May 20, 2005
Pray and Scream
Can I just say that I’m really, really annoyed with myself and God right now? My husband is in the process of very preliminary job negotiations that seem as slender as a house of cards: nobody breathe. And I don’t know how to pray about it.
A few weeks ago, I wrote a response to a post at Smart Christian, who asked for responses to questions that members of his congregation had submitted. One question was, How do we discover God’s will or purpose for our life? I wrote this snippy little response that said, in effect, that I was sick of people whining about what God’s will for them was when the Bible says it clearly over and over: “Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus” (I Thess. 5: 16-18). The Bible does not talk about career paths and the ladder to financial success and what house you should buy. It talks about praying and giving thanks. I basically agree with what I wrote, but I think I could have conveyed it with a lot more gentleness and grace.
When you act without grace, your actions come back and bite you in the ass.
Now I feel like I’m one of those whiny people I complained about. What I want to ask God for is a tailor-made job for my husband, in the perfect place, with the perfect people, with a perfect salary, and so on. As job after job falls through, I want scream, “Well, what is that you want with us, then?”
And I know what He wants. Give thanks continually. Pray. Submit your requests with thanksgiving.
And I know what He’s taught me. I’m pretty close to understanding what it means to say, “you can’t take it with you.” Salvation (even salvation here on earth) is a huge cushion that I know will soften any fall we might take. Money really doesn’t matter, because it’s really OK, because there really is a God that makes it OK.
So how do I pray? Do I give thanks and simulate joy, or do I scream for what I really want, like all those whiny Christians?
Thank goodness Jesus himself introduced paradox into Christianity, because right now I think I’m going to scream *and* give thanks (with a heavy emphasis on the screaming).
Posted by Lisa at 10:49 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
May 10, 2005
My One and Only
I asked my therapist one day if I was his favorite client. When he paused, I knew I was in trouble.
“Well,” he said. He tented his fingers and gazed upward, undoubtedly searching for an answer that, while true, would also keep me from running out of the room screaming.
“The thing is, I don’t think of my clients in terms of favorites,” he finally said.
I stared at him in disbelief. Oh, c’mon, I thought to myself. Everyone plays favorites. As a former teacher, I know this is true. When I looked out over a sea of faces in my classroom, there was always one or maybe two that elicited my affection more than the rest. Maybe it’s because I myself have favorites that I always want to be the favorite. It’s hard for me to be one of many and still feel that I have value as a person. (Thank goodness I'm not a Borg.)
It’s not only my therapist I harass about this. I also want to be God’s favorite. I your God am a jealous God, God says.
Well, I want to respond, I am a jealous child.
When I see a church van with a John 3:16 sticker on the window and a bunch of happy teens in the back, I shake my head. How could God so love the entire world? That concept’s way too abstract for me to wrap my mind around. What interests me is whether or not God loves *me.*
I *so* do not want this to be true. I don’t want to be so selfish and insecure that I begrudge God’s loving his world.
So I repent.
And I try to find new ways of understanding the depth of God’s love for his children—me and all his children.
In my reading, I recently came across this gem from Marilyn Robinson’s "Gilead:" “Augustine says the Lord loves each of us as an only child.” From the way my heart jumped within me, I knew I’d found something big. I tracked down the reference, which is from Augustine’s "Confessions." Before his conversion to Christianity, when Augustine was held captive to all kinds of vice and heresy, Augustine’s mother, Marcia, wept for his soul night and day. God comforted his mother in a vision about which Augustine says this: “Whence came this vision unless it was that thy ears were inclined toward her heart? O thou Omnipotent Good, thou carest for every one of us as if thou didst care for him only…!” God’s tenderness towards Marcia was so great that it was as though she were the only person in existence, the only person on earth that God had to minister to.
I saw that I had been asking the wrong question. Instead of asking, “Am I your favorite?” the better question is, “How much do you love me?”
And God’s answer is, I love you as though you were the only child that I had to love.
Being God’s only child means that I can approach him without jockeying for attention. It means that God’s lap is always free; it’s never occupied with another child. It means that God’s focus is trained fully on me; he’s never distracted by other kids tugging at his robe. Don’t get me wrong; those other kids are still there. But they’re his only children, too. They can make their own arrangements, and I don’t have to worry about them (nor they about me). Being God’s only child means that I’m the apple of his eye. How much richer an image than the anxiety-filled quest of being God’s favorite!
Do you have a need that’s similar to mine? Maybe you’re one of nine kids and never quite got enough attention when you were small. Maybe you always felt overlooked growing up because you weren’t the smartest or the prettiest or the most popular. Maybe you even feel that way now.
To you, God says, “You are my one and only. You are the apple of my eye.”
God’s heart is big enough to encompass all our hurts and weaknesses, even those that seem petty or selfish. I rest in God’s lap today, knowing it’s the right size to hold me and me alone—along with those millions of others that are God’s only children, too.
Posted by Lisa at 05:12 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
May 05, 2005
Why The Atkins Diet Sucks
I've never liked the Atkins Diet, but for a long time I wasn't able to put my finger on exactly why. Part of it is that I'm suspicious of a diet that tells you to not eat things that are proven to be good for you, like fruit.
Recently I discovered the real reason that the Atkins Diet sucks. It sucks because life, Real Life, is all about bread.
From the beginning, the promises of life held out to us by our Creator have been promises of bread. We're used to hearing about the promised land overflowing with milk and honey. But just before Moses died, he blessed the Israelites and said this:
"Jacob's spring is secure in a land of grain and wine, where the heavens drop dew (Deut. 33:28)."
Grain and wine. Moses not only meant that God was leading them to a fruitful land. Grain and wine also refers to the ultimate salvation offered in the body and blood of Jesus.
Jesus himself is the Bread of Life. During the Last Supper, he took bread and told the disciples that it was his body, broken for them. We remember his death when we eat bread during the celebration of communion. We also remember his death when we share a meal together, an act commonly referred to as "breaking bread together."
Some of us do, anyway. A friend of ours, a truly zany guy and a wonderful Christian, doesn't eat bread. Of all his bizarro and mostly endearing habits, this is truly the most annoying. When we got out to eat with him, he orders things that come with bread, like burgers and fish sandwiches, and either asks for them without the bread or pushes the buns aside. Then he reaches into his bag and pulls out his bottle of lo-carb ketchup, which he carries with him everywhere. (Meg Ryan's high-maintenance character in "When Harry Met Sally" has nothing on this guy.)
Our friend, "Roberto," is in his forties and is very thin. There is no real reason for him to be quite so maniacal about following the Atkins Diet.
Roberto also talks about disliking having to eat bread during the celebration of communion. "Even that little, tiny crumb that you can barely feel on your tongue?" I ask. "You can't be too careful," he says. He's kidding, but only kind of. This is where I think he's going too far.
Some people, like my friend C., don't like to chew the body of Christ. They prefer a paper-thin wafer that melts on your tongue. Like absorbing the body of Christ, C. says. I myself prefer to chew a little, just to know that Jesus is there. But to each her own.
It's another thing entirely, however, to be so preoccupied with carb counting that it affects your attitude toward communion.
I read recently that there are roughly 500 references to bread in the Bible. Some are stories: the loaves and fishes, for example. Some are metaphors: beware the leaven of the Pharisees. Bread was a major dietary staple in biblical times, and it has many wonderful qualities. It keeps for several days. In the form of grain, it can be stored for a long time to ward against times of want. It is of the earth. Of course, if he'd wanted to, Jesus could have picked another food when referring to himself. Why not fish, for example? Or he could have picked a food that was less common, in order to set himself apart from the norm. But he picked bread, and in so doing, he invested bread with meaning and nourishment above and beyond its material substance.
Anne Lamott recognizes this in her newest book, "Plan B." She says:
"I went by the cafe and asked the aunties [her thighs] what they might like for a snack--bread pudding or fruit salad. They wanted half a sandwich, a lot of bread pudding, and one small whole-wheat bun. I think they would have ordered a bread beverage if they could--beer, with hops and barley, or in the interest of sobriety, a raisin-bread frappe. Bread is as spiritual as human life gets. Rumi wrote, 'Be a well-baked loaf.' Loaves are made to be eaten, to be buttered, and shared. Rumi is saying to be of service, to be delicious and give life. The aunties know things."
The aunties--and I, and hopefully all of us--want the real thing. We want the promised land of grain and wine, and we know that a "land of lo-carb bars and diet soda" just isn't going to do it.
Can a real Christian follow the Atkins Diet?
Posted by Lisa at 11:00 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
April 26, 2005
The Water Seller
OK, I am now officially in big trouble if anyone sees me, because I'm blogging at work. It's a slow, slow day here in Kelly girl-land. Even as I type this, my hand is poised to close this window the second someone rounds the corner to my work area.
The other week at work, the guy who sells (or just brings) us our big bottled water jugs came. My desk faces the entrance but has one of those high counters in front of it, so that if I'm not craning upwards, I can't see who's coming in. I heard the door and looked up to see the water guy struggling with one water jug perched on his shoulder and one in his hand. It wasn't easy for him to open the front door to our office. He came in, took the full jugs around the corner and retrieved the empty ones.
On his second trip in, a client approaching the office opened the door for the water seller. The water seller thanked him. "Every bit helps," he said on his way around the corner. On his way back outside with the empty jugs, he stopped and said to me, "You know, at this one place I go, the guy in front never gets the door for me. He just sits there and makes me walk all the way around to the side entrance." He went back out to his truck for yet more jugs.
There was something about this guy that got to me. Part of it was his open, easy smile. Also his weather-beaten face and lank blond hair. Mostly it was his frank admission of needing help. You could argue that it's his job to carry in the water jugs. It's not my job. But why couldn't I help him anyway? Why was I content to just sit and watch him struggle until he said something? I, who am so sensitive to being the lowest woman on the totem pole in this office. Here was one lower than I, and I just let him hang.
You can bet that when I saw him coming in for the third time, I fell all over myself running get the door for him.
It was one of those moments when I thought, you know, this guy really could be Jesus. The roughened face, the longish hair, the parable of asking for help. And the fact that he was bringing us water. (The water of life?) It all just came together. And I tremble to think how close I came to letting him hang out to dry.
Posted by Lisa at 10:23 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack