Our pastor is preaching through the book of Ephesians right now.  A couple of weeks ago, he talked about the difference between trespasses and sins.  Trespassing is crossing a line…in the case of humanity, we’ve crossed a line that God drew, and it has separated us from Him.

I formed this picture in my mind, of God (as the hen gathering her chicks) with all of us huddled around Him, facing a line (some action or actions which would drive a wedge between us and make it impossible for us to go back).  “Stay here,” He says.  But our first ancestors, blinded by the lie–”You won’t really die…”–take the first fatal step in the wrong direction.  And looking back they see a flaming sword barring their way.

Now, because we are all born on the wrong side of the tracks, as it were, we sin.  “For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.”  Pastor says that sin is our attempts to get back to God in our own strength, through our own merits.  And as such, every attempt is doomed to fail.  We take a running jump, try to hurl ourselves across that line, over that wall…and we fall short.  Nothing we can do will breach the gap between us and a holy God.

That’s why Christ formed the bridge.  (Do you remember that great Avalon song:  “There’s a Cross to bridge the great divide…”?)  Now we, through His sacrifice, can get back to where we belong, close to God, under His protection.

All this was quite clear to me from the explanation.  And then I prayed the Lord’s Prayer one morning and thought about forgiving those who trespass against us…odd, isn’t it?  Our trespasses have separated us from God by drawing us away from Him through our actions.  But when others trespass against us it’s usually by getting inappropriately close, invading our space, and thus harming (or destroying) relationship:  when we steal, murder, covet, commit adultery, we’ve crossed a line with one another, trespassed on each other’s private land.  Loving my neighbor as I love myself means respecting his boundaries, not moving fence lines or marker stones.

It seems to me that the only way we can be both 1) close to other people and 2) in right relationship without trespass, is if we’re all on the same side of the boundary line…with God. This makes the first great commandment, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength”  the logical prerequisite for “Love your neighbor as you love yourself”…

Because until we’re in God’s territory, we can’t help but trespass on someone’s else’s land. But once we’re back where we belong, we’re all standing on holy ground.  And it is possible to live in peace with one another.

Awhile back, I posted my thoughts on John 6, where Jesus calls Himself  the Bread of Life.  You can read that post here.  A couple of days ago, the reading passage for my fixed hour prayer time was from Isaiah chapter 1:

11 “The multitude of your sacrifices—
what are they to me?” says the LORD.
“I have more than enough of burnt offerings,
of rams and the fat of fattened animals;
I have no pleasure
in the blood of bulls and lambs and goats.¹² When you come to appear before me,
who has asked this of you,
this trampling of my courts?

¹³ Stop bringing meaningless offerings!
Your incense is detestable to me.
New Moons, Sabbaths and convocations—
I cannot bear your evil assemblies.

¹⁴ Your New Moon festivals and your appointed feasts
my soul hates.
They have become a burden to me;
I am weary of bearing them.”

Huh?  God appointed all these sacrifices, didn’t He?  They were encoded in Mosaic law, the prescribed penalties for sin, and the required offerings for holy days.  How can He say now that He’s sick of these things?  Like a spoiled, petulant child who demands treats and then turns up his nose, God says that the very things He ordained now weary Him.

Why had God demanded blood sacrifice, anyway?  Was it because He was a bloodthirsty being?  Was it just the priest’s way of getting free meals?  Or was it because they were a nation of shepherds, whose wealth, whose greatest stock in trade, was its livestock?  In order to give them a picture of the gravity of sin, He asked them to totally surrender something of great value:  the best of the flock, the animal without blemish.  Bloodshed, graphic and messy, was a profound picture of what sin did to their relationships with Him and with each other, to their community’s health.

But over and over, they forgot the point, and it became a relatively easy but meaningless ritual:  bring the cow, get it approved, slaughter it and say a perfunctory prayer, dash off to the next party. “There, God, hope You’re happy.”

No.  He’s not happy.  Not with empty words or thoughtless actions.  We tend to look only at the superficial, the appearance, the facade…but God looks at the heart.  He weighs our motives in the balance and finds them wanting.  So Israel, going through the motions of piety, was sold into slavery over and over.  So the Jewish people of Jesus’ day made a show of wanting to please God, but they really just wanted more magic bread (John 6).

The sacrifices of the Old Testament, like the sacraments of the New, are outward symbols of inward realities.  But it’s so much easier to only focus on what is tangible, what can be touched and tasted and seen.  “Dear God,” we plead, “bless my actions today…and don’t look too closely at my thoughts or my motives.  I sent a card to Aunt Helen, didn’t I?  I gave a gift to my neighbor.  I sent in a check to the church.  Done. Off my list.  I deserve to have fun now, right?”

So are habits and rituals and traditions no good?  Well…only as good as our heartfelt intentions in acting them out.  Am I doing good because I’m sold-out to God and committed to walking with Him?  Or do I just want to get Him off my back for awhile and walk my own road?

I’m reading Eugene Peterson’s Eat This Book, in preparation for WBCL’s Digging Deeper on MidMorning this coming Thursday, September 10th, at 9:05 am.  This is one of the more challenging small books I’ve read recently.  For instance, what to make of this statement?

It is the very nature of language to form rather than inform.  When language is personal, which it is at its best, it reveals: and revelation is always formative–we don’t know more, we become more.  Our best users of language, poets and lovers and children and saints, use words to make–make intimacies, make character, make beauty, make goodness, make truth.  (page 24)

I’ve certainly experienced enough of the worst of language…the dryness of a text book, reciting facts in a way no one could ever read for pleasure or interest;  the convoluted prose of an instruction manual for assembling a bookshelf which only frustrates and confuses.  But what does it mean that language at its best is “personal”?    The dictionary definitions helps a bit. Personal can mean  “pertaining to or coming from a (particular) person, a self-conscious being.”   Good communication has an element of the personal–or perhaps conversational?– about it.

So far, so good.  But how does language make beauty or goodness or truth?  Making is different from revealing, isn’t it?  When something is revealed to me, I recognize its truth or beauty, perhaps for the first time.  Do the words make it true or beautiful, or only reveal something inherent?  I believe God is the source of beauty and truth, and I think Peterson does, too.  My biggest problem with the early chapters of this book is that he makes statements which are deep with implications, and then he does nothing to unpack them with illustration.

The rich metaphors of a good poem cause us to see in a new way.  For instance,

Earth’s crammed with heaven,

And every common bush afire with God;

But only he who sees, takes off his shoes -

The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

–Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Aurora Leigh, Book vii

This snippet of verse is a powerful picture of our God-saturated world, and the necessity of looking at creation with awareness of God’s presence.  The idea of being so oblivious we’d sit and pluck berries when we should be worshiping carries a sense of shame.  So few words, so much depth.  But does the poet create the beauty or the truth?  Or does she reveal it by her fresh metaphor and strong verbs (crammed, afire, pluck)? The comparison of Moses at the burning bush to simpletons feeding their faces with fruit carries conviction which cuts to the heart.  It reveals not only a truth of nature, but a truth about our own perceptions (or lack).

If this revelation creates a desire in us for change, if we are formed (or perhaps re-formed is more apt…formed anew) by it, then I suppose we can say that the poet “made” more goodness, character, beauty.

Of course Peterson’s contention is that the Bible is the all-important text for our spiritual formation. We are not to “use” Scripture for our own goals, plans, information or agenda. Rather, we are to ingest it so that it permeates us, becomes part of us, nurturing us as the best food does.

“Eating a book,” he writes, “takes it all in, assimilating it into the tissues of our lives  Readers become what they read.”   I do believe that “it is the very nature of” Scripture to form rather than inform. I’m just not convinced that the same is true of language in general.

I confessed to my friend Jon last week that the very brief parables of Jesus, about the treasure hid in a field and the pearl of great price, don’t seem to me to make much sense if you try to think about them logically.  I had wrestled with the limitations of parables a couple of years ago, and decided that as metaphors for giving up everything in order to have the Kingdom of God, these extremely brief statements work.  I guess.  It’s just that my mind keeps on asking more hard questions:  Whose treasure was  in the field?  Are there ethical concerns there?  Did the merchant pay fair market value for the pearl?  If he had to give up all he owned in order to purchase it, I picture him standing there with nothing but the pearl, thinking, “Now what?”

It reminded me of the auction scene in Oklahoma!, where the cowboy Curly sells his gun and his horse in order to keep Jud Fry from winning Laurey’s picnic hamper.  At the end of the night, all he has is the hamper…and Laurey.  And that seems to be enough.  As I continued to think about the foolishness of this picture, a new thought began to form in my mind.  I wonder if this is what Jesus intended all along.  Here’s my parable remix:

Shlomo the merchant walked quickly through the marketplace.  His rapid pace and his impressive bearing both hurried lesser folks out of his way. But he could always hear the whispers in his wake, as if the breeze he created with his robes stirred up the old rumors every time.

Such a prosperous man, nu?  Well he may appear that way…but what I’ve heard is that, his parents…?  They were slaves.  No, it’s truth!  As I live and breathe…

Outwardly serene, even cold, the merchant heaved an inward sigh.  Yes, his poor parents: they worked to earn their own freedom, then slaved on to earn his…and to pay for him to be educated in Greek, Hebrew and Latin. “Fools,” they were called. Lavishing the fruit of so many years’ hardship on their only child.  But they ignored those voices.  Then it was time to apprentice him to a trade, another expense.   Shlomo was intended to be a jeweler, a craftsman in gold, silver and precious gems.  Early on it was obvious he had the eye: keen and discerning, seeing every flaw in every stone.   He could have made diadems for princes, become a legend of artistry.  But Shlomo knew one thing:  never would he earn enough to buy one of the gorgeous pieces that he could make for kings.  Nor would he be able to set his parents in the kind of comfort they deserved.

So, quietly, he began to horde every shekel and to talk in corners with other craftsmen.  Would you like to sell your work in other cities?  Would you like someone to get you better quality stones?  When his apprenticeship ended, he astonished his master and his family by announcing an entirely new profession.

Shlomo chuckled to himself, remember their reaction. “What are you thinking? You’re a fool!  You can’t just decide to become what you are not…”

But foolish or not, he set out on his first buying trip.  And returned successful. And went again.  He prospered, in fact.  His reputation grew, and more and more those who knew of Shlomo would buy gems only from him.  Craftsmen with fine work to sell would sidle up to him, hoping to please him with their wares enough that he would condescend to buy from them…and resell at a profit to himself.

His wealth increased alongside his fame.  His parents lived, and died, in luxurys they never would have dreamed of for themselves.  But Shlomo still pressed on, driven to achieve something that no one could quite put a finger on.  It was obvious that he was not content.  But what more could he possibly want?

Shlomo knew what he wanted.  What he dreamed of, night after restless night. He wanted to find and possess a single blood-red gem without a flaw.  He’d heard street talk, tall tales about jewels of enormous size and exquisite beauty.  He took dusty side-trips on his journeys, miles of discomfort out of his way, to talk to dealers in stones who were reputed to handle “only the best.”  Every time, Shlomo found a flaw.  Some defect, however small, which marred the perfection of the stone.  Had there never been any perfect gem?

So Shlomo persevered, his hopes fading with the years, although his eyes were still as keen.  And then, on a common day, in a common back-alley souk, with heat and smells and voices all around him, he found it:  a perfect blood red gem.  He stood and stared at it, turning it over and over in his fingers, holding it to the light again and again, afraid to believe in what he saw.

“How much for this?”  he asked the dealer, who was smiling quietly, patiently on his bench.

“Ah, respected sir, I don’t know whether you, even you, have wealth enough to purchase that stone…though I have held it back from other eyes so that you could see it first.”

“I thank you for the honor…but the price?”

So much. A price beyond his means, indeed.  Perhaps even a bit inflated?  But no,  for such a perfect stone, there was no question, that was a fair price.  What to do?

“How long will you be in this town? Will you stay awhile in my home, so that I may gather enough to buy this stone from you?”

The dealer agreed.  And the merchant went to work, not buying now, but selling, hurrying from place to place with the things he had amassed.  But as shrewd as Shlomo was at buying jewels, he was no con man when it came to selling his own goods.  His camels, his few personal jewels, all went for less than he’d have liked.  Frantically, he realized that it would take much more of his assets than he’d imagined.

Over their wine that evening, Shlomo and the dealer talked about the gem. “What would you say to taking all my household furnishings in exchange for the stone?”

“Where would I put such fine things, even to store and resell them? I deal in jewels because they’re small, sir. And–no offense, your home is very fine–but I’m not sure the value of your goods is equal to the stone.”

“No.  You’re right.  Well…what if I offered my house and the goods? My wardrobe, too…I have far more fine clothes than any man needs.  I have a servant. He would be yours also. What say you now?”

“Done!  That is an offer I think very fair.” And before the neighbors had time to do more than speculate as to where Shlomo could have gone with only the robe and tunic and cloak on his back, and long before they got the name of the new tenant in the fine house, Shlomo was gone, the beautiful red gem in his hand.  And nothing else.

He walked and walked, conscious only of possessing his heart’s desire.  Finally, he stopped and looked about him.  He’d left the town behind and night was coming down damply on his shoulders.  He had no home, no bed, no attendant. No money in his sack, no sack to put it in.  No livelihood because no stock in trade and no way to buy any new…except of course for IT.  He opened his hand and looked at it gleaming dully in the light of the rising moon.   No. He would never sell that.

So.  What was he then?  It came to him that perhaps he was a fool.  And all at once he laughed, and went on laughing as he walked on into the night.  When he came to another town, he’d hire himself to some prosperous citizen, as a worthy household slave.  Yes.  That would be fitting.  Clutching his treasure, Shlomo the fool walked on.

———————-

“I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish…” – Phil. 3:8

“We are fools for Christ…” — I Cor. 4:10

It looks so innocent

My inventory of garden issues begins and ends with this:  weed, weed, weed.  It doesn’t matter whether it floated in on the wind, or whether I deliberately planted it…if it’s gotten out of hand, it has to go.  One of my worst mistakes required two and a half hours in the garden this morning.  I’ve left the houttuynia too long unattended, like a young child in a library, and it’s gotten into mischief.

Digging, digging, digging, sifting tough white roots…it was such a pretty plant, its furled, pointed leaves mottled with light and dark green and vivid red.  It had a sweet little white flower in spring, and a pungent, clean smell when cut.  I was warned that it could be invasive…but I didn’t listen.  It was just so pretty.

Now I’m less enchanted with it, as it insinuates itself amongst the coral bells and the new white rose bush, creeps under the pavers and comes up in entirely new and inappropriate places.  I’m feeling ruthless–dig it up, root it out, cover the whole area with black plastic and thick mulch.  Pray it dies, and keep an eye open for any little starts.  Be diligent.

My spiritual inventory sounds similar sometimes:  Allow a little inattention and a harmless hobby becomes a time-wasting compulsion.   Attractive-looking thoughts take root and multiply, inserting themselves where they don’t belong, getting bigger and uglier all the time.   Dig it up, root it out, smother it.  Heed the warning, be diligent.

I went past the field of the sluggard, past the vineyard of the man who lacks judgment; thorns had come up everywhere, the ground was covered with weeds, and the stone wall was in ruins. Proverbs 24: 30-31

We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ. 2 Cor. 10:4-6

No time or energy for blogging for over a month now.  If we had internet at home, would things be different? Or would I be even more short of sleep than I am now?

If I weren’t obsessed with the idea of going home and taking a nap, I could write about:

• The wonderful experience of spending 10-12 hours a week with a dozen of the greatest people I’ve ever met, for two solid months.

• The satisfaction of seeing something come to fruition just the way I pictured it in my mind.

• The weird combination of joy and fear which I’m feeling now that younger son is free at last.

• The fact that it’s only in the heartache of parenting that we truly begin to understand God’s heart.

• The prophetic words spoken over my husband and me by a Kenyan pastor on Good Friday…and how I’m seeing them come to pass.

• The excitement (and fear) every time I think about starting a Bible study with a lovely young seeker…

Maybe I’ll have time soon to pick one of these and run with it. And there are more topics floating around,  I’m sure. Part of me misses both the self-expression and the conversations involved in blogging.  Part of me hasn’t had time to miss it. Different seasons bring different rhythms, I suppose.

A piece I read elsewhere reminded me of this post I wrote two years ago on my old blog.

We’ve labelled him “the doubter.”  Written him off, in a way.  Less “spiritual.”  But how is he less spiritual than the other disciples?  They didn’t get it, either…saw the empty tomb, heard reports, recalled Jesus’ own words.  But they didn’t really believe it until they saw Him. 

Where was Thomas?  Was his grief so great that he’d withdrawn?  He’d been willing to go to Jerusalem and die with Jesus.  But he didn’t.  Seems as if he and Peter could have commiserated, but Thomas was absent. Maybe it was his turn to gather food for the group in hiding.  Or was he attending to the needs of family somewhere?  Whatever he was doing, wherever he’d gone, he missed Jesus’ visit.  So how did he feel when he heard about that?  Talk about being left out!  The inner circle only has 11 men in it to begin with…and he’s the odd man out.

I’d be bitter, personally.  Even if it was Jesus alive again, obviously I wasn’t important enough to wait for.  He didn’t care enough to see me.  Well, fine.  Maybe it hurts so much to have been excluded that Thomas decides it’s easier to pretend that they were all hallucinating.  It would be better to consign Jesus to the grave again, than to think He’d avoided seeing me on purpose.

Now it’s been eight days.  The others want to talk about the Master, compare notes, speculate, report other “sightings.”  But they can’t help seeing that Thomas grits his teeth and stares at the tabletop whenever the Lord is mentioned. So they clam up again.

Around dinnertime that day, with locked doors and everyone busy about his own task, there is Jesus.  He’s just–there.  And He heads straight for Thomas…slack-jawed, silent, barely-breathing Thomas.  “So–do you still want to see the scars?  Touch the nail holes?”  I think He’s smiling as He holds out His hands.  “Put your fingers where the spear went?”  He makes a gesture as if He’ll disrobe upon request, awkward as it would be.

None of it is necessary now.  Thomas is on his knees, weeping, gasping for air to fill his lungs and calm his pounding heart.  He just wanted to know that Jesus hadn’t forgotten him, disowned him…wherever He’d gone.  And the words that tumble out of his mouth show us that Thomas believes–no doubt about it!

“My Lord!  My God!”  Words of worship; active, believing identification. 

“Do you believe because You’ve seen Me now?”  (Just like the others needed to see me? I hoped for more faith from you, Thomas…but it’s all right. I’m here now.)  Then, as if time had wrinkled and Jesus could look right into my room here in 2007, He mentions me, mentions us:  “Blessed are those who have not seen, and yet believe.”  And suddenly I see a profound purpose in Thomas’ exclusion, and in his confession.

For 2,000 years people have read the good news with pounding hearts and gasped out, “My Lord and my God!”  And aren’t our confessions possible in part because of the role the disciples played?  These gritty, struggling, confused men are real people.  They really knew Jesus.  They questioned and doubted, and believed.  I think it’s their struggle to believe–especially Thomas’ struggle–that convinces me.  They didn’t hear a vague rumor and let wishful thinking fill in the blanks.  They saw the risen Lord–talked with Him, ate with Him, embraced Him.  He was real, and He is real to us today, thanks to Thomas and his companions.  Thomas with his bad rap as a doubter…sitting at Jesus’ feet, I’ll bet Thomas doesn’t even mind.

It is larger than life–its theme, its style and its subject:  an eight-foot tall Creature, stuff of horror but also pitiful, the result of one man’s vain experiment in conquering death.  The music soars, the icebergs float soundlessly.  Near the end, the scientist is pursuing his foul creation across Europe and into the Arctic Circle.  The Creature, amazed that this puny man has not succumbed to exhaustion and death, asks:

What kind of god is so consumed with hate for his creature that he will pursue it to his own destruction?

(For the powerfully moving ending, go and see Frankenstein, the new musical at the Civic Theater, while you still can. The final performance is March 22nd.)

It is impossible not to make comparisons.  Another larger than life story, a man who drew enormous crowds, while igniting hatred against himself, who fed thousands, healed illness, raised the dead without lightning flashes or horrible effects.  And at the end, bleeding, dying in agony…one who had been with him could have asked:

What kind of God is so consumed with love for His creation that He will pursue it to His own crucifixion?

(For the powerfully moving answer, check out any New Testament for one of the gospel accounts.)

The oddest things make me cry these days.

Reading to cuddly two-year-old Luke before naptime:

The night Max wore the wolf suit and made mischief of one kind…

and another…

his mother called him, “Wild Thing!”

And Max said, “I’ll eat you up!”

and was sent to bed without eating anything.

–from Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak

And I wished, oh how I wished, that it were only a wolf suit and some idle words, instead of mischief and misdemeanor that the wide world frowns on.  I wished he were only in his room instead of in a concrete block.  I wished I could fix him supper after sending him to bed without it, and serve it to him “still hot”.  Instead I know that he never gets enough to satisfy him, the tall young man with the high metabolism.

As long as he chooses to be the King of all Wild Things, and go on wild rumpuses any chance he gets…then he’s better off staying where he is.  But someday, please God, he’ll decide that he’s lonely.  He’ll really want to be “where someone loves him best of all”.  Then perhaps he’ll step into his private boat and sail back over a year and in and out of weeks…

and he’ll not only find his supper waiting for him, but he’ll see his parents sailing out to meet him as he approaches the harbor.  And they’ll be smiling.   And so will his Father.