk, and (minus the audible voice) God talked to me. At least, I think he did. I think he told me to stop watching Gilmore Girls. Maybe it was just me and guilt, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say it was God. I know it sounds silly, but right at that moment, not watching Gilmore Girls seemed like a huge sacrifice. My girls were already watching it. I was sure the futon would welcome me back. I did not want to face my bad day or my dirty house. I did not want to open a book or use my brain. I wanted to be a Gilmore Girl.
Then, this morning, before I even got out of bed, I told my husband a piece of the bad news from the day before, and get this, he did not sympathize. He told me I was wrong in something I said, something I did. I did not want to hear that. I already had a headache, tense shoulders, and a poor night's sleep behind me. He said that was because I knew deep down that I was wrong. And the really crummy thing is, I think it was God again -- talking to me through my husband. This is not the relationship I was looking for.
The good news is that God went easy on me in this early exchange. I'm committed to not watching the Gilmore Girls through the remainder of Lent, and I apologized to my boss -- the person I wronged. He was gracious and forgiving. Plus, I came home from work tonight to a clean house and dinner for my book group meeting all planned and prepped. All I have to do is follow the hand-written instructions -- warm the plates in the oven, sprinkle this, toss that. Just when I wanted to quit, I am the recipient of grace, about which my sister-in-law sent me a beautiful email note (also today). She wrote, "All of Jesus' disciples failed him in some way, and Jesus looked them straight in the eye and kept loving them. We are not saved by our sacrifices, but by His."
I know it's not just me and Jesus, but what if it were?
A popular Christian maxim goes something like this: If you were on trial for your faith, would there be enough evidence to convict you? I think I'd have a fighting chance on that charge: I work for a Christian ministry to the homeless; I'm on the board of elders at my church; I home schooled my children for 16 years; I write a devotional blog; I post Bible verses on Facebook; I pray in public; I bring God's name into the marketplace in discussions of politics and social issues. The public display of my faith is fairly convincing.
However, Oswald wrote: "My worth to God in public is what I am in private." What if I was not on trial before a jury of my peers but only one righteous, all-knowing judge who could see to my heart and measure my devotion? My case weakens considerably.
On first reading, I face my old enemy here: holiness for holiness sake or holiness for fear of judgment. "Keep yourself steadily faced by the judgment seat of Christ; walk now in the light of the holiest you know," Oswald wrote, and he based today's devotion on 2 Corinthians 5:10: "For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ, that each one may receive what is due him for the things done while in the body, whether good or bad." That certainly sounds work based. Only, we know that if we each truly receive what we are due, we are all damned. So, what are Paul, Oswald, and ultimately, God really saying to me?
The first nine verses of 2 Corinthians 5 are all about longing -- longing for our heavenly bodies, our heavenly dwelling, to be physically present with Jesus. I think longing to be holy is part of that -- longing not to disappoint but to please.
So what happens when I do disappoint? Like Adam and Eve, I run from relationship. I hide. I cover up. I do not want to bring my sin into the light and deal with it. This isn't just true in my relationship with God; it's true in all of my relationships. I don't want to expose my failure. I don't want to disappoint. I would rather pretend. I would rather clean up the outside, polish my strengths, and keep the death and decay boxed away, a lot like a whitewashed tomb.
"The penalty of sin is that gradually you get used to it and do not know that it is sin," wrote Oswald. I think the same could be said for the treatment of sin. I become unconscious of what is hidden away and begin to believe the pretense -- "unconscious unreality."
The cure Oswald prescribes is a scary one for me -- "Drag it to the light at once and say, 'My God, I have been guilty here.'"
My assignment: Today is at an end, but tomorrow, in one encounter with God and one encounter with another human being, I will openly confess my sin and ask for forgiveness.
"There is an aspect of Jesus that chills the heart of a disciple to the core and makes the whole spiritual life gasp for breath. . . Jesus Christ had to fathom every sin and every sorrow man could experience, and that is what makes Him seem strange" -- Oswald.
I question whether I've ever been in danger of being overly familiar with Jesus. I was born in 1960, but the most significant church memories of my childhood are Southern Baptist, and we were in no danger from the flower-child Jesus movement. I was afraid of God, afraid of hell, afraid of the rapture. Jesus did seem a kindly face in the midst of all that fear, but I never saw him as my buddy. My attitude toward all three Persons of the Godhead has always been one of respect, reverence . . . and distance.
The danger of which Oswald writes -- retreating back to a little fire of our own and kindling enthusiasm there -- is the danger for me. Again, I am reminded of Jill's fear of Aslan in The Silver Chair. She is desperately thirsty, but the Lion sits between her and the stream. She wants some assurance that he won't eat her, but he gives none. She suggests that she will go look for another stream, and he replies there is no other stream. I have been Jill, afraid of the Lion, afraid to approach, but I have gone off looking for other streams. I have tried to become good enough to approach.
"'The multitude of your sacrifices -- what are they to me?' says the Lord. 'I have more than enough of burnt offerings, of rams and the fat of fattened animals,'" Isaiah 1:11. And he has more than enough of my good deeds. He wants me.
For me, the yielding of which Oswald writes is both a once-for-all-time permanent decision and a daily practice. Perhaps that doesn't make sense, but I stand by it anyway.
"You have been set free from sin and have becomes slaves to righteousness" Romans 6:18. That happened through my vicarious death with Christ on the cross when I believed in his love for me, his payment for my sins.
"Just as you used to offer the parts of your body in slavery to impurity and to ever-increasing wickedness, so now offer them in slavery to righteousness leading to holiness," Romans 6: 19. I may no longer be a slave to sin, but I am still drawn to it. Not choosing lust and envy and self-love and gluttony is a breath-by-breath practice.
I don't like the term "slave." I'm not even wild about "servant." I was a terrible waitress, always thinking, I have a college education, and here I am listening to these people whine,kissing up to them so they will leave me a bigger tip, which sometimes worked and sometimes -- like the time I dropped the two daiquiris in the people's laps and cried because I was so embarrassed -- the kissing up wasn't necessary. They tipped me anyway. The thing is, I rarely had a good attitude about serving. I resented the patrons. I resented my position in relationship to them. I resented my bosses who seemed not to realize I was meant for greater things. All of which to say, I chafe at the call to servanthood, and yet, it is basic to the Christian faith. Christ modeled it, and then he commanded it.
It might seem like I am mixing apples and oranges -- serving people versus serving righteousness -- but I don't think so. I bristle, rebel actually, at the humbling act of subjecting my will/my mind/my ideas to another's -- even, as in this case, God's -- and when I do it, I tend to build up mountains of resentment.
"It is easy to sing, 'He will break every fetter' and at the same time be living a life of obvious slavery to yourself," Oswald wrote. Slavery to myself, to my own agenda, to my whiteness, as Oswald might say, all the while keeping track of my righteous acts.
I just told my husband that I'd painted myself into a pretty tight corner. I don't like servanthood, but I'm commanded to be a slave to righteousness and a servant to my brother. Obedience for obedience's sake leads to resentment and keeping score. So what's the answer? I think it goes back to that breath-by-breath practice -- breathing in the grace of God, breathing out confession of sin: (Breathe in.) God, you love me (breathe out) even though I am arrogant and stiff-necked. I forget that you are the creator of beauty and wisdom and all good things. I think I know better. I think if I lose control, my life will be messed up. Please forgive me. (Breathe in.) Thank you for loving me in spite of all this.I choose you, and in choosing you, I choose your ways. (Breathe out.) I love sin. I love me. I love being the center of things. (Breathe in.) Thank you for choosing me, for revealing yourself to me, for showing me who is the true center. I love you. Help me to love you more.
I had forgotten that Jesus spoke the words of John 3:16 in a conversation with Nicodemus, the same conversation that begins so oddly.
Nicodemus: We know you must have come from God. No one could perform the miracles you do otherwise. Jesus: Believe me, no one can be saved -- no one can experience God's decisive action in this world -- unless he is born again. (Talk about a non-sequitur.) Nicodemus: What do you mean? A grown man cannot re-enter his mother's womb! (Jesus' line about being born again must have sounded as improbable to Nicodemus as Jesus' later insistence that his followers eat his body and drink his blood.)
Nicodemus was a Pharisee, one of the leaders in the Jewish community. I imagine him as a man who lived in his head a lot. He came to Jesus to make sense of things, to get clear answers and figure out who he was exactly, but as with the rich young ruler yesterday, Jesus drives the stiletto. The work of God cannot be reasonably filed and sorted into manageable bits. "You want to know who I am? You want to experience God's kingdom? Then you must be born again. Who you are, what you've done up til now, none of that matters. You must start a whole new life -- born of water and the Spirit." I wish John had recorded Nicodemus' response, but I think we can be certain he left with a lot to think about that night .
Jesus was calling Nicodemus to abandonment: Give up your old life. Begin anew. But Nicodemus didn't need to take the first step. God already had. He set the standard for abandonment: "For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life," John 3:16. And what is this eternal life? "Now this is eternal life: that they may know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom you have sent," John 17:3.
Relationship -- that's the goal, the reason "God gave Himself absolutely." Our abandonment -- our disregard for every concern other than being with him, knowing him -- is the only appropriate response.
All these years I haven't had a personal relationship with God because I haven't wanted one. I've been after something else entirely. Oswald nails it: "No, Lord, I don't want Thee, I want myself; but I want myself clean and filled with the Holy Ghost; I want to be put in Thy showroom and be able to say -- 'This is what God has done for me.'"
Peter's bold statement in Mark 10:28, "We have left everything to follow you," comes after the story of the rich young man who falls on his knees in front of Jesus asking what he must do to have eternal life. Jesus replies with a question, "Why do you call me good?" and a short list of the commandments. The man counters that he has kept all the commandments. Then comes this line: "Jesus looked at him and loved him." And the rest of the story: Jesus tells him to sell all he has, give it to the poor and follow him. The man goes away distraught.
Considering the verses that follow about a rich man passing through the eye of the needle, I have always thought this story was about money and possessions, materialism, but today, I think it is about relationship. Right off the bat, Jesus asks the man, "Why do you call me good? Only God is good." Jesus is calling the man into relationship: "Do you know who I am? Think about it -- no one is good except God alone." Then Jesus looks at the man and loves him, so he doesn't hesitate -- he drives the stiletto right to the point of decision -- "Sell all you have and follow me." Abandonment.
Just before the story of the rich young ruler, Mark includes the story of parents bringing their little children to Jesus and Jesus' famous words: "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these." Yesterday, I watched my friend's two-year-old as he clung to his momma's leg. It was a picture of abandonment. He loved her, adored her and, at that moment, wanted nothing more than to be near her. "I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it."
I have read the passages of Scripture about denying myself as though they applied to riches, things, but today, I see a more critical application -- my own goodness. This Christianity is not the ultimate self-improvement plan. Jesus looks at me and loves me and says, "Drop everything in pursuit of me. Cling to me. Know me. I am life . . . and there is no other."
What if I haven't had a vision? In today's passage, Paul is talking about his experience on the road to Damascus. A light, brighter than the sun, bright enough to blind him, blazes in the sky, and he hears an audible voice telling him to preach salvation to the Gentiles. That hasn't happened to me, and I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to wait for something similar. Still, Oswald admonishes that we are too quick to move into practical work: "Let God fling you out, and do not go until He goes." What does that mean?
The application to major life decisions is obvious -- in career choice, marriage, job changes, moving, having children -- but what about the sixty seconds of every minute and the sixty minutes of every hour of which Oswald writes? My life is brim full of practical work that demands to be done, and I do not have a vision tailored specifically to Barbara Comito. God has not written my marching orders in the sky or spoken outloud or even come to me in a dream. How do I stem the spiritual leakage without a personal vision?
Pursue him. That's all I have for now. Persistently, doggedly pursue him. Not just during this morning devotional time, but throughout the day. My vision is Christ crucified, the body and the blood, and as Oswald wrote a few days ago, I must bring the heavenly vision down "into flesh and blood actualities and work it out through the fingertips." When I search for words, when I deal with my boss, when I vacuum the floor, when I listen to my daughter, when I argue for what I believe is right . . . somehow in all these things I must operate from the premise that his body and his blood runs through me.
"Our lives must be the sacrament of our message" -- Oswald.
Oswald's image of a heart "crumpled into the purpose of God" struck me powerfully today. I have been suffering from a severe case of writer's block at my job, and the effects have been seeping over into this blog. I read Oswald, read the Scripture, nod my head in agreement, and have nothing to say. When I use the expression "writer's block," it may not convey the angst I feel. I would never call writing "easy," not for me any way. I always struggle with putting the thoughts together, making meaningful and sometimes powerful connections, and then wrestle again with the structure of each sentence. But lately, I cannot seem to line one thought up against another, and because I get paid to write, I am forced to make my fingers punch out letters on the keyboard, forming one forlorn word at a time on the screen. They are not happy words. They don't know what they are doing, and there is no synergy between them.
I am ever so anxious to get my groove back. Perhaps, however, God requires something more of me. Perhaps, rather than quick connections between life, the words I read and the words I write, God wants something slower. Perhaps the little electric impulses traveling from my eyes to my brain to my fingers are supposed to pass through my heart as well, changing me, turning me into my message.
Jesus doesn't make it easy. The "hard teaching" from which many of his disciples turned away sounded like cannibalism: "Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life." And when he heard them grumbling amongst themselves, he almost taunted them, "You think that's hard? Well, how about this?"
In many ways, the central tenets of Christianity are not sensible and reasonable: a teenage virgin became pregnant without having sex and gave birth to the Son of God, who was both 100 percent God and 100 percent man; this baby, who grew to a man in the normal way and was made of flesh and bone, walked on water, turned water into wine, multiplied one boy's lunch into a feast that fed 5,000 people; by being nailed to a cross, dying and then rising from the dead, this same God-Man paid the price for the sins I am going to commit today -- 2,000 years later; and when I eat the store-bought bread cut into tiny pieces and drink grape juice poured into doll-size cups set aside on Communion Sunday, I am in some way eating his flesh and drinking his blood -- something he commanded me to do in his words which were written down by ordinary men. These fundamentals of our faith are no more reasonable than sticking needles into a doll with the intention of causing a person pain. If I were creating a religion with the hope of gaining followers, I would leave out most of these bits without which we would have no faith.
"This is why I told you that no one can come to me unless the Father has enabled him" -- Jesus in John 6:65.
Today, Jesus, help me not to be so sensible and reasonable but rather to be outlandish in my pursuit of you.
"To be born from above of the Spirit of God means that we must let go before we lay hold, and in the first stages it is the relinquishing of all pretense. What Our Lord wants us to present to Him is not goodness, nor honesty, nor endeavour, but real solid sin; that is all He can take from us. And what does He give in exchange for our sin? Real solid righteousness. But we must relinquish all pretense of being anything, all claim of being worthy of God's consideration" -- Oswald.
God wants me to present my sin: I turn to food for comfort more often than I turn to God. When I've done a good thing, I usually want people to know it. There are way too many people that I just can't stand. I hold grudges. When my friends get recognition and praise, I am often envious. I have not loved God with all my heart, mind and soul. Even as I pursue this relationship with him, I have one eye on the possibility of publication. I live for recognition.
"There is always a sharp painful disillusionment to go through before we do relinquish. When a man really sees himself as the Lord sees him, it is not the abominable sins of the flesh that shock him, but the awful nature of the pride of his own heart against Jesus Christ" -- Oswald.
God wants me to relinquish all pretense of being worthy: I have been like the older brother in the parable of the prodigal son, hoarding the filthy rags of my personal righteousness like some kind of treasure that I might give in exchange and demand my due: "Look, all these years I've been slaving for you." How laughable. I want to change roles: "Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. Forgive me."
My attention has recently been drawn to the hymn, Come Ye Sinners, Poor and Needy. I think it fits well with Oswald's message for today.
The Refrain:
I will arise and go to Jesus; He will embrace me in his arms; In the arms of my dear Savior, Oh, there are ten thousand charms.
The Final Verse:
Let not conscience make you linger, Not of fitness fondly dream; All the fitness he requireth Is to feel your need of him.
Romans 8 contains some of the most comforting verses in Scripture, and yet, I find my soul strangely uncomforted, either by Paul's words or by Oswald's. Paul's list of things which cannot separate us from the love of Christ -- trouble, hardship, persecution, famine, nakedness, danger, sword (verse 35), death, life, angels, demons, the present, the future, powers, height, depth, or anything else in all creation (verses 38-39) -- seems pretty comprehensive, but I wish he had listed me specifically. Me -- for it seems the real trouble lies within. Can I separate myself from the love of Christ? Can my jealousy, rage, self-absorption, apathy, conceit, laziness, rebellion, despair and desire for control separate me from the love of Christ? Can I turn my back on him and walk away? I know the doctrine about the perseverance of the saints. I know Jesus' promise from John 10 that no one can snatch us from his hand . . . but can we tear ourselves away? I also know the passage about working out my salvation with fear and trembling and the one where Jesus separates the sheep from the goats in Matthew 7. He turns to those who thought they knew him and says, "Away from me, you evil doers. I never knew you." We are admonished to wear the armor of God and bear the fruits of the Spirit, to guard our hearts and forgive our brother. What if we don't? Can I separate myself from the love of Christ?
"Every Christian has to partake of what was the essence of the Incarnation, he must bring the thing down into flesh and blood actualities and work it out through the finger tips" -- Oswald.
I loved today's reading, and I loved the corresponding Scriptures, but for some reason, I seem to have very little to say. I have not done this as yet, but I may have to come back and write another day. For now, I will just type out my favorite bits.
"As God's fellow workers we urge you not to receive God's grace in vain. For he says, 'In the time of my favor I heard you, and in the day of salvation I helped you.' I tell you, now is the time of God's favor, now is the day of salvation," 2 Corinthians 6:1-2. It is the word "now" that I appreciate so much.
"Dear, dear Corinthians, I can't tell you how much I long for you to enter this wide-open, spacious life. We didn't fence you in. The smallness you feel comes from within you. Your lives aren't small, but you're living them in a small way. I'm speaking as plainly as I can and with great affection. Open up your lives. Live openly and expansively!" 2 Corinthians 6:11-13, The Message. I am reminded of Mr. Small from Dickens' novel, Bleak House.
"The only way to keep the life uncrushed is to live looking to God" -- Oswald.
"Joy means the perfect fulfillment of that for which I was created and regenerated, not the successful doing of a thing" -- Oswald.
And for what was I created and regenerated? The Westminster Shorter Catechism states: "The chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy him forever." John Piper says, "God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in him." Ephesians 2:10 says, "For we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do."
Have I received a ministry from the Lord? Have I? What are the good works God has prepared for me? I am a wife and mother. These are ministries certainly. I need to serve my husband and my children through daily tasks, prayer, devotion, laughter, listening, time. I work for a ministry to the poor and homeless, but is that my ministry? I cannot argue that it is where God has me at present. I am a writer. Is that my ministry? How do I know?
Oswald's answer: "There is no choice of service, only absolute loyalty to our Lord's commission; loyalty to what you discern when you are in closest contact with God."
My assignment: Strive to be in close contact with God. Listen.
"Never consider whether you are of use; but ever consider that you are not your own but His" -- Oswald.
Oswald proposes a method of living and thinking quite at odds with current American culture. Utilitarianism, "a system of ethics based on the premise that something's value may be determined by its usefulness" (Wiktionary), permeates our society, influencing our sense of right and wrong, the value we place on human life, and even our faith.
I'm constantly thinking about whether or not I am of use. I assess my personal value based on how much I am needed, how much I have to offer, how successful my endeavors are.
I spent the majority of my day today working on a mediocre article that I will probably rewrite from scratch tomorrow. I spent my evening laughing to the point of tears over silliness and nonsense with three of my children while consuming an incredible dinner and dessert. About a 3.1 on the usefulness scale, but if I cut myself some slack, I would have to say on balance it was an exceedingly good day.
How comforting it is that God's ways are not my ways, and that even when I am not terribly useful, I am of great value to Him.
How am I to turn this embryonic love for Jesus into a full-blown, compassion-producing love for my neighbor? When Peter answers that he does indeed love Jesus, Jesus replies: "Feed my sheep." Oswald's description of those sheep as bedraggled, dirty, awkward, butting sheep who have gone wildly astray pushed my question further to the forefront of my mind: How?
In search of an answer, I went to the famous passage about love in 1 John 4:7-21. The passage is dense and rich, and I know God has more for me than I have as yet digested, but for now my answer to the question of how is this: by becoming a student of his love and trusting him to work the results of that love within me. Matthew Henry, in his commentary on this passage, wrote this: "Strange that God should love impure dust and ashes! . . . He loved us, when we had no love for him, when we lay in our guilt. . . .Divine love to the brethren should constrain ours. This should be an invincible argument. Shall we refuse to love those whom the eternal God hath loved? We should be admirers of his love and lovers of his love, and consequently lovers of those whom he loves" (emphasis mine).
I admire the paintings of Vincent Van Gogh, but rather than simply stand back and gaze at this artwork of God's, I intend to leap in amongst the sunflowers, to spread the thick yellow pollen on my face, to jump on the bed and soar out through the starry night. I know that I cannot help but be changed by the experience.
Henry also wrote: "The sacred lovers of the brethren are the temples of God; the divine Majesty has a peculiar residence there."
"The Lord's questions always reveal me to myself" -- Oswald. And, in Peter's case, the revelation was not entirely unwelcome. "He was awakening to the fact that in the real true center of his personal life he was devoted to Jesus." Oswald does not elaborate on why the questions were painful, but I think in addition to his devotion, Peter recognized his frailty, that he could not return Christ's love in kind. Christ's love comes without limit, without wavering, without ulterior motives. Our love will always be finite and mixed with selfishness, but the good news for Peter is that Christ's questioning revealed his love to be genuine and deeply felt.
I usually think of Christ revealing my sin to me -- my greed or jealousy or self-absorption -- peeling away the layers of pretense and false righteousness. Oswald's words today awoke in me the possibility that Christ might reveal good things in me as well -- his work in process, his Spirit producing fruit, his transformation/my metamorphosis. He might show me myself and I might not be repulsed. That is a new -- and quite welcome -- suggestion.
"Lovest thou Me?" My love for Jesus seems small and pitiful to me, an insubstantial, vaporous thing that might be blown away or simply disintegrate at any moment, and yet, it also seems impossibly precious. I am full of hope about what it might become, but that hope is a fragile one.
Shortly after I began this blog, I was sitting with some friends, trying to describe the mystery of what I felt was happening as I undertook this pilgrimage. I used the word "intimacy" to describe what I desired in terms of a relationship with God, and one of my friends reacted strongly and harshly to the use of that word. She said she thought that intimacy was a pipe dream which led people astray when they searched for it. Expecting it and not finding it caused the seeker to grow disillusioned, she said. She argued that love for God is a commitment, a choice that once made needed to be honored, and that feelings weren't really part of the picture. Her arguments were not new to me; they have been the basis of my faith for most of my life. Listening to her, I felt the fragile beginnings I had been attempting to describe crumble as though they had never existed in the first place, and I was left clutching empty air. I responded in anger and then despair as my hope that Christianity offered more than I had yet experienced dwindled away.
The next morning, however, I discovered to my delight that all was not lost. A small burning was lodged in my soul -- a longing for more that would not be squelched. While I dare not make bold proclamations of my love, I do welcome the longing.
"It was the upward-reaching and fathomlessly hungering, heart-breaking love for the beauty of the world at its most beautiful, and, beyond that, for that beauty east of the sun and west of the moon which is past the reach of all but our most desperate desiring and is finally the beauty of Beauty itself, of Being itself and what lies at the heart of Being" -- Frederick Buechner.
I know that at the heart of my being, Lord, is the desperate need for connection with you.
