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crack

It’s crack to certain women. The topic of whose fault it is that you don’t have children. Certain women, especially certain Christian women, can’t let it go. They just can’t. They will hound you and hound you and hound you to answer them. But I never have and I never will. Somehow, that particular tidbit drives them crazy and they just need to know:

Where can we point the finger? Whose fault is it? It it his? Is it hers? The two of them together? A bad combination? Just where, precisely, is the problem here?

It’s that extra pulp in an already juicy story. I swear, it’s informational crack. Over the years whenever I’ve been asked this question by women, NEVER men, I’ve always sensed this crackle of sick hope in the air that maybe, maybe it’s the woman’s fault. A small electric gleam in the eyes as they look at me. Maybe another woman’s body doesn’t work. Maybe her body doesn’t work. They can’t help themselves. It’s primal. A kind of alpha female thing.

I’m more woman if I can see you as less. I have body power. You do not.

Beyond the assumption involved, it’s sick, I tell you. Sick.

And I have never answered them either way. I never will. That information is private. It doesn’t involve them, although they want it to very much. To my mind, any random woman who asks that question instantly proves herself to be an untrustworthy person with a very low emotional intelligence quotient.

So, women with kids, some very basic advice: Never ask a woman that. Never ask a man that, either, but that rarely happens anyway. It’s simple. Never ask. It’s just not your business and if that ever flies out of your mouth, you need to ask yourself Why am I asking this? Really. What is the empty place inside you that will be magically filled through this piece of information? What IS it? The fact that you’re asking speaks of some deep deficit that this information, however titillating it may be, will never fill. And, believe me, that offhand nosy-ness can deeply hurt a woman, drag her down into the dark yet again for a very very long time. Which — I don’t know — may very well be the entire goal anyway.

Because women ……. can be cruel. And Christian women …… are the worst.

For me, though, any woman who has ever asked me that is instantly suspect to me — and that’s if I’m feeling generous. Usually, I’ve written her off in a split second. POOF! Her smiling nosy self is dead to me. In that moment, some blaring alarm goes off in my head so earsplitting, so global, that it’s forever associated with that woman. It’s Pavlovian. I see that woman and hear “Danger, Will Robinson! DANGER!” from that moment on. Forever.

I remember, from about 5 years ago, another church woman, different from this one. I was new at this particular church — the church of the worst person I’ve ever known — and decided to get involved singing in the church band. Because wouldn’t that bless everybody, and blah blah blah. And this woman, Lisa, was on the worship team, too, singing alto. I met her for the first time at practice. She was shaped like a droopy dumpling, a bit of oversteamed dim sum. I remember her stuffed smooth whiteness, her dark curly hair flopping on the sides of her face like cocker spaniel ears. She wore a proper Christian woman’s uniform: polyester floral dress, calf length; white nylon sandals, dark pantyhose, reinforced toe. Church can be strenuous. Never know when you’ll need a reinforced toe.

I wore jeans, a t-shirt, and a hoodie and decided we probably weren’t kindred spirits.

There wasn’t much chitchat at practice. We just practiced. But on that Sunday, my first Sunday onstage, with 5 minutes to go-time, she started with the questions.

“So do you have kids?”

“Uh, no.”

“Oh? Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh. Why not? Is there some problem?”

Who says that? Who? The blaring global alarm started to sound. I stared at her. Did my best to shoot daggers at her with my eyes. It was 4 minutes to go-time. I strained to silence the alarm and clear my head. But I did not strain to be nice. I see no biblical call to be “nice.”

“Wow. You really cut to the chase, don’t you?”

I narrowed my eyes, looked her up and down, felt the elastic of my insides suddenly solder into one hard thing: contempt. A big ol’ ball of contempt. Here I was, standing in front of church moments from singing about Jesus and his love and his grace and I literally oozed contempt. That one thing. Nothing else. My eyeballs felt very hot and huge. Maybe they were lasers. Maybe I was trying to melt her dim sum body down to a puddle of polyester dipping sauce.

“Well, I’m just interested. I mean, I’ve been there.”

“Oh? Been where?”

“Well, I couldn’t get pregnant either and then the elders laid hands on me and prayed for me and I ended up having Charlotte. Then a little later I had Scarlett. And now I just found out I’m pregnant again!”

I glared at her. Wanted to smack her. I could barely contain my shaking. Why was she putting me in this position?

“Wow. What interesting assumptions you make,” I said.

“Well, I know what you’re going through.”

“You don’t really know anything about me, Lisa.”

“Okay, but that’s what I’m talking about!”

I couldn’t deal with her presumptuous leaps of thought.

“Uh, I see that.”

“So if you ever want to talk –”

“Look,” I interrupted. “I’m sorry. We’re, like, two minutes from singing. I don’t even know you and I’m not comfortable talking about this. I need to focus on worship. I’m sorry.”

She stared down at her reinforced toes. My bluntness must have worked, because we never spoke of it again.

Sometimes, you need to respond — and quickly — to that blaring global alarm.

She named her baby Arlett.

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okaaay ….

This isn’t working.

and

THIS isn’t working.

Um, look. Readers Who Either Go To My Church or Used to Go But Are Now Unable to Go Because You Moved — maybe verrry far — Away, you’re still out there.

How do I know?

I now have this little thingy called Site Meter. It tracks pretty much every aspect of a reader’s visit: the date, the time, how long the visit was, what you read, where you live. Just my little way of knowing a little sumpin’-sumpin’ about you. With some of you I’ve simply deduced who you are through the Site Meter. Some of you I know exactly which stat you are. It’s obvious. And all of you share one thing in common — you keep going back and back and back to that post.

(Again, I’m referring to Church Readers in that paragraph.)

Because I’ve never shared this blog with friends and family, I don’t really have too many readers from MyTown, USA. Though I did have a few sweet readers from MyTown, USA — to whom the post did not even apply — who had needless pangs of conscience and emailed me, explaining where they live, that they don’t know me, wondering if they could still read or not. They were very sweet and very upfront, and of course, they can still read if they’d like. No problem.

A few other readers from MyTown, USA, again, keep going back to that post. Hm. I wonder …..

Remember, anyone who’s reading this: This applies to a very specific group of about 5 to 6 people from my church. If you’re not in that group, this doesn’t apply to you in any way.

I can’t keep saying I’m sorry to you, Church Readers. I can’t quite figure it out, but somehow it seems that I’m the one who feels horrible that I’m asking you to stop. It doesn’t seem you feel anything at all similar about your readership — no bad or sorry or horrible feelings, no pangs of conscience because ….. you’re still there.

Do you want me to start calling you out by name on the blog?

Do I post a picture or something?

Please. I graduated from junior high lonnnng ago.

But so did you.

What I’m wanting and needing and pleading for is an across-the-board withdrawal of any church people as readers. Maybe you think: Well, my situation is different. I can still read because ….

I’m sorry. It’s not. You can’t.

(Well, obviously, you can. That’s the problem. And we’ve covered this already.)

I’m hoping, naively, I guess — as was suggested on that post, I guess it’s true — that people, Christian people, just might honor a request like mine. Again, in real life, if you were at a party in someone’s home and the host asked you to leave for whatever reason, would you just continue to party on with impunity? In real life, if someone had broken up with you because she simply needs a different situation in her life and had basically given you the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech, would you then just start to park your car outside her house, sit there, and watch?

This really is NOT personal, although I imagine most of you will take it that way. Maybe you’ll decide I’m a bitch. Okay, fine.

But this bitch has gotta try to set some boundaries.

I don’t hate you or dislike you or anything, but I am deeply disappointed by your seeming unwillingness to acquiesce and, um, more than a little disturbed as to why you won’t let go.

Plus, kinda pissed off at this point.

You know, I simply and deeply desire to get back to the type of more anonymous and free blog I had when I first started, before the happenstance occurred that lead church readers to this blog. If I’m unable to get there because this particular group won’t honor my request, I will be forced to take my management of this blog in a direction I don’t want to and shouldn’t have to.

How about this? Why don’t you pray about whether to stop reading my blog?

I’m serious. You know, “WWJD?” and stuff. I know that I don’t rule your conscience; the Holy Spirit does.

(And that’s what’s so vexing ….)

Look, I have not shared everything there is to share about this situation and I won’t, not here, but there are good reasons why I MUST ask this of you.

I don’t want to have to move … again. I saved up money for months to pay for this new blog and worked hard to have the blog I really want to have. Are you going to make me abandon my new cyber home? Are you claiming squatter’s rights here? I own, but you occupy? Are you really not going to be the people I’d hoped you’d be?

Please. Please.

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clarification

Some clarification is in order about this post. I’ve gotten emails now from people who regularly read this blog but prefer not to comment. It would seem I’ve offended this particular group of readers. Please understand: That was never my intention.

I’ve addressed these readers privately, but I wanted to post this in case there are any other readers out there with similar feelings.

I had so hoped the post was more clear, but I confess I wrote it in an upset frame of mind. I was speaking to a very specific group of people and their readership of this blog.

These people either go or have gone to my church.

I don’t know how to be more clear: If you are not in that group, the post does not — in any way — apply to you.

And for those people in that group, if you are still reading, please know this request was not arrived at in a knee-jerk fashion. I’d considered my options for a long time and I’m sorry it came to this one.

I don’t have a problem with people who read and don’t comment. Not everyone has the time or the inclination and that’s totally fine with me.

I apologize for any offense I may have caused these readers.

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update

(SCROLL DOWN FOR NEW POSTS.)

This little update will stay at the top here for a bit in case it’s been missed. I’m checking my stats regularly, hoping to see a difference.

Again, I am very sorry.

This post includes anyone who’s ever gone to my church …. regardless of where you may live now. I’m very sorry. Again, it is a request. I’m smart enough to know I can’t ultimately control people. Still …. I am asking.

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there’s no other way to say it

This post is not going to sound very nice and won’t apply to most of my readers, but I am desperate.

And this is completely off the cuff, so excuse the rough edges.

Here’s the deal: If you are someone who would recognize me on the street, someone who knows me from, oh, say, church, for example — even if you only know me as “that girl who sings in the band” or “that girl I hate” or whatever, this post is for you.

I cannot make you stop reading my blog, but your continued readership is deeply uncomfortable for me. Don’t ask me how I know you’re there. Let’s just say it’s “come to my attention,” rather randomly. This is a HUGE part of the reason I shut down my other blog and left the link up for only 2 days. I realize now I shouldn’t have left a link up at all. I should have gone through the whole rigamarole of making a list of readers’ emails and sending out the link personally. But that would have covered only the people who regularly comment. So I didn’t do it. I considered it, but didn’t do it. Stupid.

But …. PLEASE. Anyone fitting this description who found my blog in its old incarnation as WN, found it through sheer happenstance. Since then, church people I don’t even know have been reading my blog, sometimes coming up and commenting to me, knowing details of my life, sharing them, it seems, with others. I’m afraid I must be blunt: I did not seek out your readership. I have been burned on so many levels over the last 5 years by “The Church” that this — please excuse my bluntness — this voyeurism feels like it’s reopening old wounds. It’s the potential of mutual acquaintances that freaks me out. It’s that you’re strangers, but not. It’s that I don’t know your intentions.

That FREAKS me out.

My own FAMILY doesn’t know about this blog — or even that I write anything — with good GOOD reason: I don’t want people I know or who know people I know reading this blog. I’ve never ever said to anyone in my life — my, ah, 3-dimensional life — “Hey, check out my blog!” I commend people who do, but I want to be kind of anonymous, you know? Just “Tracey.” I NEVER thought that anyone who knows me or knows of me would find this blog. The odds were certainly against it, given the way the blog is set up — just my first name — and given the fact that, in “real life,” I am deeply committed to silence about its existence.

Readers who are total strangers? Great. Like the anonymity of the confessional. Readers who are my closest friends or family — um, who won’t freak out about what I write? Also great. I don’t have any readers like that, because I haven’t invited them. But this in-between “I know you but I don’t and I see you but don’t talk to you because THAT would be weird since I know stuff about you that I have no business knowing” CRAP is too much. I can’t take it.

This is rambling, incoherent, because I’m upset. I literally don’t know what to do.

Do I just stop blogging? Is that what I do? I’ve moved TWICE now, just trying to get free.

I guess I’m asking you all — for the love of God, actually — to please take me out of your rotation. Please go … elsewhere. There are a jillion fascinating sites on the web to visit. Places where you might actually learn something useful. Or actually be edified. With you, I feel like I’m naked, in the worst possible way. Like at-the-doctor naked. I can only appeal to your conscience, because I can’t stop you. And there are now several of you, I’ve learned. Trust me. I’m not that interesting or you’d know me better in real life, right? As a group, you don’t comment. And I don’t have a problem, in general, with lurkers, but this lurking seems almost menacing to me because we inhabit the same space once a week. It feels like you’re just sucking up information about me and doing …. God knows what with it. You don’t seek to know me in real life, so I don’t get it. Why read? Unlike other readers, you could conceivably know me in real life, but you don’t. You sit and read in silence.

I just don’t feel safe with you. I need — and I’m sorry — you to go away. This isn’t to say you aren’t lovely people. But I don’t know, actually, because I don’t really know you. This is what I do know: I know you read my blog. I know you don’t engage. I know — scariest of all — you know people I DO know. And I know that your silence feels like judgment. It feels like it’s serving you in some way. And that way — that mysterious way — is frightening me and shutting me down inside.

I need to be free just to be who I am without worrying, without censoring my topics because of who might be reading or who might comment to me at church or who might share something I don’t want shared.

Okay. Wow. It’s just hit me. It’s like the whole infertility experience again — only with my writing. That’s how it feels to me. Church people pawing over my crap, doing what they want with it, feeling entitled to it because “we’re all Christians.” I can’t go down this road again. I’m not strong enough.

I realize I risk pissing you off, but I’ve already risked a LOT more than that just by having you as readers. What have you risked? Consider it an accident of geography. If you inhabited a different space, we wouldn’t have a problem, I suppose.

Okay. Proposal: Switch churches, send me proof that you’ve switched churches and severed all relationships with anyone at our church, and you are more than welcome to read this blog. Until then, I apologize. It’s just become too oppressive, too unsettling, something I never anticipated.

Please, please respect my wishes. Don’t make me beg any more than I already am.

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watch out, new york city!

I hear things, you know, through the grapevine — that small, shriveled grapevine that encircles my breathtaking life. And through this grapevine, I’ve heard that my former friend OC was recently visiting New York City with a group of women. Going to the theatre. Going to restaurants. Sightseeing. Shopping. Prophesying. You know, the usual crap people do when they go to New York City. And I speak with authority as someone who’s never ever been there.

Turns out, she was prophesying IN the restaurants and IN the theatres. And she is quite pumped up, apparently, about the things that God told her in those restaurants and theatres. I don’t know what the precise content was, per se, but I could guess and be REAL close, I’ll bet. More importantly, though, I thought I should tell you that if all your favorite theatres and restaurants suddenly go belly up — um, OC did it.

Sorry, New York City. Sorry.

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demon blog?

I couldn’t access it all day. ALL DAY, I tell ya!

Say it with me, Joey: “The power of Christ compels you! The power of Christ compels you! The power of Christ compels you!!”

LOOOOK! IT WORKED!

Um, am I going to hell?

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the divine lottery revisited — because I’m eeevil!

(A re-post.)

So a while back, I was riding in a car with a person I’ll call Plumcake. At a stoplight, while deep in discussion about something else, Plumcake suddenly gasped and delivered this raging non sequitur:

“Look at that car — it has a ‘333’on the license plate! Oh, thank you, Lord!”

Hmmm. I looked at the car. It was just a car. I didn’t get it. I was NOT catching the fever. Or whatever she had.

She continued earnestly:

“The Lord has told me that whenever I see the number ‘333,’ it means He’s thinking about ME and loving ME.”

Umm, wha???

Clearly, Plumcake was joking or temporarily off her nut. I decided a solid, but noncommittal, response was the chuckle. What person, whether joker or nutter, could object to the chuckle? So I chuckled. Instantly, Plumcake threw a withering glare at me. It seemed she was utterly serious, I was 5 years old, and that chuckle was wrong, wrong, wrong! Shame on me! Duly chastised, I shut my mouth, too stunned to make a peep now. I sat in silence while she rhapsodized about ‘333.’

I thought this was an isolated incident, but since that moment I’ve heard her publicly gush over anything with 333: addresses, phone numbers, digital clocks. I was at her house one afternoon when the kitchen clock struck 3:33. I watched wide-eyed as Plumcake and The Plumcake Kids danced a little jiggedy jig of joy: “It’s 3:33! God’s thinking of me. Woo-hoo!” I, however, did not join in the jiggedy jig, nor did I feel the joy.

Frankly, I thought the whole hubbub seemed rather exclusionary, seeing as how God was apparently thinking just of Plumcake and there WERE other people in the room. Kinda rude, God.

And if God is in the numbers, I’m scared. Terrified, really. Because I ain’t good with numbers.

I’ve given some thought to Plumcake’s spiritual epiphany and I’ve got just a few niggling questions. First, why 333? I mean, why that number? Is “God in the number” because the three digits are identical? Is that the magic of it? And what would happen, Plumcake, if I just wrote 333 on a piece of paper? Would that mean God’s thinking of you or would that mean that I just wrote 333 on a freakin’ piece of paper?

But, wait, let’s not be too dismissive now. Maybe God is speaking this way. Maybe God IS in the numbers. So then what’s next? Story problems?

Oh. Sweet. Lord.

Just think of the ones ALMIGHTY GOD could come up with: “Two trains depart from Toledo. If one travels at the speed of a hummingbird’s wings, and the other, the speed of an eyelid blink, which one arrives in HELL first??”

Oh, the shivers. I’d be toast for sure. My utter incompetence with numbers would cement my spiritual doom forever and ever. I’m shiny with sweat just thinking about it.

But maybe it’s not story problems. Maybe it’s these numbers, as Plumcake says. So then does God speak exclusively through the identical three-digit number? And how do all believers get one of these? Because I don’t think there are enough of them to go ’round.

I mean, let’s count together, shall we:

000, 111, 222, 333 (Plumcake’s), 444, 555, 666 (uh, Satan’s), 777, 888, 999.

By my count, that leaves only 8 of these “God numbers” left over for the rest of us.

Wow. This is really rough. I’m sorry to tell you that God does not love you, nor is He thinking of you. Tough, tough break.

What is going on here?? Where are Christians getting these foolish, fairy-tale notions? Where? Please understand. Plumcake is a lovely(-ish) person. I don’t question that for a moment. What I question is superstition and fantasy creeping into believers’ hearts, weakening or replacing firm foundations. You may say, “Well, I don’t buy into these notions.” To that I say, “Thank God,” but there are enough Christians who do that we need to be concerned. Really concerned.

This concerns me too: I know a couple who dubbed their youngest child the “Resurrection Baby.” The husband had had an affair and in the midst of the traumatic fallout, they got pregnant. According to them, the baby was a “sign from God,” of the “resurrection” of their marriage. Wow. No pressure, baby. Mess that diaper. Spew those peas. Save that marriage.

One day, the husband blithely said to me, “Well, I guess this means I get to stay married now.” Really? Is that what the blessed baby means? Or does it perhaps mean a chance to avoid, to deny, the deep and abiding issues that brought your marriage to the brink? Or — does it perhaps mean that you deftly manipulated your broken and betrayed wife into bed — at least once? Why is that a sign from God? Given his flippant attitude, I questioned whether baby was, indeed, a “resurrection” or a deflection.

Has the God of the universe transitioned into the business of saying what we want to hear, of saying that which is facile, expedient, and small? Or have we become so immersed in our spiritual ADD and laziness that we want — no, need –– God to speak in ways that are facile, expedient, and small?

It seems The Word is no longer enough for us. Our souls are so hollowed by society swirling around us that we seek, not just instant gratification, but instant sanctification. The lifelong process is simply too wearisome, too burdensome. We need a God who speaks in newer, better, faster ways. We need a God who’s just more efficient. Please be easier to understand, God. Please speak to me right now, God. Please give me a “word” that makes things better for me, God. What we want from God diminishes the very idea of “God.” What we want from God diminishes our chances of becoming more like him. Still, we want it. And believe me, it’s astounding what “God” will say to a desperate, vulnerable mind. I’m adamant here … because I’ve been there. And back, thankfully.

God gave us the Word, His radical love letter to the world. He woos us to The Enduring Romance, but we settle for the quick, cheap thrills of “333” on the back of a car. He gave us His precious Spirit, but we still crave a sign, any sign, as long as it’s the one we want. His Word gives us a foundation, but we long for flights of fancy, for the whimsical escape of other, newer words. We are desperate for His love, but numbed to the bloodied, beautiful proof of it on the cross.

Just give me another sign, God. Speak a new word to me, God. Thanks for 333, God.

We have The Cross. We have The Word. We have The Holy Spirit.

What else do we need?

“Leave your simple ways and you will live; walk in the way of understanding.” Proverbs 9:6

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the worst person i’ve ever known

The other day, I stumbled across an online sermon by the worst person I’ve ever known.

It’s from December.

In it, he tells a terribly sad story and then speaks of the self-destructive life, detailing how it develops. I’ll share his points now and give the context in which they were said later.

I’m quoting from him directly. I was furiously writing and pausing the sound file to get this all down, I was so gobsmacked.

Here’s the evolution of “the self-destructive life”:

All you have to do is …..

— avoid worship, avoid singing and rejoicing in the Lord and when you do sing and rejoice, make it only for a moment, not a lifestyle

— avoid studying truth

— avoid praying with abandon

— stop thanking God for the things you have; it will secure a self-destructive life

— complain about what you don’t have; make sure that you focus on the inequities of life; it will guarantee senselessness and rebellion

— compare yours to others, focus on that every day

— don’t invest in people’s lives

— remove yourself from society as far as you can

— never give where you don’t have to give

— isolate yourself from the kingdom of God

— don’t enjoy the fellowship of brothers and sisters in Christ; avoid them out of fear or anger or whatever drives you; you will definitely become self-destructive

— embrace self-pity as an acceptable emotion

— see the difficulties of your life as the basis for your self-pity and let your world wrap around that emotion

— justify your rebellion because of your pain and live with it every day

— focus totally on the temporal benefits of life

— never see the power of eternity and the purpose of living for God

— as a lifestyle, choose temporal things — beauty, acceptance, material possessions; you will inevitably become spiritually in rebellion against God

— finally, let the world dictate your worldview; don’t accept God’s truth as final; accept whatever the world says

This is the development of a self-destructive lifestyle.

I won’t argue the points; that’s not my purpose here. It’s difficult for me to write about this man because he is, to my mind, literally, the worst person I’ve ever known. For a while now, I’ve meant to write about my destructive dealings with him; I’ve even started and abandoned a few half-written posts because I find it almost impossible to write coherently about such an abusive person.

And just a few years ago, he was my pastor.

I don’t know how those points above struck you as you read them. Perhaps you found yourself agreeing with them. Fine. They aren’t necessarily wrong. Actually, divorced from the larger context of his message, I pretty much agree with them.

But here is the context I promised:

He is speaking of his ex-wife, to whom he was married nearly 30 years.

His own ex-wife.

Who had killed herself exactly a week before.

Here she is, not cold in the grave, and she is made to be his public model for the “self-destructive lifestyle.” The mother of his children. A woman known by many people at the church. The pastor’s longtime wife, for God’s sake! The woman he’d spent the larger part of his life with. The woman who had stood by him all those years until — for whatever reasons — she’d left him about 5 years before.

She is dead and gone, but still useful fodder for some sermon points, I guess. Points that read like some callous litany of a dead woman’s supposed flaws, rebellions, and sins against man and God, even.

He is USING her flaws as a sermon outline. It is so cold-blooded, it made me gasp.

Whether they are accurate or not is MOOT. It’s moot. There can be no reasonable or compassionate context for such a violation.

She is dead.

These are for private consideration, not public broadcast.

He goes on to describe her death:

On Sunday morning, at about 12 o’clock, she took another stash of pills and this time added substance to it that would guarantee this time would work (ed.: she had tried to kill herself just the week before) …. and at 2:30 she went into the presence of the Lord.

The inevitable result of a life of drinking the poison of lies every day.

Wow. “Inevitable result”? Inevitable? Such compassion. So, uhm …. “that’s what you get,” I guess? You will inevitably kill yourself, then? If it was inevitable that’s what would happen, why was she left alone so it could happen?

“Inevitable”?

I won’t write about my interactions with this man right now. At some point, perhaps I will. It all takes a backseat, though, to what happened with his ex-wife, TO his ex-wife. I never knew her, but certainly knew of her. Somehow, though, I always felt a small sort of kinship with her. It’s arrogant even to say that, I suppose, but I felt through my comparatively short, but nonetheless damaging relationship with this pastor, I had a glimpse of what her life might have been like living with such a man. A man who lives too much for his public. A man who cares too much about image. A man of God, publicly committed to biblical truth who will not be privately swayed by it, even when put right in front of him. A man who expects bending to his will, not God’s. A man who will humiliate and verbally abuse. A man who sends people limping and broken from his church, at his hands, and cares not a bit to tend to their wounds. A man who will not apologize or seek forgiveness. A man who fits the clinical definition of a narcissist.

You may say I’m being judgmental. Go ahead. Say it. But we are called to judge, to have discernment. We are called to judge what is right and wrong, what is good and evil. A lack of conscience is a breeding ground for all kinds of harm. I speak from what I know of this man and I’ll wager I know more of him than many of the wiry-haired old ladies who’ve sat in those pews for years and see him only as they choose to see him — as the apple of their faithful, fading eyes.

Near the end of this sermon, he says:

Suicide is a horrible, horrible tragedy of human despair. It comes from a life that has been unable to assimilate truth and truth to become that which changes a life. (emphasis mine)

So she failed. She was “unable to assimilate truth”; therefore, she committed suicide. To suggest that the only reason a person commits suicide is because she is “unable to assimilate truth” is not only faulty logic; it’s cruel. There are plenty of non-Christians, unassimilated to the truth, who don’t commit suicide. Suicide comes from a place too dark and too deep for this man’s understanding.

I felt sick to my stomach listening to this and so deeply, horribly sad for her. The fate of this woman I never knew kept me up last night. I know she’s with God, free of earthly chains. But her life ……. I’m only left to imagine.

After I listened to this message, I poked around the archives and found the sermon from the previous week. Here’s the mental picture I could not escape as I listened to it and put the timeline together:

The pastor, up in his pulpit, speaking on this week of the failed suicide attempt of “a woman he knows and cares about” just the Sunday before, while at the very same time — because it happened on this very Sunday morning — she is at home, alone, recovering from her failed attempt, by making sure it succeeds this time.

As he speaks of her attempt and exploits her despair, she is all alone and dying. This man, who’s all about biblical “context, context, context,” seems utterly devoid of proper emotional context in real life, in interpersonal issues. This was a violation of his ex-wife, his dead ex-wife, someone despairing enough that death seemed the only escape. Trotting her out in front her former church as a negative example of how to live, well, it’s the work of an utter narcissist.

She died at Thanksgiving. Three months ago. Meanwhile, he seems to have a new girlfriend. My Beloved had recently seen him with a woman at a local coffeehouse. And yesterday, since we live in the neighborhood, we happened to be driving by the church as the late service was letting out and spotted him. There he was, this 50-something-year-old man, strutting along the sidewalk, laughing loudly, sporting a Ryan Seacrest-type shirt, having retired, I guess, the suit he stubbornly used to wear. I imagine because this look is more “cool.” He was towing a woman along behind him, hand in hand, the same woman MB had seen; I assume a girlfriend. If she’d witnessed this coldhearted sermon, how did she not bolt for the door? I don’t see how a person of any discernment could miss the cold and hostile context here.

Prancing down that sidewalk, the pastor seemed quite over the “intense agony” he’d said he had.

To the one who is gone, I am so sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I am so sorry that you died so despairing, so alone.

But I know — I know! — you’ve finally found the abundant love that perhaps you never felt here.

Posted on

halloween is HAPPY!

This is good — both Greg and The Anchoress have said it, so now I don’t really have to. But what the heck:

Halloween is kewl.

GASP! SHAME! Christians aren’t supposed to utter that, right? Because, says Greg:

Apparently the more acceptable thing to do now – the more scriptural, i.e. “biblical” – thing to do is shutter the house and pack the kids off to church for an “alternative” evening of fun and games. zzzzzZZZZZZZ…. Oh, sorry. Um, where was I? No ghosts or gremlins allowed here, by golly. The only costumes you’re going to see are going to be Bible characters. The good ones, of course. No Pilates or Jezebels, that’s for sure. And although I understand with our culture in profound disarray it was almost inevitable that such a safer alternative come to pass, I still have to wonder if this is the best we can do. As Christians, you know. Is this just one more time when we boycott our culture, insulate ourselves from real life, and distance ourselves from our communities for reasons that only we know and understand? I mean, do you think the rest of the neighborhood is really hip to why we do what we do? Really? Remember what I said at the top about America spending almost as much on Halloween decorations as it does on Christmas decorations? I wonder if we’ve really thought this whole thing through – what our darkened, shuttered houses say to our neighbors on the one night they can be guaranteed to visit us.

Yup.

And The Anchoress shares some personal memories of Halloween … and the FUN of it all! For Pete’s sake!

Last year, My Beloved and I went trick or treating with our then-4-year-old niece, Piper. She was all decked out in her pink and blue tulle princess regalia and her little light-up tennis shoes. A proper princess, indeed. She was enchanting and utterly, smushably cute. And her teensy “beech” (speech) problems made her just that much more irresistible to everyone. I’m tellin’ you true.

She’d charge up to each house, with us holding back a bit, ring the doorbell by herself (“I can do it, Tee Tee!”), wait for that door to open, rocking back and forth on her feet, and when that glorious moment happened, when that door FINALLY opened, she’d cry out:

“FRICK O’ FREAT!!”

Oohs and aahhs ensued, with many a neighbor giving her extra candy — for sheer cuteness’ sake, I’m sure.

Then she’d stare down at the fresh booty in her bag and, wide-eyed, say:

“OH! GANK YOU! GANK YOU!!”

Every house, the same. Good, neighborly feelings all ’round, a little girl’s candy-coated dreams coming true, and some vigilant adults, giddy with glee at her antics …. and her unabashed, slightly mispronounced good manners.

Back at home, she dumped out her bag and proceeded to give most of her candy away — to her older brothers, her parents, My Beloved and me. She shared with everyone. She gave us the good stuff, too. There was no parental exhortation for her to share; she simply did it, out of her open and generous heart.

There was nothing of evil. There was nothing of demons.

But there was magic, though. The magic of family giggling together, abandoned to silliness. The magic of a neighborhood sharing the spirit of this annual candy beg-fest. And the magic of a little girl’s sweetness, far sweeter than any candy.

Somehow, I think Jesus was smiling down on our tiny frick or freater that night.