I would like to take a break in my copious expressions of opinion to go over one basic fact that is central to my life and that may help others in their journey.
Nurses are idiots.
I am a nurse. A nurse gave birth to me. I am related to many nurses, and have many more nurses that are friends. I have also seen nurses save countless lives, correct errors made by doctors that could have been fatal, and make ingenious health care decisions. I do not mean that nurses are professionally incompetent. I mean that when we step off that clinical site...we...are...idiots.
I could tell several stories to illustrate my point, all about myself, but allow me to give you one brief, horrifying glimpse into what happens when I am left alone too long by saying this:
When attempting to perform cosmetic surgery on oneself, it is a wise idea to have a styptic pencil nearby to control the copious bleeding that apparently results. I had no such thing handy. Lisa and Corrie will be no doubt delighted by a pile of blood-soaked tissues in the bathroom trash can when they arrive at home. I don't want to talk about that any more.
"I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. They are so unlike your Christ." -Ghandi
If I hear one more Bible-toting, praise-and-worshiping, Scripture-Quoting, Ichthus-wearing Christian respond to the question "How are you?" with any of the following words, I will instigate physical violence. Consider yourselves warned.
The phrases in question are:
"I'm here."
"I'm surviving."
"Don't ask."
"Ask me on Friday."
"Ugh."
I include myself in this threat. Don't be surprised, friends and loved ones, if you see me slapping myself silly sometime in the next few months.
If there is one thing more pitiful than an apathetic Christian, it is a chronically discouraged Christian.
Tell me something, what unsaved person in their right mind would want to follow a God that, if He doesn't cause a feeling of ennui, at the very least leaves His followers to feel vaguely discontented and dyspeptic their entire lives.
WHAT THE CRAP, MAN?
There is no excuse for a Believer to answer the "How are you?" question with anything less than, "God is good." No matter how things are going, if you believe anything Scripture says, you have no excuse to be answering poorly.
Now, don't misunderstand. Christians have bad days, and they're allowed to have bad days. I'm not saying that you can't express how you feel if you're struggling that day, that week, etc. How else can we solicit the prayers and support of others?
What I'm talking about is people that habitually answer neutrally or negatively to inquiries about their general state of being. Even if they're doing okay, they say one of the Forbidden Phrases listed above to avoid giving the impression that they are too happy. Whether the motivation is a need to feel more spiritual through suffering or just to gain sympathy because you like feeling special....
STOP IT! STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!
STOP IT IMMEDIATELY!
CEASE!
ALTO!
HALTE!
ENNNNNNNNNNNND!
I KILL YOU!
You're making Christians look like the rest of the world! STOP! We're supposed to be shining lights, in the world but not of it! We are forgiven, renewed, and heaven-bound. And if the thought of where you're going isn't enough, which it really isn't on the days when you feel like you're not getting there fast enough, don't forget; you have Jesus on your side! If you're not at least a little bit excited about your life today, well, that needs to be addressed immediately!
I would once again ask the reader to keep in mind that I am targeting myself just as much as I am others in this and all posts. I am just as guilty of habitual gloominess as the next Christian, but today I realized that not only is it a drag, it's SIN. Jesus came to give us life, that we might live more abundantly! We are commanded to rejoice! The joy of the Lord is our strength, and some of us are walking around like Spritual Urkels, weak, reedy, and flabby. What is supposed to make someone who is searching for a fuller life look at US and say "gee, I want to be like that!"
SMILE, OR I'LL HIT YOU WITH SOMETHING HEAVY!
I'm going to bed now. I'm becoming cranky.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
And now for something completely different...check out Psalm 18.
It began with a cry. It was a thin, weak, almost inaudible cry. But it echoed in the rafters of the Highest Temple, like a tiny drop of water echoes in a never-ending cavern. The whispery call came, and the heavens woke.
My Jesus spoke out of the black of the inky reaches of infinity where He makes His home. The single syllable from His tongue rocked the very atoms that form the molecules of the Milky Way. The “gods” of the Greeks and Aztecs trembled when they heard Him draw in breath. Him. My Jesus.
Then my Jesus let out a breath, scarcely a sigh, that stripped the heavens and laid bare their scaffoldings like flesh being pulled from bone. Hot, searing breath that had on its edge a metallic tang. Something deep inside every living creature shuddered at the scent. It was the smell of anger. My Jesus was angry.
Cherubim, ferocious and beautiful, fell to their knees before my Jesus, covering their four faces lest they should be exposed to the glaring majesty of His rage. With a thunderclap, my Jesus planted the soles of His bleeding, nail-scarred feet on their backs. But it was not them that my Jesus was angry with. To the contrary, He employed their services to exercise His fervor. Lifted off the streets of crystalline transparent gold by the breath of Elohim, they propelled Him through the heavenly realms, splitting the celestial thresholds asunder, then broke the sacred bonds and cut through the atmosphere of the earth, barely causing a ripple. But there was nothing covert about His mission. My Jesus was caught in a storm of contained, controlled, concentrated fury. He was coming for them, and they would know. Long before He arrived, they would know the pain of the strike that was coming.
They would know, but they could not stop it. Sinful. Violent. Hateful. They inhabited the earth blithely, not even bothering to kid themselves about the evil they perpetrated. They would pay, and they would pay dearly, and they would pay NOW.
He rained down lightening like flint sparks, and with each bolt a clap of thunder split the ozone-suffused air.
And that was just for show. His real vengeance would come with twice the beauty, and infinitely more finality. As he approached, the thin screams of His prey were drowned by His deep-chested growl, almost animalistic, and entirely carnivorous. This was not the pink, candy-coated Jesus they tried to show the diluted masses to weaken their resolve. This was a mighty ruler, one who bore blows from a Roman death whip, one who carried seventy pounds of crossed timber through the streets, dragging across puddles of His own blood. This was the Jesus that was torn bodily to shreds, tortured, mocked, starved, and dehydrated, and did not break. This was the leather-skinned, stone-handed Jesus that hewed cedar planks, whose eyes defied Pharisees, stopped angry mobs in their tracks, and turned the mighty Pontius Pilate into a waffling school girl.
Those same eyes locked on His targets, zeroed in, and went for the kill.
And they knew fear. They knew the nauseous clawing of certain agony and death. They could have run. They could have hidden, but in the end, the result would be the same.
The calloused fingers of Jesus, the crucified Jewish Carpenter, wrapped across their faces and ripped them in half.
Amid their cries of agony, a voice like a crash of thunder, a bursting dam, a falling redwood, a continental plate splitting apart ripped the air.
WHERE IS MY CHILD?
He didn’t wait for answers. With barely a flick of His fingers, His targets were incinerated, sent to the pit to await judgment. Breathing smoke and brimstone, my Jesus turned to the shredded, torn soul of the child He came to save tonight.
Cold obsidian eyes suddenly soft and compassionate, my Jesus began to wash the wounds on His beloved. With infinite dexterity, He soothed the deep lacerations and cleaned the debris from the cuts.
My Jesus gently wrapped the battered soul in His own robes. The cherubim were again used as transport. This time the pace was gentle. My Jesus would take no risk of further jarring His loved one. Cradling the broken form close, He slipped away to the peaceful place they used to share, the special spot that has been waiting for this moment.
Not the spot for a Warrior and His foe. A spot for a Father and His precious child.
That’s the plan. That’s the necessity. That’s the passion and the ruling force and the exception to the rule and the summation of judgment withheld. That’s sin exonerated and fragility defended. That’s power and praise and meekness and majesty. That’s the nature of love and the Author of relationship. That’s mighty salvation.
That’s My Jesus.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Throwing a Hand Grenade into the Battle of the Sexes
Okay, so I'm not usually a person that harps on sexism, mostly because I am so dead sick of hearing about it. If you don't like the way you're being treated, do something about it! You're not a gerbil, you CAN change locations. Get a new job, a new school, a new church, anything to keep us from hearing you whine about how the boys won't let you into their club. I'm also tired of hearing men being trashed. There are a lot of good guys out there that get NO credit whatsoever. So here is is; Fellas, on behalf of the female population that is too busy asphyxiating on hair dye to say it--thank you. Thank you for every time you were chivalrous instead of being condescending, respectful and considerate, for every hormone-induced insult you let go for the sake of keeping the peace. I won't apologize for the female gender, because we've got our own list of crap that we have to deal with, but I will thank the men who have the guts to step up and be men.
That being said, I gotta tell you, there are guys out there who are undoing all your handiwork.
Last week, I had a very long, difficult friday. Without going into too much detail, and thanking God for the day not being any worse (as it could have been), let me say that there was a mechanic that sorely challenged my already shortened fuse. For those of you not familiar with the saga that is my car's engine, let me summarize by saying that in February, I spent about 4 grand to have my transmission replaced. In retrospect, I should have just tried to sell it....but anyway. So a couple of weeks ago it breaks down again. Not knowing what was wrong with it and hoping for something simple, I had it towed to a local shop in Crowley. I recieved a call on Friday that went like this:
Me: Hello?
Car Dude: Hi, this is (name deleted) from (business deleted). Um...which car was yours again?
Me: (okay, so you totally called ME, I would hope you know what's going on a LITTLE better than that, but hey, there's an orange pollution alert today, maybe your brain's a little smoke-cured) Uh, the '03 VUE.
Car Dude: Oh, right. Your transmission's shot. Hang on a second.
Me: (sweating bullets and ticked from being on the phone with homeboy talking to someone about what kind of pizza to order for literally ten minutes, and finally getting cut off. The guy calls back and offers no apology) So, what's wrong with the transmission, now?
Car Dude: Uh, it's BROKEN. It needs to be FIXED. (raising his voice in a frustrated tone in offense that a mere woman would presume to know anything about something as manly and mysterious as a car transmission)
Me: .......excuse me?
Car Dude: (Loud sigh. looks like this broad is particularly dumb) It's an I-N-T-E-R-N-A-L problem. Do you HAVE a warranty on it?
Me: (Ohnoyadidn't) Yep. I have a warranty with someone else. I'll have it towed outta there. *click*
Did I mention I was PMSing too? Anyhow, the general concensus from my parents was that there's no excuse for acting like that, but mechanics are mechanics and I probably should have had a guy deal with them...not because I wasn't capable of dealing, but because mechanics like to play with power tools and power trips. Point taken. I had the illustrious Dave deal with the dude. Dave said he was nice. That's because chauvanists don't have a problem with other guys, just the women that are rude enough to occupy the non-kitchen space in their worlds.
ANYway. It got me to thinking about the battle of the sexes, in all its ridiculous, unloving, unspiritual glory.
You can't claim to love the Lord and accept Scripture in its entirety without admitting tha tmen have a different role from women. All it takes is a simple look at the life of Jesus.
D.J. Kennedy, author of "What if Jesus had Never Been Born?" and Mark Driscoll in "Vintage Jesus" both point out that the life and teachings of Jesus elevated women from property (like cattle) to citizens. He taught men and women alike as equals, and the disciples continued His work. On fact, the verse in ITimothy 3 so often quoted by the pious gasbags that don't want a woman in the pulpit is usually quoted incompletely. The passage reads in detail about the life of a Deacon and how it should mirror Christ. Paul says that the deacon is to be the husband of but one wife. Totally lame way to defend your little boy's only club, right? It's made worse by the fact that every translation except KJV go on to say, "The deaconesses, likewise...." I Timothy 3:11. There are several other verses that indicate women in positions of leadership in the church. This was a change fro the polytheistic temples that required women in positions of power to also prostitute their bodies like some mythological burlesque show. "And now, presenting Zeus and the Toga Tarts! Popcorn is now on sale in our lobby."
In fact, Paul writes a passage dedicated to the retraining of such women to be LADIES, respectable and appropriate by any and all standards in that time period (I Corinthians 14:34)
All this to say that yes, Jesus had a special place in His heart for women, especially women who have been exhausted by a world that refuses to allow them to behave as ladies.
Another source of great comfort to me is that Jesus understands PMS. Take a look at the story in Luke 10. You can't tell me that fit Martha threw wasn't originated in hormones! I mean, here is a grown woman, by all other rights respectable and mature, WHINING to Jesus! "Blubber, wah, Jesus, make Mary help me! It's not FAIR! *foot stomp, sniffle*" Every woman alive has immense sympathy for moments like that, nods her head, and says "Yep, my uterus hates me too."
But check out how Jesus acts. He's firm, but so sympathetic and tender. He basically tells her "You could be doing this too. I wouldn't mind, and I think it would make you feel better." Scripture doesn't record it, but I bet at that point Martha popped some Midol, grabbed a heating pad, and plunked down beside her sister to listen to Jesus. Talk about conflict resolution!
Jesus treated women with special tenderness. He still does. Men have a hard job, but women do too. Guys, be patient with us. Its' going to take a lot of work from real men of God before we can relax and be the Grace-filled ladiea we were commanded to be.
Also, men and women use different weapons in the hatful, unscriptural battle between the sexes.
The weapons of men are terrifying to women. Between a tendency toward verbal domineering and the very real possibility of inflicting physical harm, it's a wonder all women don't carry guns. But there is also the matter of the man who breeds false emotional closeness and the misguided feeling of security in a woman. The purpose of this is no more than to obtain what they want, be it servitude, a feeling of superiority, or plain old-fashioned sex. A woman will do almost anything to feel wanted. Men know this, and some of them use this knowledge in the most despicable way possible.
Girls, we're not exempt either. Read the story of Adam and Eve, or Samson and Delilah. Women are manipulators, through and through. We will cheat and connive and nag until we get what we want. Any man will tell you that there is nothing, absolutely NOTHING worse than a nagging woman. Every man alive instantly understands the parable of the persistant widow. This jerk judge finally tears his hair out and says "Agh! Okay! Anything you want! Yes dear! Just SHUT UP!"
But our gender's manipulations can take a more sinister turn, as in the case of a woman purposely getting pregnant or faking a pregnancy to rope down a man that's not terribly interested in her, or women that fly into crying hysterics when they are confronted about inappropriate behavior that needs to be remedied in their lives. These methods of manipulation are just as disgusting, just as vile, as the man who bullies and belittles his wife. I have seen women tear men's lives to shreds using these methods of getting what they want, efficiently and remorselessly, then move on to the next victim.
What is my basic point in this very long-winded post, aside from the fact that PEOPLE ARE CRAZY (which is an ongoing theme in this blog)?
Beware the power you have, man.
Beware the power you have, woman.
We will all have to answer for the abuse of it.
That being said, I gotta tell you, there are guys out there who are undoing all your handiwork.
Last week, I had a very long, difficult friday. Without going into too much detail, and thanking God for the day not being any worse (as it could have been), let me say that there was a mechanic that sorely challenged my already shortened fuse. For those of you not familiar with the saga that is my car's engine, let me summarize by saying that in February, I spent about 4 grand to have my transmission replaced. In retrospect, I should have just tried to sell it....but anyway. So a couple of weeks ago it breaks down again. Not knowing what was wrong with it and hoping for something simple, I had it towed to a local shop in Crowley. I recieved a call on Friday that went like this:
Me: Hello?
Car Dude: Hi, this is (name deleted) from (business deleted). Um...which car was yours again?
Me: (okay, so you totally called ME, I would hope you know what's going on a LITTLE better than that, but hey, there's an orange pollution alert today, maybe your brain's a little smoke-cured) Uh, the '03 VUE.
Car Dude: Oh, right. Your transmission's shot. Hang on a second.
Me: (sweating bullets and ticked from being on the phone with homeboy talking to someone about what kind of pizza to order for literally ten minutes, and finally getting cut off. The guy calls back and offers no apology) So, what's wrong with the transmission, now?
Car Dude: Uh, it's BROKEN. It needs to be FIXED. (raising his voice in a frustrated tone in offense that a mere woman would presume to know anything about something as manly and mysterious as a car transmission)
Me: .......excuse me?
Car Dude: (Loud sigh. looks like this broad is particularly dumb) It's an I-N-T-E-R-N-A-L problem. Do you HAVE a warranty on it?
Me: (Ohnoyadidn't) Yep. I have a warranty with someone else. I'll have it towed outta there. *click*
Did I mention I was PMSing too? Anyhow, the general concensus from my parents was that there's no excuse for acting like that, but mechanics are mechanics and I probably should have had a guy deal with them...not because I wasn't capable of dealing, but because mechanics like to play with power tools and power trips. Point taken. I had the illustrious Dave deal with the dude. Dave said he was nice. That's because chauvanists don't have a problem with other guys, just the women that are rude enough to occupy the non-kitchen space in their worlds.
ANYway. It got me to thinking about the battle of the sexes, in all its ridiculous, unloving, unspiritual glory.
You can't claim to love the Lord and accept Scripture in its entirety without admitting tha tmen have a different role from women. All it takes is a simple look at the life of Jesus.
D.J. Kennedy, author of "What if Jesus had Never Been Born?" and Mark Driscoll in "Vintage Jesus" both point out that the life and teachings of Jesus elevated women from property (like cattle) to citizens. He taught men and women alike as equals, and the disciples continued His work. On fact, the verse in ITimothy 3 so often quoted by the pious gasbags that don't want a woman in the pulpit is usually quoted incompletely. The passage reads in detail about the life of a Deacon and how it should mirror Christ. Paul says that the deacon is to be the husband of but one wife. Totally lame way to defend your little boy's only club, right? It's made worse by the fact that every translation except KJV go on to say, "The deaconesses, likewise...." I Timothy 3:11. There are several other verses that indicate women in positions of leadership in the church. This was a change fro the polytheistic temples that required women in positions of power to also prostitute their bodies like some mythological burlesque show. "And now, presenting Zeus and the Toga Tarts! Popcorn is now on sale in our lobby."
In fact, Paul writes a passage dedicated to the retraining of such women to be LADIES, respectable and appropriate by any and all standards in that time period (I Corinthians 14:34)
All this to say that yes, Jesus had a special place in His heart for women, especially women who have been exhausted by a world that refuses to allow them to behave as ladies.
Another source of great comfort to me is that Jesus understands PMS. Take a look at the story in Luke 10. You can't tell me that fit Martha threw wasn't originated in hormones! I mean, here is a grown woman, by all other rights respectable and mature, WHINING to Jesus! "Blubber, wah, Jesus, make Mary help me! It's not FAIR! *foot stomp, sniffle*" Every woman alive has immense sympathy for moments like that, nods her head, and says "Yep, my uterus hates me too."
But check out how Jesus acts. He's firm, but so sympathetic and tender. He basically tells her "You could be doing this too. I wouldn't mind, and I think it would make you feel better." Scripture doesn't record it, but I bet at that point Martha popped some Midol, grabbed a heating pad, and plunked down beside her sister to listen to Jesus. Talk about conflict resolution!
Jesus treated women with special tenderness. He still does. Men have a hard job, but women do too. Guys, be patient with us. Its' going to take a lot of work from real men of God before we can relax and be the Grace-filled ladiea we were commanded to be.
Also, men and women use different weapons in the hatful, unscriptural battle between the sexes.
The weapons of men are terrifying to women. Between a tendency toward verbal domineering and the very real possibility of inflicting physical harm, it's a wonder all women don't carry guns. But there is also the matter of the man who breeds false emotional closeness and the misguided feeling of security in a woman. The purpose of this is no more than to obtain what they want, be it servitude, a feeling of superiority, or plain old-fashioned sex. A woman will do almost anything to feel wanted. Men know this, and some of them use this knowledge in the most despicable way possible.
Girls, we're not exempt either. Read the story of Adam and Eve, or Samson and Delilah. Women are manipulators, through and through. We will cheat and connive and nag until we get what we want. Any man will tell you that there is nothing, absolutely NOTHING worse than a nagging woman. Every man alive instantly understands the parable of the persistant widow. This jerk judge finally tears his hair out and says "Agh! Okay! Anything you want! Yes dear! Just SHUT UP!"
But our gender's manipulations can take a more sinister turn, as in the case of a woman purposely getting pregnant or faking a pregnancy to rope down a man that's not terribly interested in her, or women that fly into crying hysterics when they are confronted about inappropriate behavior that needs to be remedied in their lives. These methods of manipulation are just as disgusting, just as vile, as the man who bullies and belittles his wife. I have seen women tear men's lives to shreds using these methods of getting what they want, efficiently and remorselessly, then move on to the next victim.
What is my basic point in this very long-winded post, aside from the fact that PEOPLE ARE CRAZY (which is an ongoing theme in this blog)?
Beware the power you have, man.
Beware the power you have, woman.
We will all have to answer for the abuse of it.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
We interrupt our regularly scheduled soapboxing....
Okay, so last night at Homegroup, this blog got brought up. You never knew a group of adults could be so explosively creative as when they are presented with the words "shiny" and "koalas."
I knew it was a recipe for greatness, I just didn't know how near that greatness was. Here is the dialogue, near as I can recall. I may be getting who said what confused in my head, though.
Chris: What's it called? Stinky Koalas?
Caleb: Dude, I was TOTALLY about to say exactly THAT! I really thought it was Stinky Koalas!
Me: It's SHINY Koalas!
Micah: What's a shiny koala?
Julie S: It's a Koala that's been greased up!
Exo: Hair gel or pomade?
Me: Can't it be both?
Micah:It's hard to keep shiny koalas in trees, because they are naturally slippery.
Exo: You know it's a bad day when the sloth is beating you at the climbing game.
Audrey: Life is hard for the shiny koalas!
Julia M: That's why you usually find them on the ground!
Me: *genuinely pleased with the idea* Hee! Sploit!
Audrey: And they use the sparkly gel! It helps break up their outline on a sunny day.
It was fantastic. Just to clarify, I was trying to create this blog, needed a URL, and I used the first two words that popped into my head. It has no special or deep significance whatsoever, except maybe to show that I am too preoccupied with sparkly things and small fuzzy mammals.
Happy 4th everyone! It's good to be free. And hey, if you don't like living here, there's always Iran.
I knew it was a recipe for greatness, I just didn't know how near that greatness was. Here is the dialogue, near as I can recall. I may be getting who said what confused in my head, though.
Chris: What's it called? Stinky Koalas?
Caleb: Dude, I was TOTALLY about to say exactly THAT! I really thought it was Stinky Koalas!
Me: It's SHINY Koalas!
Micah: What's a shiny koala?
Julie S: It's a Koala that's been greased up!
Exo: Hair gel or pomade?
Me: Can't it be both?
Micah:It's hard to keep shiny koalas in trees, because they are naturally slippery.
Exo: You know it's a bad day when the sloth is beating you at the climbing game.
Audrey: Life is hard for the shiny koalas!
Julia M: That's why you usually find them on the ground!
Me: *genuinely pleased with the idea* Hee! Sploit!
Audrey: And they use the sparkly gel! It helps break up their outline on a sunny day.
It was fantastic. Just to clarify, I was trying to create this blog, needed a URL, and I used the first two words that popped into my head. It has no special or deep significance whatsoever, except maybe to show that I am too preoccupied with sparkly things and small fuzzy mammals.
Happy 4th everyone! It's good to be free. And hey, if you don't like living here, there's always Iran.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Type-A Blunders
"Do not be deceived, Wormwood. Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy's will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys."
-CS Lewis, "The Screwtape Letters"
CS Lewis embarked on the writing of The Screwtape Letters with the intention of showing how easily human thought and being can be twisted and manipulated. In a split second everything is different, though nothing in the physical world has changed. Very small changes in thought and habit can bring about massive chaos and destruction in a person's life. So why do we insist on thinking we can predict and change outcomes, when the minutiae of daily life so often escapes us? Despite our asinine type-A attempts to control every factor, crap happens. Little human self-help methods for attaining control fail miserably. Try what you will--charts, graphs, recorded reminders, a handy dandy notepad, or even just repeating the same routine over and over again, eventually, it will fail.
Human control strategies can't even overcome our own forgetfulness, much less the infinite possibilities that could unfold with a decision as simple as sitting down on a park bench or sneezing into your left sleeve rather than your right. When that happens, the unplanned unknown sneaks up on us and bites us, and there's not a thing we can do about it. We're thrown headlong into a maze of circumstances that there was no way we could plan for. Those are the consequences of being a human.
Fortunately, and against all odds, there is a Father in Heaven that knows we're scatterbrained doofuses who are one head blow away from playing with crayons for the rest of our lives. He created us to be His companions, and He wants us to be fully reliant on Him, not because He wants to control us, but rather quite the opposite, that He wants us to grow. He wants us to be able to function without hearing a word from His mouth every two seconds. This is desireable for us, too. Hey, let's me honest, the life of an Old Testament prophet was pretty uncool. Apparently, hearing the voice of God on a regular basis causes psychotic behavior, weird contests with idol worshipers, funky hair, and entomophagy (eating bugs. I know, I know, that's New Testament, but it's still in the Bible). So that's why we have concrete words printed in a handy little book that we can return to time and again. That is how we look around, see a desolate world that it seems God has abandoned, and despite the fact that everything in us is screaming to come up with a plan B before it's too late, we still obey. That's when we learn strength without the extra motivation of warm fuzzy feelings, which never hang around. That's the provision of God for a mean and unstable species who, half the time, has their fingers up their noses to the second knuckle while He's trying to speak.
For instance, I was driving to work today. In Bedford. From Crowley. About a 45 minute drive. Before I left I made sure to make up a nice little lunch, and told myself every minute or so while I was making it, "I have to put this into my bag, or I'll forget it." Put it in a tupperware container. "I gotta put this into my little tote bag, or I'll leave it here." Add salt, pepper, and garlic, the three ingredients for wholesale happiness. "Okay, so I'll stir this up, and then put the lid on and put it in my tote bag." Stir. "Tote bag, tote bag, tote bag."
Not surprisingly, I was IN Bedford before I realized I had left the food sitting on the counter. Shocking, I know. Next time I'll warn you with something big and shiny to let you know a jump scene is coming up. Anyway, that was the crap happening.
I was already running behind and would have been late if I had stopped somewhere, so I gritted my teeth nervously and pressed on. Maybe I would just order a plate from the kitchen when the patients were served dinner. That was my human type-A plan for control.
Everything on the patient menu was meat stuffed with meat with meat sauce and gravy on top, with sugar cubes dipped in honey for dessert. Those who know me know that meat and I are not on speaking terms, and really, REALLY need to cut back on the sugar. So much for the plan.
So I called up Jen Berger. Before I was even done asking her if she could please, maybe, if it wasn't too much trouble, and I completely understood if she couldn't, but I'd really like some food, she was all, "Do you want me to bring you some Subway? How about a footlong?" In an hour there was a fresh, tasty edible in my happy little hands.
And that's called Grace.
You see, despite our humanity and flaws and our "durr what was I supposed to be doing?" moments, God has a little tool He pulls out when things get really rough, and we've done nothing to merit being bailed out, but regardless can't make it another moment without help. It's called Grace. I've been using up enough for two people lately, but somehow, I think there's enough to go around. If not, I'm sure we can send Jen Berger out for more. I hear God's Grace is made fresh daily.
Okay, so I'm ending with a bad Subway/Grace renewal pun. What of it?
Go watch TV. Go!!
-CS Lewis, "The Screwtape Letters"
CS Lewis embarked on the writing of The Screwtape Letters with the intention of showing how easily human thought and being can be twisted and manipulated. In a split second everything is different, though nothing in the physical world has changed. Very small changes in thought and habit can bring about massive chaos and destruction in a person's life. So why do we insist on thinking we can predict and change outcomes, when the minutiae of daily life so often escapes us? Despite our asinine type-A attempts to control every factor, crap happens. Little human self-help methods for attaining control fail miserably. Try what you will--charts, graphs, recorded reminders, a handy dandy notepad, or even just repeating the same routine over and over again, eventually, it will fail.
Human control strategies can't even overcome our own forgetfulness, much less the infinite possibilities that could unfold with a decision as simple as sitting down on a park bench or sneezing into your left sleeve rather than your right. When that happens, the unplanned unknown sneaks up on us and bites us, and there's not a thing we can do about it. We're thrown headlong into a maze of circumstances that there was no way we could plan for. Those are the consequences of being a human.
Fortunately, and against all odds, there is a Father in Heaven that knows we're scatterbrained doofuses who are one head blow away from playing with crayons for the rest of our lives. He created us to be His companions, and He wants us to be fully reliant on Him, not because He wants to control us, but rather quite the opposite, that He wants us to grow. He wants us to be able to function without hearing a word from His mouth every two seconds. This is desireable for us, too. Hey, let's me honest, the life of an Old Testament prophet was pretty uncool. Apparently, hearing the voice of God on a regular basis causes psychotic behavior, weird contests with idol worshipers, funky hair, and entomophagy (eating bugs. I know, I know, that's New Testament, but it's still in the Bible). So that's why we have concrete words printed in a handy little book that we can return to time and again. That is how we look around, see a desolate world that it seems God has abandoned, and despite the fact that everything in us is screaming to come up with a plan B before it's too late, we still obey. That's when we learn strength without the extra motivation of warm fuzzy feelings, which never hang around. That's the provision of God for a mean and unstable species who, half the time, has their fingers up their noses to the second knuckle while He's trying to speak.
For instance, I was driving to work today. In Bedford. From Crowley. About a 45 minute drive. Before I left I made sure to make up a nice little lunch, and told myself every minute or so while I was making it, "I have to put this into my bag, or I'll forget it." Put it in a tupperware container. "I gotta put this into my little tote bag, or I'll leave it here." Add salt, pepper, and garlic, the three ingredients for wholesale happiness. "Okay, so I'll stir this up, and then put the lid on and put it in my tote bag." Stir. "Tote bag, tote bag, tote bag."
Not surprisingly, I was IN Bedford before I realized I had left the food sitting on the counter. Shocking, I know. Next time I'll warn you with something big and shiny to let you know a jump scene is coming up. Anyway, that was the crap happening.
I was already running behind and would have been late if I had stopped somewhere, so I gritted my teeth nervously and pressed on. Maybe I would just order a plate from the kitchen when the patients were served dinner. That was my human type-A plan for control.
Everything on the patient menu was meat stuffed with meat with meat sauce and gravy on top, with sugar cubes dipped in honey for dessert. Those who know me know that meat and I are not on speaking terms, and really, REALLY need to cut back on the sugar. So much for the plan.
So I called up Jen Berger. Before I was even done asking her if she could please, maybe, if it wasn't too much trouble, and I completely understood if she couldn't, but I'd really like some food, she was all, "Do you want me to bring you some Subway? How about a footlong?" In an hour there was a fresh, tasty edible in my happy little hands.
And that's called Grace.
You see, despite our humanity and flaws and our "durr what was I supposed to be doing?" moments, God has a little tool He pulls out when things get really rough, and we've done nothing to merit being bailed out, but regardless can't make it another moment without help. It's called Grace. I've been using up enough for two people lately, but somehow, I think there's enough to go around. If not, I'm sure we can send Jen Berger out for more. I hear God's Grace is made fresh daily.
Okay, so I'm ending with a bad Subway/Grace renewal pun. What of it?
Go watch TV. Go!!
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