1. I left the church because I'm better at planning Bible studies than baby showers...but they only wanted me to plan baby showers.

5. I left the church because I believe the earth is 4.5 billion years old and that humans share a common ancestor with apes, which I was told was incompatible with my faith.

8. I left the church because it was often assumed that everyone in the congregation voted for Republicans.

9. I left the church because I felt like I was the only one troubled by stories of violence and misogyny and genocide found in the Bible, and I was tired of people telling me not to worry about it because "God's ways are higher than our ways."

The sponge streaked over my kitchen counter removing all loose residue, but failed to budge a droplet of what looked like concrete which had adhered itself to the tiles. I flipped the sponge to its rougher side and took a few more passes over the splotch.  No effect.  It remained like an ancient ruin. I could tell it planned to outlast the ages, come rain or snow or sleet or me.

But I'm no quitter. So, I found a scraping tool and braced myself, taking a wide stance and flexing my triceps. The thing gave me naught but a stony glare.  I scraped and scraped and scraped, but it was useless.  I was attacking an ocean with a teaspoon.

This ridiculous battle should have been funny, but suddenly I found myself in tears. 

I was frustrated, but what's worse, I was defeated.  Not by the spot on my counter, but by a calendar, commitments and deadlines.  Everywhere I turn there seems to be something which I've promised, someone I've committed to meet, a homework assignment due, a departure time for a trip.  It's endless and it's all my fault.

You see, I like my life full.  Living is fun and beautiful and full of emotion.  I wake up every day happy to see the dawn, my husband, and a set of tasks which I'm entirely capable of doing.  However, on some days, the worst days, it is daunting.

Losing my grip in my empty kitchen was not the plan last night. I should have been sitting at a long table in a library classroom at the local community college conjugating verbs and answering questions about a little boy named Marcel... all in French, of course. But I'd discovered earlier in the day that I'd racked up too many absences via travels and long work days, etc., to maintain a good grade.  

Faced with the prospect of a shabby report card versus a lightening of my overall load for the rest of the year, I swallowed the horrible lump in my throat and opted to drop my French class.

In the poem Fire and Ice by Robert Frost, the speaker presents two schools of thought regarding the end of the world:

SOME say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate 
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

The point of the poem, however, does not lie in either side of the argument.  The speaker claims to "hold with those who favor fire," but his reasoning is not at issue, is not outlined for the reader to consider. Rather, the point of the poem lies in the irony of the truth behind the topic of discussion... that regardless of who is right about the way the world WILL end, either way WOULD work, and no matter how it is debated beforehand, no matter who believes what, when it happens, the world will be finished.  And the weight of that fact rather than the validity of either theory is what people should consider.

Robert Frost is mocking me. I learned this poem in sixth grade, and never could forget the biting irony behind it. But I love debate. I love a good mental tug-o-war...  

This is why I continue my dialogue about God and His current role in our lives with my dear friend (Meandering - Volume I, Meandering - Volume II).  It is why I look forward to her reactions to my contentions. It's healthy.  In the end, though, what we debate is not foundational, is not revolutionary, is not "salvational."  In the end, we're really on the same team. This is my counterpoint.  (Her points are in bold, and my responses follow.)

-------------------------

God is love in the Old Testament and the New Testament... The latter half of the Old Testament is all about God's relationship with Israel and how He is dealing with their disobedience. (sidenote: the words "disobedience" and "obedience" imply a choice on the behalf of people. Otherwise it would not be obedience we would be functioning as robots, mindless zombies, etc.)

Your point about the words 'disobedience' and 'obedience' is quite valid.  Both imply choice.  The existence of both in the Bible implies that people chose to follow God's instructions or chose to stray.  Here's my issue with your reading of obedience in Biblical context.... You're applying a human take on the definition of 'obedience' and its antithesis to something Biblical. 

Remember that none of us has the capacity to achieve righteousness through our behavior, our actions, or our obedience.  Even when we "obey," we're still sinful and deserve death and nothing more.  So, Biblical definitions of obedience, in my opinion, do not necessarily tie-in with free will.  We live in a context which, for all intents and purposes, allows us to believe we have free will, but when we "obey" God, we're really only furthering His purpose, whether that means fulfilling the Great Commission, or barricading our hearts against the "present evil age" (Galatians), or merely providing Him with increased pleasure.  And no matter what is accomplished by our obedience, it works for the good He set forth long ago. 

No, I don't equate us to robots or zombies.  Rather, I think we may be more like chess pieces, but chess pieces who live lives which can appear to be personally fulfilling and inside our control even as we're furthering the playing out of His overarching game.

Cedar Grove Community Church is hosting a new Worship Bible Study at 6pm on Sunday nights. One of the discussions trailed over onto Facebook. The prompt was as follows:

I'd like to continue a discussion that we started at our Bible Study on Sunday night... here's the question: describe what you think about the Church (the global church, not any one particular one)... free association time.

Being given to diatribes, I thought I'd refrain this time, try to salvage what's left of the ever shrinking group of people who consider me "quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry." Everyone else knows me too well. But Pastor Tom nudged me, so... 

@TB: Here's my shot...
 

 

First, the global Christian church exists only insofar as we agree on the following: Jesus Christ was the one and only son of God, He died and rose again, and in doing so, He bridged the gap between sinners and their Creator.
 
But that's it. Beyond that sliver of dogma remain as many divisions and derisions about faith and salvation as there are human beings on the planet. And that's only when considering the global Christian church. Look outside those broad borders and the world according to its different beliefs is a jungle, savage and fascinating and desperate in its plight, and as worthy of our time and love as we were worthy of the time and love of Christ.
 
What do I think of the global church? Not much.

Let us not forget that the worst moments (and eras) of history have always come at those junctures when "righteous" men (and women) have sought the power to take over the world for God or god. Such misguided focus and greed has toppled empires.

Thus, I've often wondered whether the Christian community realizes that fighting against the separation of Church and State may not be in our own best interest. 

Tuesday nights, several young women and I get together at a local coffee shop for fellowship and coffee and a chance to vent and lean on one another.  It's a group which is ever evolving, changing locations, changing members.  We've discussed books by C.S. Lewis and Lauren Winner, chapters from the Bible, watched one another grow... and we've debated some of the big theological questions.  The biggest among them seems to boil down to the idea of predestination.

Time after time, we arrive at the doorstep of this idea.  I am on one side; the rest are on the other.  I am alone in my current belief that God knows and knew and designed it all and will not be thwarted by our own selfish plans.  I am alone in believing that reason and time do not apply to God at all, that He exists above and beyond and outside and in every other way as an exception to the rules by which we mortals, His creation, are bound.

Anyway, we debate this.  In particular my dear friend, who doesn't mind meandering with me through these discussions, debates this with me.  I posted the first installment of our written dialog about the concept earlier this month (Meandering - Volume I).  This is her rebuttal.  (My points are in bold, and her responses follow.)

-------------------------

The grandest change of all was, of course, the new covenant of Jesus' blood...

We need to look at the idea of the "old covenant." I'm assuming you mean the implementation of the Ten Commandments and Levitical Law? But you could also mean the covenant God made with Abraham, or Noah for that matter. Regardless of which Old Testament covenant you look at, I'm not sure how I see how the old changed in relation to the new. Blood atonement was always needed in regards to sin. That did not change because Jesus came. What the covenant with Jesus did was simply to make the continual sacrifices unnecessary. He paid the price. He fulfilled the prophecies harkening all the way back to Abraham and Isaac on the mountain. I don't think the God of the Old Testament looks different than the God of the New Testament.

I have a dear friend with deep convictions. When she curls up at the other end of my couch and wages theological battle against me, no matter how minor our topic might actually be, it makes me happy.  Talking with her like this, my twenty-one-year-old friend who is the essence of earnestness, gives me the oddly unsettling feeling that I'm actually sitting across from a version of my past self. 

Her volume, her animated hand gestures, her ferocious drive for truth, all of these things are familiar to me. Even when she is at her most combative, even when her voice reaches a decibel which is hard to hear, even when she uses expressions and phrases which could alienate her audience, I am rapt. You see, I know that her opinions are still evolving, something she alludes to though I don't think she grasps how hard evolution can be on one so vehement.  I have barely acknowledged that truth myself, but I'm learning. 

We aren't identical in all respects, though.  Not by a long shot.  Our biggest disagreement is rooted in the idea of Predestination.  Over time, I've come to align myself with this idea... that all which will be and all which has been is and was destined to be so, conceived and laid out and known by God.  My beloved friend "chooses" not to believe this way, and she defends her choice adeptly. 

Good news... sometimes our debates sometimes move from voice to paper.  (Her points are in bold. My responses to each point follow.)

-------------------------

Why do we insist that God remain unchanging?
 
The very reason I have struggled with the Old Testament and its relevance is that it appears God "changed" multiple times. First Eden.  Then Noah's flood.  The appointment and removal of a series of kings.  The grandest change of all was, of course, the new covenant of Jesus' blood.  In this basic reading of the facts of Biblical history, it's not negotiable that God appears to change course frequently.  That's when it's most important to remember that our definitions are not God's own.  What I see as a 'change' is not/may not be that at all.  None of us are privy to His overarching plan.  We have His word, and that's all we have beyond our own, flawed intellects.
 
Being fortunate enough to exist after the sacrifice of Jesus, I have the luxury of surveying history in this broad sense and drawing conclusions based on Biblical principle.  My conclusion is this: God WAS, IS, WILL BE.  Never was the state of the world outside of his control.  Never is the condition of humanity a surprise to him.  In His perfection, change is unnecessary.
 
God is omnipotent.  If He wants to change, He can change.  But our God is also Perfect, All Sufficient, Omnipresent, Omniscient, Alpha and Omega, Everything.  It is not that I believe He cannot; it is not that I insist He must not.  There is simply no reason for Him to change.  And I'm not even talking about of mere human interpretation of reason.  I'm talking about infinite, supernatural reasoning.  Perfect is perfect, however you slice it.  God does not change because there is nothing for Him to change to that isn't in contradiction to Himself.

Drops of perspiration trembled along my jawline, clustering defensively in the face of gravity, and then splashed onto my bare, pumping thighs. We have a 'new' exercise bike, gifted to us by a friend who has acquired truly new exercise equipment and needed the space. The bike sits in our loft, three feet from our giant television. From the seat, I can watch a full version of Friends while "biking" eight miles. It's new. It's not something I ever pictured myself doing in this house. But little in my life looks the way I once thought it would.

I'm married. That happened much sooner than I'd ever considered. I'm a cat owner, even while everyone knows that I am a big dog person... both in the sense that I love all dogs all the time, and that I especially love BIG dogs. I work as an Account Manager for a large commercial insurance firm. I work for my mom. I do not have an advanced degree. I have not moved away from Livermore. I have watched more X-Files episodes than I care to admit.

These are the facts. I lead a charmed life, an adventurous life, a life of love and activity and purpose. It's coming to terms with the truth that the purpose is so different than what I'd once believed that can sometimes trouble me. Only for a moment, though, and then I'm holding my husband's hand and we're off to have Chinese food before it's time to hit the gym.

Recently, Jon and I were asked about our "two-year plan."  Jon looked at me, and I nodded in agreement as I watched a wan, tepid smile appear on his handsome, thirty-year-old face.  Two-year plan? 

If we'd been asked that question two years ago, our Plan would have included home ownership.  That's why, last year at this time, we were in the throes of purchasing what we were thrilled to think of as our first home. That was shortly before the housing market collapsed around us. We'd imagined that town home as a buried treasure, a place meant just for us to find, within walking distance of all our favorite downtown spots, a sweetly priced deal for the size, a fun floor plan just begging for paint and artwork and furniture all our own.

But lenders ceased lending and, though we had our down payment prepared, though we'd signed all the papers, though the bank had 'okayed' the deal, our mortgage wouldn't come through.

We lost money on that process.  What's worse, we lost time, four summer months spent entirely focused on that purchase.  What's worst of all is that we lost our enthusiasm.

Today, neither of us is intrigued by the idea of home ownership. What ought to have been the next exciting adult step in our combined life has become a dreaded secondary path, something which we simply know will give us ulcers and bleed our savings dry.

And so, our response to the concept of any plan beyond the next month or so is sardonic.

To get around this, we deal in dreams rather than plans, and our biggest dream for the future includes living abroad for a couple of years.

Yesterday, I listened to an interview with Erik Reece, an author and English professor at the University of Kentucky.  When he was young, he lost his preacher father to suicide.  Understandably, Reece grew up at odds with a church which pounded fear and guilt into (and, perhaps arguably, out of) the hearts of its parishioners.

Reece's childhood church burned down when he was seventeen years old, and he took this to be an omen that it was time for him to follow his own path into the world, rather than walking in the well trodden footprints of his father and grandfather, a charismatic preacher.  After his father's suicide, Reece's mother gave him the Bible which his father had kept close to him since his time in seminary.  It had been on the table beside the bed where he took his own life, and the page where the bookmark had been tucked opened to Matthew 10.

34 "Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword. 35 For I have come to turn a man against his father, a daughter against her mother, a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law-- 36 a man's enemies will be the members of his own household. 37 Anyone who loves his father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; anyone who loves his son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; 38 and anyone who does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me. 39 Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.

This is a passage with which many Christians struggle.  Christ, son of God, sinless lamb, bringer of a covenant founded on unconditional love, here proclaims his purpose to divide families and to bring a sword to the world.  This is not the peaceful, arms-wide-open image modern Christians like to project.  This Christ is, in the words of Erik Reece, an egomaniac.

People often ask me, "Where do you go to church?"

To which I reply, "Cedar Grove Community Church.  It's the one on College Avenue with all the big trees."

In Livermore and Pleasanton, that response is met with nodding and smiling.  People know my church.  It's lovely.  It's been there forever.  It's experienced a lot of very public turmoil with its neighbors due to past desires to expand.  But recently, expansion hasn't been at the forefront of CGCC's agenda.

Years ago, our church was thriving.  It housed a church body of believers who happily attended services on Sunday mornings for interesting, low-key sermons and the opportunity for fellowship, but who were also fed spiritually by a set of small groups which met all over the community. 

Our youth group was a place where teenagers felt safe, had fun, and wanted to bring their friends.  Those of us in the youth group who didn't feel spiritually challenged on Sunday mornings were met with productive solutions... separate Bible studies and the creation of a youth missions board.

Bolstered by a calendar jammed with activities, a vibrant, well organized program for children, and an overtly welcoming atmosphere, CGCC's church family was growing rapidly, and a plan to move to a new location was born from that optimistic, joyful foundation soil. 

A plot of land was purchased.  Architectural drawings of the new building were placed in the lobby.  Each elevation was crisp and sleek and bright, banked by panoramic views of purple vineyards and golden foothills, exactly the way a House of God should be.

Many of us can pinpoint the day all of those effectively-laid plans evaporated.  It had to do with CGCC jumping on a bandwagon. 

I've read parts of The Purpose Driven Life by Rick Warren, and it's an interesting and inspirational consideration of the purpose of human beings.  Congregations across America adopted the structure of the book in a movement focused on the Forty Days of Purpose and discovering church-level fulfillment, something that would, ideally, translate to discovery of personal fulfillment on the part of individual parishioners.

10:45 am

I am at work, seated in my gray chair at my gray desk, and pulling apart a 152-page insurance policy.  It's dry work, as much archeology as insurance.  Terms like "appurtenant buildings" and "business income and extra expense" are trapped within an ocean of doublespeak and redundancy, or so it appears.  Actually, when I read through the policy, I see that the puzzle of provisions and exclusions and give-backs does result in an accurate amount of coverage, that what I first perceived as repetitive is actually necessary.  Though dull and thick as lead, the policy language is not vague.
 
As I dissect the stack of papers, stapling and highlighting as I go, my brain dances along with the strains of music which flow through the ear bud placed delicately in my left ear.  Bluegrass makes the time fly.  The bounce of the banjos keeps me awake as I stumble through the eighteen pages of glossary terms.

---------

5:25 pm

It is the end of a workday and I'm driving home.  Around me, the river of cars is rushing eastbound in a race with the setting sun.  I am thinking of home.  My new writing studio is in working order.  Goldenrod curtains flutter at the open window.  A yellowed globe gives me a view of the world.  A framed photo of a turquoise door in Prague reminds me of all the potential which lies in an idea unopened, makes me want to fling open all of those ideas and get them down in print.  I want to be home and in my chair at my dark wood desk and tapping out my thoughts through the keys.

But traffic isn't helping me meet my desires.  We are slow.  Anxious drivers are flooring their gas pedals and speeding around slower cars as though they are the rocks in the stream.  I am prepared to hear horns and the crunching of metal and glass at any moment.  Driving in traffic is rarely peaceful, but I've noticed that tempers have been more accessible in recent months.

At least twice as week I see a truck cab of haggard men "keeping up foreign relations" with oblivious soccer moms who forget to check the blind spots of their buzzing, swinging SUVs.

Along with a group of Christian friends, I just sat through the controversial documentary Jesus Camp.  The movie profiles a fundamentalist group of Pentecostal Christians on their quest to "teach" the next generation what it means to follow Christ into "battle."  The children in this film, all appearing to be under the age of twelve, are ushered from their kitchen table home schools and their charismatic Sunday school classrooms to a summer camp in North Dakota. 

There they learn about Jesus as Lord, His death and resurrection, the salvation of mankind... all things I believe, too.  But the intense speakers, the comparison to preparation for war, the graphic visual aides... all of these smack of something different, something cult-like. 

The tear streaked faces of guilt-ridden seven-year-olds filled the screen as each of the children dropped to his or her knees and asked for forgiveness, accepted the cleansing of water splashed upon them from a Nestle water bottle brandished by the "minister." 

When this movie was released in 2006, the trailer was all I needed to remind me (and, I hoped, my fellow Christians) about the power of negative imagery involving the church and about our responsibility as Christians to portray the positive, loving side of our faith all the more to counteract such obvious exceptions to the rule.  But now having viewed the movie in it's entirety, I am struck by something else. 

Often I find myself in concert in my car.  Air microphone.  Head dance choreography.  I do it all.  On the freeway.  In the parking lot.  Pulling into my garage.  I do it everywhere.

For Christmas, my friend Amy gave me two gifts.  One was a charitable donation in my name, a contribution to further the cause of providing clean water to the world.  The other gift was a CD.  You see, Amy works as a teacher in Capitola, but she also holds a part time job at a groovy little coffee shop in Santa Cruz called The Abbey.  The CD I unwrapped at Ya-Ya Christmas this year is a mix of songs by artists who have performed at The Abbey in the past.

As I thanked my best friend for her thoughtful gifts, I was already excited about the prospect of having a new soundtrack for my driving life.  The old Jessica/Fergie/Rhianna/Killers mixes were stale and had long since been thrust beneath the seats of Bronwyn (my Jeep) in disgust.  And while I remain loyal to KKIQ (FM 101.7 in the Tri-Valley), there's only so much of John Mayer that I can take without switching to talk radio for relief!

Today we honor our veterans, both dead and living, who have served in every war or conflict in which the United States has held a stake.  Both of my grandfathers and both of my grandfathers-in-law served in WWII.  My brothers, Ted and Curtis, are each in service to our military today, along with several of Jonathan's cousins.  I dedicate this entry to them.

I wake up in the morning and shower and drive to work.  I sell insurance.  I partake in hobbies and leisure activities.  Then I come home to share a hearth and a table and a bed with my husband, a man who also works on behalf of our nation's security.  I am like so many blessed people.  Freedom laces each of my personal moments.

I choose to drink a Diet Coke before 9:00 am.  I choose to take riding lessons at a local equestrian center.  I choose to attend a movie with my best friend on a Monday night.  I choose to worship God, travel the world, drive a car.  Every one of these choices is sacred in a sense, especially considering that there are those in the world today who are denied any and all of these things, and especially considering that there are thousands who have died in the pursuit of the preservation of these freedoms, petty or important as the case may be.

To me, Veteran's Day is the perfect time to begin an entire season of acknowledgment and charity.  We are fast approaching Thanksgiving, an American holiday initiated as a celebration of gratitude.  When newcomers to America were starving, those who had occupied this land for centuries, and who had every right to stave them off, chose instead to share a harvest, a bounty, an excess.  That day, that joint feast between Native Americans and Pilgrims (though most likely gilded by history), had nothing to do with fairness and everything to do with mercy and humility.

A couple of weeks ago, I posted a blog entry entitled Prop 8 v. People in the Glass Houses. This entry quickly became the most viewed post on my blog in its nearly four-year history.  The topic of Gay Marriage is a hot button issue in our fair country, but especially in California, where voters passed Prop 8 and effectively amended our state constitution to define marriage as being only between a man and a woman.

The responses I received to my post were indicative of the rift between people on both sides of the issue.  Not only did I receive comments on the blog itself (which are included at the end of that entry), but people emailed me, called me, stopped me on the street.  For having such a small audience, my little blog suddenly became the crux of something very important.

Today, I received another comment on the post... this time from the instructor who led the Sunday school lesson which acted as the catalyst for my diatribe in the first place.  And here, I would like to take the opportunity to thank him for taking responsibility for the bad stuff, for explaining his original intentions that Sunday morning, and for setting an example of leadership and humility by doing so publicly (albeit on my little-known blog).

Last Sunday, my friends, my husband, and I attended our home church. We arrived in time for the lesson being taught in our Sunday School class about Old Testament prophesy. Questions arose, but went unanswered. Problems were acknowledged, but went unresolved. Then, out of nowhere, the topic of gay marriage was introduced to the room of college-age students. This could have been an uncomfortable moment for some folks anyway, but the instructor then proceeded to call for a vote... "This is a safe place to give your opinion. How many of you do not consider homosexuality to be a sin?"
 
I found the teacher's lack of foresight in initiating that conversation to be appalling.  You don't just jump into a debate on gay marriage in a room where the average age is 19, and all are assumed to be Christians, without some preparation.  And you definitely don't put people on the spot the way the teacher did to my friend, Eric and, in a secondary capacity, to my husband, Jonathan.  Jon was outraged by the whole thing and raised his hand to support Eric on that issue. Whether Jon has his own doubts about the sinfulness of homosexuality is beside the point; he would have raised his hand at that moment in support of our friend, one who had just been publically isolated, regardless.  I was proud of both of them for sticking their necks out.
 
From there, the best case scenario would have been to launch an even-handed debate on the topic, complete with prepared remarks from Eric and Jonathan and their opponents, and rounded out by the instructor's Biblical insights on the topic. Unfortunately, no one was prepared for that scenario, and so the matter was tossed haphazard into the Sunday School ring to be kicked around by the students. Those who were brave enough to state their opinions did so half-heartedly. Nothing was resolved.  What's worse, the instructor continuously referred to homosexual persons as "them," including the air quotes. He may have been kidding, but that doesn't matter. More than 20 young people left the room after that lesson confused and irritated.
 
So, I'd like to take this chance to postulate on the sensitive issue of gay marriage. If I'd had any clue that the Sunday School instructor was planning to light this match last weekend, I would have come with all of this prepared.

When the World was less than nothing, God was sovereign.  He set Time in its track and knows the length of its course.  Creation of the living and the non-living, emotions and intentions, all of these He conceived first.  Nothing, no one, is outside of His absolute domain. 

Do I allow this consideration to affect my forethought regarding my government, my finances, my marriage, my potential children, my job...?

Ideally, I suppose I should spend more time considering the overall advancement of God's will when it comes to each of these important aspects of my life.  But I also believe that His case will be advanced even if I choose merely to take an active stance in these areas according to my own basic needs.

That may sound selfish or even lazy, but God is the Master Chess Player here.  He would sacrifice a Pawn for a Bishop in order to maintain His purpose, but this has nothing to do with the ranking of the pieces.  Rather, I know He would likewise sacrifice a Bishop for a Pawn if the greater plan for both was still to be achieved.

This return to purity
--a slow, redundant walk
through mud I will always
know--
is cherished by the
most masochistic part
of my spotted heart.

The hot water bubbles
and makes me think
of gluttony
--the starving man's
delight.

But rising again
from the steaming bath
my shoulders burn
with the scalding necessity
of spotlessness
--before You.

And I step out to make
the loop of life
again.

Nobody is perfect.  Each man and woman on this planet is different.  Fingerprints.  DNA.  The non-negotiables are all unique.  Is this chaos?

No.  Not in my mind.  What I perceive as chaotic is just the random, splotchy corner piece to a puzzle for which I have no guide to build.  The good news is that I am not meant to build this puzzle.  I serve a much simpler need, something not beyond my capacity as a mortal. 

If I step onto a bus and take a seat, there is a chance that my piece to the puzzle will lock perfectly with the person across the aisle from me.

A kiss on the forehead, my lips to a stranger's brow, might lock us together for an instant and set the puzzle on course to be built.  It was intended.  And I didn't need to see the beginning of her story or the outcome, because, after all, my life was impacted, too.

So, by some great rubric, I am perfect, but no mortal man represents the standard for perfection.  And yet, we ought not sell ourselves (or anyone else) short of this ultimate goal.

My be-denimed legs pumped, pushing the fragile night air out and away, back to the sky from whence God breathed.  I hung back in the swing, considering the coldness of the chain links beneath my clenched fingers.  It was Sunday night, and I was spending a few moments in prayer on a playground.

Jonathan and I had walked from our house to the little park around the corner.  It is a small park which includes the round-edged, plastic equipment which now dominates the majority of playgrounds in America (since someone somewhere decided metal slides and tire swings were dangerous).

I slid down the fireman's pole like a pro.  At one point in my life, I was a "pole-topper."  Not only were we required to drag our lithe, boney bodies up twenty-foot poles in P.E. class, but my dad required the same feat (faster) from my brothers and me on a weekly basis.  I loved locking my ankles around the pole and feeling the twinge of nerve pressed against my shin bone as I propelled myself up.  With each tug I became stronger.  It gave me strength.  It gave me pride.

Those poles can no longer be found on elementary school campuses.  Children today, battling obesity and, what I believe to be worse and perhaps the origin of the former, a pandemic of lethargy, are the poorer for it.

But the swings remain.

Swinging is an extraordinary pastime.  As a child, I used it as a way to burn excess energy before the end of recess, or to compete with my peers to discover who could fly highest.  But as an adult, I find that five minutes on the swings is simply soothing.  It encourages meditation with each pendulumic movement.  I ask a question on my way up and find my answer on the way down.  It is the rhythm of my heart, my mind.  A pulse.

My prayers take on the form a chant in my head.  Thankfulness.  Confession.  Thoughtfulness.  Requests.  Amen. 

I have many dreams.  Some I have related here in past posts.  Some I keep locked away in a secret spot in my brain.  Some I am still deciphering, trying to make sense of thoughts that seem to be way beyond my talents, way beyond my maturity level.  But even as I rise to the daily challenges of adult life, climbing the poles set before me in my career, my marriage, my walk with God, I discover that the most peaceful times are those spent like a child.  It is why I still watch old, innocent, black & white films.  Why Jon and I run off to Disneyland whenever possible.  Why I drink Capri Sun.  Why I don't mind when my brothers (and no one else) call me "Aud."

It is why I occasionally visit the local park at twilight and run headlong for the swings. 

A friend of mine, intrigued by a minor glimpse into my complicated system of religious beliefs, recently posed some questions for me via email.  He called his questions both "quick" and "rhetorical."  They turned out to be neither.

So, I thought it would be more efficient to post my response here (rather than sending my friend a perilously long response via email and potentially having to explain all of this again someday to other interested parties).

Context:

Last night, I mentioned that I had all but blasphemed at a recent meeting of my bible study group, by saying I choose to read the Old Testament (OT) of the Christian Bible as a metaphor.  I also cited a few of my specific issues with the OT.  My friend challenged my statements in a variety of ways... and this is the response I came up with:

I do not doubt history insofar as I recognize that it has long been transcribed by the winners. The underbelly of past politics, past wars, past revolutions, ugly or not, is often exposed despite historical accounts once taken as absolute truth. That being said, I do not doubt the historical context of the Bible. Slavery, oppression, famine, and ethnic cleansing... it all happened. And it continues to happen.

What is important to remember is that the Bible is not a complete history. The focus of its content is centered on a very narrow portion of the world. While we have archeological evidence that human beings existed all over the globe during Biblical times, there are no stories outside of the Middle Eastern zone. Our culture today is global, and the well educated have no choice but to view Life through a much wider lens.

I was recently asked if I considered myself to be a "good Christian."

My answer was, "Well, I'm a good person."

A good person obeys the law, loves her husband, encourages her friends, pays taxes and showers regularly.  And yes, with the exception of the occasional (unreasonable) speed limit, I fit this mold.

Not that I deserve accolades for it, or anything.  Being a good person is easy.

Stand up to give your seat to an elderly person on BART.  Drop your change in the tip cup at Starbucks.  Pay your late fees at the library.  Tell your coworker how much you love her new scarf.  It's easy.

 

And it has very little to do with being a Christian.

My Sunday school class recently spent the better part of an hour debating whether we could convey God's love to strangers by allowing extra cars to merge on 580 East during rush hour.  Leaving the room, Jonathan rolled his eyes.  Christianity as a lifestyle does, or should, trickle down into our everyday lives.  Our mundane activities should marinate in Christian values and virtues before we go about doing them.  But what does it really mean to be a "good Christian"? 

There is a little girl in Georgia, Ashley, who has recently received the worst kind of news. She is not healthy. She is in dire need of all sorts of medical resources, the intelligence of doctors, the expertise of surgeons, the wisdom of counselors. She needs her parents' unfailing love, unflagging support. She needs hope.

I have long feared that prayer, the way I knew it when I was younger, does not actually work. There was a time when I absolutely believed that God listened when I spoke, stroked my hair when I needed Him, and, on very specific and memorable occasion, shut the power off at summer camp when I yelled at Him. We had a dialogue going every day.  I believed in the power of prayer to soften hearts, to make the meek strong, even to heal.

For several years now, though, I've fallen into a simple chatting-style conversation with God. When moments are dark, as they were with Mom's illness in January, I'll ask for help. But it doesn't always come. And when help does come, it often manifests itself in ways that are not of my understanding, or even to my liking.

Where will the help blossom in Ashley's life?

Her parents have been so optimistic, the picture of patience and faith, trusting God to guide them through this time, to touch the hearts and hands of the doctors involved in their child's life-or-death case.

Some people will pray for miracles, for the cancer to vanish overnight.

Some people will pray that God's will be done, even if it means the death of a little girl named Ashley and the breaking of her parents' hearts.

I cannot do that. God will do what he needs to do regardless. Or rather, if you don't believe in that sort of thing (as I sometimes don't), He'll allow to happen what he put into play, long before the world was set spinning in the universe.

I call myself a Christian. I call my happy life a blessing. When children become sick, my heart hurts, and I wonder about God's plan along with the rest of the world. I'll pray for what I needed when my mother was sick. Hope. I pray that the light of hope doesn't go out while this family is searching for it. A lighthouse. A nightlight. A hearth fire. A beacon.  Anything that will defend against despair.  God promises us eternal hope, anyway.  So, perhaps my time would be better served praying that Ashley and her family don't forget to look for hope, even when it doesn't fall immediately into their empty, waiting laps.

In fact, that's an awfully good prayer for the world in general. 

TGBTRD Entry No. 200 is dedicated to Mom, Mike, Ann & Ashley

Hooray! My broker's license class is over. *sigh* Now only a review session (Monday) and the 3-hour test (Thursday) stand in my way. Tomorrow it's back to work with Mom. And thank goodness. I learned to love San Francisco during this last week, the longest of my life. But I will NOT miss BART. Nope. BART may have zipped me to class each day, but there were so many weird people on that one train. And they all found a way to take my train, too. Let's list a few of my (least) favorites:

-Likes-To-Hear-Herself-Talk-Chick... the woman stood loudly joking to her friends about how she heard that, "George W. Bush can't even pro-NOUNCE Katrina! No, HA HA HA, SER-iously!" I wasn't the only one rolling my eyes and wishing that she'd lower her viewpoint by at least a decible.

-No-Sense-Of-Personal-Space-Guy... he found his way onto the train, cramming in just as the doors sucked shut and locked us all closely together. Very closely. At least you would have thought so. He was grabbing the ceiling rail right next to me, shoulder to my shoulder. I could feel his breath on me. And the best part was lurching to a stop and clunking knees with him. No, wait, the actual best part was looking around the car and noting all the space that was available for standing, but wasn't being used.

-Unnecessarily-Loud-Walkman-Dude... he pushed through the doors of the train, bringing with him the joyful beat of "Cellllabrate good times, Come on!" Technically the bass-less tune was pumping from the walkman he held in his hands. And why, you ask, could everyone else in the car hear the song, too? Well, the man had accidentally pulled the headphones from the walkman, letting the music play through the speakers alone. Wonderful! In fact, it made me want to celebrate.

-Woman-With-Excrutiatingly-Abnoxious-Children... I think her title speaks for itself. How sweet. Little Johnnie and Janie Junior were jumping back and forth over the seat in front of them, shrieking loudly all the way. Two! Four! Six! Eight! What don't we appreciate?! Children! Children! Ill-mannered Children!

-Self-Absorbed-Swearing-Guy-With-A-Phone... "Hello, Mike? Mike? This is Jeff. Yeah, I need you to fax those Z29 Forms over to the New York office right away. No, the guy in accounting over there is such a @(*)#! Listen, the Limited Real Estate Clause has to be revised. Do that. Give me a #)(*@&# break! I worked fourteen hours yesterday to keep the LA office off your @#)&. Yeah. Right." Click. Let's all hope those Z29s go through ASAP (Which he pronounced as if it were a word rather than an acronym. I hate that.).

-The-Ethnic-Food-Eater... Nothing against good food from any other country, but it smells. Whatever this woman was eating, at 6:45am, was barely contained in its little white styrofoam leftover box, and it was gross! Think seafood, curry, stinky cheese. Anything smelly. She ate it while we were all stuck together in that teensy, air-tight train car.

-Obscene-Lip-Licker-Guy... he got on the train at West Oakland station and, as we took off eastward, he looked directly at me and slowly, diliberately licked his lips. Ugh! I mean, I knew that kind of thing happened to people (unfortunately), but I really had hoped it wouldn't happen to me. At Lake Merritt station he detrained... one stop after he boarded... which made me wonder if he simply rode BART to lick his lips at poor, unsuspecting women. Gross.

-Wannabe-Thugs... two of them, sagging jeans, dirty tank tops, yelling obscenities at each other, shoving each other, laughing raucously at each other. Not a second thought about their inappropriate behavior. A whole trip home was disrupted as they swung on the ceiling bars like apes and disturbed little elderly ladies.

I'm sure there were more, but I'm blocking them from my memory. However, to be fair to the Bay Area Rapid Transit system and the convenience it brings to our lives, there were a few nice people on the train. For instance:

-Mr. Chivalrous... a young man with a backpack and an Ipod who made sure to give up his seat for an elderly lady who boarded the train. He also made sure to let myself and another girl exit the train before the throng of crazed homegoers could trample us to the ground. A nice guy.

-The-Door-Catcher... who heard a frazzled cry to "Wait!" and stopped the doors from closing long enough for a young woman in a suit to slip onto the train at the last second. "Oh, thanks! I have a big meeting at 8:00!"

-All-People-Who-Put-Their-Phones-On-Vibrate... nothing pierces the early morning air and shatters the just-waking eardrums like a whining, polyphonic rendition of "Hit Me Baby, One More Time". Thank goodness for the considerate people who silenced their cells.

It balances out, I suppose. And it was so convenient to rise from the underground station via escalator, into the crisp city breeze and the bustle of the city morning. The city remains to be something of an anomaly to me, of course. But eventually the constant movement of all people and things became less incessant and more inspiring. These folks were busy and off to work. Dead leaves whisked along in the gutters with the wind. There is always someplace to go, something to do, someone to talk to.

And there are always people who are stopped, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the street, in the middle of their lives. These people, nameless, jobless, homeless, shameless people, hunker down at odd corners holding out their hands. It has always been hard for me to simply walk on by. But once, when my mom was driving through the city, a man walked up without warning and spit on her car window. Another time a friend of mine and his wife were mugged by such a man. I hate those stories.

Collectively these people scare us because they are the opposite of us and we don't understand such a drastic, even violent difference. I'm afraid, too. Still, while these people, usually men, lack so much, I have a hard time believing that they are all simply heartless, too. At some point they were all little boys who walked to school or threw paper airplanes or traded baseball cards. They have mothers and fathers, maybe siblings. Once they may even have had hope.

I walked up to one such man and dropped thirty-five cents, the change from my early morning diet Coke purchase, into his dirty, outstretched hands.

A friend of mine scoffed, "Audrey, don't to that. Some of these guys even have jobs, and just do this for the money." That could be true. I read somewhere about a CEO who was arrested for posing as a homeless man on his lunch breaks to bring in tax-free money. Something makes me think, though, that people like that are in the minority.

In New Orleans, people say, the majority of those who died or were stranded were poor, even homeless, and black. People accuse our president of using those statistics as a reason to delay recovery and relief. (I think this is terrible and absurd.)

Well, the man I gave change to for the last week is also poor, homeless and black. Maybe he's planning to pool the pitiful offerings of suckers like me and go out and buy liquor, and he'll wake up in that same stairwell every day, never shower, scare people with his degeneration. Or maybe he has a soul that is in need of just as much kindness as the people whom I look upon as my friends. Most likely both ideas are true.

I believe that we who are able to do for those less fortunate, "the least of these", are helping to continue an age-old tradition of charity and brotherly love. If the man sitting on the sidewalk claiming to be a "disabled veteran" and/or willing to "work for food" is already damned, nothing I can do will save him, and nothing I can do will hurt him any more than he is hurting already. This particular man smiled and blessed me. And I don't just push that aside. This is the very least I can do.

The fresh spring wind tosses the tree branches playfully at the corner of College and Arroyo. There, barricaded behind rows of palm and cedar trees, is my church, the place where my faith was forged by God.

I am chilled by the breeze as I sit in the crooked arm of a low hanging branch. This is a wonderful place to think. Many great decisions have been made after an hour in this tree. I pondered the meaning of life, the importance of friends, the inevitability of death, where to have lunch...

Every Fourth of July my church holds a picnic for everyone under these trees. (The picture is of Jon on July 4, 2003. He IS juggling flamingos; your eyes are not playing tricks on you.) The cedars shelter us from the blistering Livermore heat while we enjoy our fair country and her birth. We shower the ground with countless watermelon seeds and scraps of busted water balloons, all beneath the natural canopy of green.

One summer a boy from our church was killed in a car accident. A man and his liquor were the perpetrators. The boy's memorial service was held at the church, and we welcomed hundreds through the doors to sit, think and remember. To grieve. When the air inside became too thick with loss for me to stand, I escaped back outside to the tree, seeking again answers I already knew. I sat in this tree next to a friend whose faith was stronger than mine. He comforted me.

Growing up brings revelations, but it remains full of questions that cannot be answered. A man I knew for years as a strong, good, honest man, committed suicide. I'll never know why, and neither will his wife. And that man's best friend, another whom I considered to be the best, most faithful Christian and husband, left his own wife and child for a reason I simply cannot find. Not even with the help of the tree.

Why does God allow us the choice to leave life behind? I've known a few who have taken advantage of that choice, leaving grief and confusion behind for their families and friends. Maybe that was their point? Oh, I wish I knew.

In the shade of this tree I stood in my senior ball gown, linking arms with my closest friends, as we celebrated our graduation. We smiled so brightly! Let's make this a memory, we all thought, not knowing that later on the quickness with which we left behind our own youth would be painful to recall. Not knowing we'd want our childhoods back.

At this church I was married. On my way through the doors before the ceremony, with my dress and veil streaming behind me, I tossed a glance over my shoulder towards the tree. It was there, sturdy and still on the lawn. For a moment I really wanted to stop, blink and pause the swirling world around me, walk between the people frozen in time on that happiest of days, and walk humbly to the tree. I longed for it all to be that simple. But in mere seconds I was up the aisle and handed over and vowing and married and kissed and gone. Done! No time for the tree that day.

Once I was kissed here. A nice boy who is now a good man got up the courage to take a kiss from me. Or perhaps he gave it to me, his first kiss. Either way, the memory is pleasant. My, I was young. My youth group played games here, frisbee and capture the flag in careless loops in the dark amongst the grove we took for granted. When our church raises its new building on a plot of ground not far from this place, leaving this property forever, these trees, this particular tree, will be what is missing even in the midst of all the modernity and hope for perfection.

I believe this tree is where God sits each day, watching the people drive right by and into their own lives. He waits for me and you and everyone. The children climb on him, shimmying up the trunk, bare up to twelve feet from the ground except for that one swooping branch, and they drop to the ground in gales of laughter during a game of tag. God loves to let them play. He loves to let us think and pray.

When I do stop to allow the tree to work its magic, my faith is energized. I am pushed to remember all my blessings, to count them and care about them. I sit and think about the questions, big and small, answered and unanswered, important and impossible. And then I walk back to my life and spend my soul dry with worry and anxiety in the same old groove. But the tree will always be there, beckoning to me from the corner of College and Arroyo. There it will be in front of the church where God pulled me through everything that has happened in my short lifetime; and there He'll wait for me to return and remember it with Him.