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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.

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“the visited planet”

Some Christmas reflections from one of my absolute favorite Christian writers — Philip Yancey. Oh, how I LOVE him! He speaks to me about the Christian life the way no other modern, Christian author quite can. He’s unabashedly honest; almost uncomfortably so. I mean, this is, after all, the author of a book boldly called “Disappointment with God” — a singular, brilliant book which every Christian should read, because if we’re honest, really, REALLY honest, we have all felt disappointment with God at one time or another. I always feel comforted and encouraged and less alone when I read a Yancey book.

Anyway, right now, I’m reading “The Jesus I Never Knew” and in typical Yancey fashion, he cuts through platitudes and offers a fresh perspective on Christmas that I really needed to hear.

So here are some snippets:

Christmas art depicts Jesus’ family as icons stamped in gold foil, with a calm Mary receiving the tidings of the Anunciation as a kind of benediction. But that is not at all how Luke tells the story. Mary was “greatly troubled” and “afraid” at the angel’s appearance, and when the angel pronounced the sublime words about the the Son of the Most High whose kingdom will never end, Mary had something far more mundane on her mind: But I’m a virgin!

Once, a young unmarried lawyer named Cynthia bravely stood before my church in Chicago and told of a sin we already knew about: we had seen her hyperactive son running up and down the aisles every Sunday. Cynthia had taken the lonely road of bearing an illegitimate child and caring for him after his father decided to skip town. Cynthia’s sin was no worse than any others, and yet, as she told us, it had such conspicuous consequences. She could not hide the result of that single act of passion, sticking out as it did from her abdomen for months until a child emerged to change every hour of every day of the rest of her life. No wonder the Jewish teenager Mary felt greatly troubled; she faced the same prospects even without the act of passion.

In the modern United States, where each year a million teenage girls get pregnant out of wedlock, Mary’s predicament has undoubtedly lost some of its force, but in a closely knit Jewish community in the first century, the news an angel brough could not have been entirely welcome. The law regarded a betrothed woman who became pregnant as an adulteress, subject to death by stoning.

Matthew tells of Joseph magnanimously agreeing to divorce Mary in private rather than press charges, until an angel shows up to correct his perception of betrayal. Luke tells of a tremulous Mary hurrying off to the one person who could possibly understand what she was going through: her relative Elizabeth, who miraculously got pregnant after another angelic anunciation. Elizabeth believes Mary and shares her joy, and yet the scene poignantly highlights the contrast between the two women: the whole countryside is talking about Elizabeth’s healed womb even as Mary must hide the shame of her own miracle.

Today as I read the account of Jesus’ birth I tremble to think of the fate of the world resting of the responses of two rural teenagers. How many times did Mary review the angel’s words as she felt the Son of God kicking against the walls of her uterus? How many times did Joseph second-guess his own encounter with an angel — just a dream — as he endured the hot shame of living amongst villagers who could plainly see the changing shape of his fiancee?

Nine months of awkward explanations, the lingering scent of scandal — it seems that God arranged the most humiliating circumstances possible for his entrance, as if to avoid any charge of favoritism. I am impressed that when the Son of God became a human being he played by the rules, harsh rules: small towns do not treat kindly young boys who grow up with questionable paternity.

That humbles me — how he so humbled himself to be among us, to be one of us.

Later, Yancey gives a perspective that give me chills — the view of the incarnation from the heavenlies:

There is one view of Christmas I have never seen on a Christmas card, probably because no artist could do it justice. Revelation 12 pulls back the curtain to give us a glimpse of Christmas as it must have looked from somewhere far beyond Andromeda: Christmas from the angels’ viewpoint.

The account differs radically from the birth stories in the Gospels. Revelation does not mention shepherds and an infanticidal king; rather, it pictures a dragon leading a ferocious struggle in heaven. A woman clothed with the sun and wearing a crown of 12 stars cries out in pain as she is about to give birth. Suddenly, the enormous red dragon enters the picture, his tail sweeping a third of the stars out of the sky and flinging them to the earth. He crouches hungrily before the woman, anxious to devour her child the moment it is born. At the last second the infant is snatched away to safety, the woman flees into the desert, and all-out cosmic war begins.

I’m chilled when I read that. God, breaching the cosmos, willingly entering TIME as a helpless babe, igniting an unseen battle that rages still.

A long way from “Silent Night,” no? A long, LONG way.

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bill

I almost ran over Bill today. I turned the corner onto my street — a bit too fast, as is my bent — and there he was, limping across the road, cane in hand. He carried a bag, too, just like that night we met. I wondered if its contents were the same.

Instantly, I slowed down and he glanced my way. I wasn’t sure if he’d recognize me in the daylight, but I thought I saw the briefest glimmer. When his glance turned to wariness and quickly shifted away, I knew he remembered me, remembered how we met.

And I still don’t know what to do.

How do you recover from meeting someone at a moment of such naked vulnerability, such stark indignity? How do you roll down your window, say hello, how are you, when, on the night you’d met, he had lain in the road and wet himself and you had prattled on and on …. all while waiting for the ambulance to come and take him away?

As I drove by, he ducked his head down and tears stung at my eyelids because I knew he didn’t want to see me, really, and because I understood why he didn’t want to see me and because I so wished it could be different.

Driving down the block, I offered up a feeble, tongue-tied prayer. I even told God I thought it was so. But maybe, just maybe, when it hit the heavenlies, God helped it to soar rather than thud, as it did down here.

After all, “The Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.” Romans 8: 26

Thank God.

Because I still don’t know what to do.

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what to do with a Bible

In the years since I became a Christian as a wee chile, I’ve accumulated quite a cache of Bibles: large ones, small ones, this translation, that translation, leather bound, paperback, kiddie award Bibles, gold-embossed grownup Bibles. Many are worn past practical use, secreted away in a musty box. Their pages are ripped, stained, marked. Covers are cracked, torn, and threadbare. They seem mere wisps, held together only by the power of the Holy Spirit. Picking them up requires cradling them in a certain careful way, like a newborn babe, lest they slip through my hands.

I have newer Bibles now, with better structural integrity. But although I don’t use my old Bibles anymore, I still have them. I’ve never gotten rid of them because …. I don’t think I can.

And by that, I don’t mean “I don’t think I’m “able,” though there is a bit of that.

I actually mean “I don’t think I’m allowed.”

But where does this notion come from? Is this a Divine Compulsion? Or a self-imposed one? Would parting with these Bibles be a practicality? Or a sacrilege? It seems wrong, disobedient even, but then ….

Psalm 119 says, “I have hidden your word in my heart that I might not sin against you.” In Proverbs, I’m told to guard His teachings, to write them on the tablet of my heart. A word engraved on the very tablet of my heart would be imperishable, indeed. Whether I had the physical source of it or not, that word would endure. I’m exhorted to be so familiar with the Word that it’s safely inside, buried, no matter where the actual book may be.

It’s not the book, it’s the Living Word contained within its pages.

So then why can’t I part with my tattered, unused Bibles sitting in that box? Why, even after what I just wrote, do I still feel that I can’t? That I shouldn’t? That I mustn’t?

Perhaps the reason is less legalistic, more raw:

The Word is not etched deeply enough on the tablet of my heart.

It’s scratched the shallow surface, I suppose, but not far enough to be called truly “hidden in my heart,” not far enough that I wouldn’t feel lost if all my Bibles, both new and old, were taken from me.

I cling to the external because I haven’t spent time enough making it internal.

So it’s time to lay the chisel to my heart, time to allow the Holy Spirit to carve deep His truths, time to have the Word hewn in my heart.

Not just sitting on the nightstand.

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the divine lottery

So a while back, I was riding in a car with a woman I’ll call Plumcake. At a stoplight, while deep in discussion with me about something else, Plumcake suddenly gasped and blurted, “Hey! Look at that car! It has ‘333’ on the license plate! Oh, thank you, Lord!”

Hm. I looked at the car. I looked at her. I looked back at the car. It was just a car.

Uh, I didn’t get it.

She continued.

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

I’m sorry, what??

Was she joking? Temporarily off her nut? I wasn’t sure, so I decided a solid, but noncommittal response was a chuckle. I mean, what person, whether joker or nutter, could object to the chuckle, right? So I chuckled. Plumcake threw a withering glare at me. Oops. Okay. I guess she was serious. Duly chastised, I shut my mouth, too stunned to make a peep now. I sat in silence while she rhapsodized about ‘333.’

Now I thought this was an isolated incident, but since then, I’ve seen her publicly gush over anything with the number 333: addresses, phone numbers, digital clocks. I was at her house one afternoon when the kitchen clock struck 3:33 and she started to dance a little jiggedy jig of joy: “It’s 3:33! God’s thinking of me. It’s 3:33! God’s thinking of ME!” Her two little kids ran in and joined the 333 jig.

I stood stock still and wide eyed at the celebration, the only one not dancing, which is a bummer because I like to dance, just not about numbers generally. Frankly, I thought the whole dealio seemed rather exclusionary, since apparently, God was thinking just of Plumcake and there were other people in the room. Once 3:33 clicked over to 3:34 and God wasn’t thinking about her anymore — I mean, I guess, if you follow the “logic” here — Plumcake calmed down and resumed her (semi)normal life. I, on the other hand, left Plumcake’s house shortly thereafter so I could begin my private spiritual freakout at the thought that God was now in the numbers game.

Because if God is in the numbers, I’m toast. Doomed. If this is the direction he’s headed, then at some point I will wet my pants about it, because Crackie ain’t so good with the numbers. Oh, no, she ain’t.

I generally don’t like to wet my pants, so to calm down and keep myself dry, I’ve given some thought to Plumcake’s spiritual epiphany and, it turns out, I’ve got 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 scribbled 333 on a piece of paper? Would that mean God’s thinking of you or would it mean that I just scribbled 333 on a freaking piece of paper?

But, wait. I need to think this through. Maybe God is speaking this way. Maybe God IS in the numbers. If so, what’s next? Story problems?? Oh, sweet baby Jesus in the manger. Just think of the ones ALMIGHTY GOD could come up with: “Two trains depart Toledo, one traveling the speed of a hummingbird’s wings, the other, the speed of an eyelash blink and if X is the total number of passengers and Y is the total number of sins amongst them, which locomotive arrives at the pearly gates first??” I mean, I’d be toast for sure. My utter incompetence with numbers would cement my spiritual doom forever and ever. I’m schvitzing just thinking about it.

Maybe it’s not story problems, though. 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:

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, peaches.

And if God is speaking through numbers, then I must be deaf.

What is going on here? Where are we Christians getting these fairy-tale notions? Where? Please understand. Plumcake isn’t stupid. (She’s emotion-based, yes, but I don’t question her native intelligence.) What I question is when superstition and fantasy creeps into believers’ hearts, weakening or totally replacing firm foundations. You may say, “Well, but I don’t buy into these notions.” To which I say, “Thank God,” but there are enough Christians who do that we should be 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.” (Maybe not something you say to a woman in the throes of infertility but whatevs.) And, 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, I wonder? Given his comment, I questioned whether the baby was really a “resurrection” or a deflection.

Has the God of the universe transitioned into the business of saying what we want to hear, of saying things that are 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 become so hollowed out by the on-the-spot 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, dammit. 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 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, thank God. (A post for another time.)

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 thrill 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.

Really? That’s what you want? We have The Cross. We have the Word. We have the Holy Spirit. You want 333?

Honestly, you can have it.

I think I’ll stick with the rest.

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transparency

This morning, a courageous woman named Joann left a comment on my old post “some straights and some homos“. Because that post is now archived and because I wanted more people to read what she shared, I’m posting her comment here, front and center. I deeply respect people like her and dear Greg at What Attitude Problem who are willing to be so achingly transparent. Here is her comment:

I am a Christian, and for awhile after becoming one, I spoke very harshly against homosexuality. I was self-righteous about it in almost every way possible (the only thing I didn’t do was support hatred and violence). But guess what? I soon developed a homosexual crush on a female friend of mine named Nancy (who is also married), and I am only just now learning to overcome my self-righteous attitude concerning homosexuality. Go figure, huh? So, now I finally agree that there is absolutely nothing wrong with meeting and making friends with practicing gays and lesbians, as long as we remain just that, friends, and we don’t get all preachy and self-righteous about their behavior at them. In other words, kindness and friendship will go a longer way in encouraging gays and lesbians to change than if we preached to them and tried to enforce our own Christian beliefs on them. Believe me, I learned that the hard way recently, and that’s why I am glad that I’ve decided not to be so harshly judgmental anymore. After all, none of us Christians would like it if a gay man or woman came up to us one day and tried to convert us into homosexuals now, would we? So what right do we have in trying to convert them into Christians? None! Gays and lesbians are human, too, so I’m glad that we are finally accepting them and giving them the dignity and respect that they deserve.

As for my homosexual crush on Nancy? The good news is that I’m almost completely over it, thanks to God’s mercy, glory, and grace. The bad news? Even though I don’t have sinful sex dreams or fantasies about her anymore, and I no longer have the desire to sleep with her, I still have a lot of nonsexual dreams and fantasies about her, so I’m still struggling.

I may not be a homosexual anymore, but I’m not going to be so harshly against homosexuality anymore, either. Instead, every gay man and woman I meet will be treated with loving kindness, dignity, and respect by me, and I’ll even try to make friends with a few, too!

Amen. And amen. Thank you, Joann, for the blessing.

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“some straights and some homos”

(Names have been changed in this post.)

So My Beloved and I went to a "gay" Christmas party Saturday night. When we mentioned that we were attending this party, there were a few raised eyebrows from Christian friends. But let me explain.

Our neighbors in the townhome next door are a gay couple named Mike and Lee. In the year since we bought this place, we’ve become friends. We know they’re gay; they know we’re Christians. I remember early on having one of those get-to-know-you conversations where they both shared about their families. Mike described growing up destitute and fatherless, one of twelve children in the coal mining country of West Virginia. At that point, Lee chimed in, "Yeah, hon. You were a real coal miner’s daughter." I howled with laughter. How can you resist that?

Mike is 54 years old and HIV positive. He is gaunt, in frequent pain, and on total disability. Whenever I hug or touch him — which is pretty much every time I see him — he seems genuinely surprised. He has an older, Christian sister whom he adores, calling her his "soul mate." One day when he was talking about her, though, he said, "Yeah. She doesn’t smoke or drink or swear. You know, all the things that make you a Christian." Lee was listening and added, "Oh, yeah. And you need to believe in Jesus." (Now, I’d been trying to tread lightly with my friends here — something I’m not good at — but THAT was an opening if there ever was one.) I looked at both of them and quietly (only because I was nervous) said, "And you know what? Out of all those things you said, that’s the only one that matters at all." They looked at me, a bit taken aback, and one of them changed the subject. Actually, that was fine with me for a couple reasons: First, I felt sure hyperventilation was imminent and, second, I know that the conversation is not over.

But I need to tread lightly here, trusting only in the Holy Spirit for guidance and wisdom, because, frankly, the gay community is neither impressed nor touched by our "love" for them. They think we’re full of it and they’re not far off. When we moved in last year, I had Christians warn me to "watch out for those gays, they’ll stab you in the back." (And we Christians never would. Naturally.) How many times have we heard Christians we know refer to homosexuals as "those fags" or "those queers" or some other slam, delivered with great relish and equal contempt? How many times have we done that ourselves?

Recently, Lee shared a bit more about his family. They’re Jehovah’s Witnesses and he was, too, until a few years ago. He has never told his mother and grandmother, who live locally, that he’s gay or that he lives with his lover. In order to maintain any kind of relationship with them, he’s felt compelled to tell this rather unconvincing lie: that Mike is his landlord and he just rents a room from him. All because, he says, they would reject him if they knew the truth. "They would have to," he says, "because of their religion."

In his book "What’s so Amazing about Grace?" Philip Yancey relates this quote from a gay man who came from a Christian background: "I still believe. I would love to go to church, but whenever I’ve tried, someone spreads a rumor about me and suddenly everyone withdraws. As a gay man, I’ve found it’s easier for me to get sex on the streets than to get a hug in church."

That simply should never, ever be.

Touchingly, Mike and Lee are unfailingly good and generous to us. Many times, I’ve come home to find a friendly note taped to our door or a bag of goodies warming our welcome mat. If my husband is out of town, they’re my guardian angels, watchfully checking up on me. Their fondness for calling me "honey" and "sweetie" always makes me smile. They are loving, big-hearted men and I can’t seem to keep up with their kindnesses. But I want to — because they’re my friends. You’d all be lucky to have friends like our gay friends.

So about the party. Several weeks ago, Mike approached me and said, "We’re having a Christmas party and we want you to come. There’s gonna be some straights and some homos. What d’you think?" He seemed to be watching anxiously for my response. I looked him straight in the eye, smiled, and said, "Well, sounds like a party to me. We’ll be there."

And you know what? It was a lovely party and I had a great time. Sure, I was the only woman there, but, hey, gay men have a certain winning way of fawning over a woman that is utterly non-threatening because it’s non-sexual. They draw you in, relax you, and charm your socks off. No woman in her right mind would have a problem with that. And, sure, My Beloved, that hunka hunka burning man love, was good-naturedly hit on by a giant, burly, lumberjackish fellow. "Yeah. I know you’re straight," The Lumberjack joked. MB laughed and replied, "Yeah. And that’s my wife over there." Mostly, though, we talked about football, which may rattle some people’s stereotypes of gay men. Anyone walking into that home would have simply seen a bunch of enthusiastic men — and one chick — talking football and making friends.

Still, there are many Christians who’d say that we shouldn’t have gone. "You’re advocating that lifestyle," they might say. Or, "You’re sending the wrong message." No, I’m not. To me, not going would have sent the wrong message — one of rejection and judgment. I’m convinced it was important for us to go precisely because we’re Christians. I like to think Jesus would have been there, in the fray, scarfing meatballs and talking football.

But, in truth, it was no great sacrifice on our part, no righteous crusade. For, perhaps even more controversially, they are our friends. They’re our friends.

You’d all be lucky to have friends like our gay friends.

What if you asked God to bring you some?

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the crush

“Come,” says The Harvester.

“And see the olive, crushed for the purest oil.”

“Come,” He says again.

“And see the grape, crushed for the sweetest wine.”

“Come,” says The Harvester, at last.

“And see the heart, crushed, for the fine things inside.”

“Not for naught. For the fineness inside.”

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to be a good samaritan, part 3

So how do I mingle compassion and respect here? And by "respect" I mean not just deference for his person, his dignity, but also for his privacy. He may very well want to be left alone. And if someone desires that — however convinced we may be of their rampant "needs" — musn’t we, as Christians, respect that? Or do we charge in like marauding spiritual warriors, crying, "We’ve got the Lord’s work to do. Dignity and privacy be damned!"

Let’s face it. Just because you have the Holy Spirit doesn’t mean you’re not annoying. I’m annoying. So in this situation, I’m just as capable as the next well-intentioned Christian of mucking things up. Probably more so. Possibly irreparably. Which is why I’m blogging about it instead of banging on Bill’s door.

Because … if I think I’m loving someone, but he feels bothered, have I loved him? If I think I’m serving someone, but he feels burdened, have I served him?

It’s interesting. As I’ve prayed about this, the Lord’s graciously given me three things: the chance to see Bill again, an answer to prayer, and, because of the first two, an end to this story — for now. Here’s what’s happened.

The other night, my husband and I went for a walk. I confess we did stop at a nearby apartment complex and inquire after Bill. But if he lived there, no one knew him. A little dejected, we stepped back to the sidewalk …. and there he was, limping toward us with his cane in one hand and a bag in the other. He wore a white, floppy hat and a stained sweatshirt. His head was down. I was relieved to see him, so, impulsively, I spoke.

"Bill?"

He looked up, wary.

And I kept talking.

"Hi. Yeah. We met you — the other night?"

We reintroduced ourselves. He spoke then, remembering us.

"Oh, yeah. Hi."

This time, I smelled alcohol. I saw beer in his bag.

"So how’re you doing? You okay?"

"Oh, yeah. Everything turned out fine. I just hadn’t eaten. But I’m okay." He didn’t look directly at us. He fiddled with his cane.

"Well, we’re really glad to hear that."

"Yeah, you know. Thanks for everything."

My husband reminded him, "Hey, I’ve still got your beer. Do you want me to bring that by? You live right here?"

"Yeah," he gestured vaguely. "Up those stairs. But you can just keep the beer. That’s okay."

"You sure?"

"Oh, yeah. Uh, don’t bother. Save it for the Chargers game or something," he insisted.

"Okay. Thanks."

He spoke as he started to shuffle away.

"Well, it was good to see you."

We didn’t know what else to say.

"Yeah. Good to see you, too. Glad you’re doing okay. We’ll see you around, hopefully."

And that was it.

Awkward. Polite. But clear: "I feel humiliated. I like my privacy."

Back home after this encounter, I opened my Bible. The Lord led me to Proverbs 19:2:

"It is not good to have zeal without knowledge, nor to be hasty and miss the way."

Ah. My answer to prayer.

O Lord, temper my zeal with knowledge. I don’t want to be hasty. I don’t want to miss the way. I’ll wait for You to show me.

Wait and pray. Wait and pray.