Category Archives: Invitations to Question

The Bible Is Bananas

A wise man once said there is a time for everything. I used to interpret that as a statement about seasons—one thing in one season, another thing in another season. But maybe it’s also a statement about concurrency, about different things at the same time. In stead of either/or, I find myself more often thinking both/and. I am both connected to people and separate from them. I am both anxious and at peace. The world is breathtakingly beautiful and excruciatingly broken. Family is an asset and a pain in the ass. Love is ultimate safety and ultimate risk. God is male and female and non-gender.

But now and then I wonder if I’m being too permissive. My conservative evangelical upbringing tells me there are definite wrongs and rights, and one typically excludes the other. The church also told me the Bible makes sense. Read it “right” and you can reconcile what is confusing, and even package it all up nicely in bullet points on illustrated pamphlets. So if I don’t believe in one right answer any more, do I still believe in the Bible?

I don’t open my Bible much these days, but today I do. I read Lamentations chapter 3, and find it to be a lovely example of both/and thinking. (Or an example of irreconcilable contradiction. Take your pick.) Lamentations 3 contains 66 verses of despair, hope, and vengeance, penned by the prophet Jeremiah. As I begin to read, I feel a growing sense of contrast between these verses and the scriptures I see stenciled on wall art at Hobby Lobby, or screen-printed on church youth group t-shirts. I certainly didn’t memorize these verses in Sabbath School.

v. 2 He has led me and made me walk in darkness and not in light.

v. 3 Surely He has turned His hand against me time and time again throughout the day.

v. 7 He has hedged me in so that I cannot get out; He has made my chain heavy.

v. 11 He has turned aside my ways and torn me in pieces; He has made me desolate.

v. 16 He has also broken my teeth with gravel, and covered me with ashes.

I’m not even gonna try to wrap those up with a nice bow. Not only are these sentiments a dark portrayal of God, they stand in open disagreement with texts elsewhere in the Bible. For example:

v. 2 He has led me and made me walk in darkness and not in light.
AND Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path. Psalm 119:105

v. 3 Surely He has turned His hand against me time and time again throughout the day.
AND I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. Isaiah 41:10b

v. 7 He has hedged me in so that I cannot get out; He has made my chain heavy.
AND “My yoke is easy and my burden is light.” Matthew 11:30

v. 8 Even when I cry and shout, He shuts out my prayer.
AND The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears, and delivers them out of all their troubles. Psalm 34:17

v. 9 He has blocked my ways with hewn stone; He has made my paths crooked.
AND I will go before you, and make the crooked places straight. Isaiah 45:2a

v. 16 He has also broken my teeth with gravel, and covered me with ashes.
AND The Spirit of the Lord God is upon Me, to give them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness. Psalm 61:1a, 3b

v. 17 You have moved my soul far from peace; I have forgotten good.
AND “My peace I give to you.” John 14:27
AND He leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul. Psalm 23:2b, 3a

As it turns out, I don’t need to look in other books of the Bible to find opposing sentiments. This one chapter of Lamentations contains a fullness of expression from one extreme to the other:

v. 11 He has turned aside my ways and torn me in pieces; He has made me desolate.
AND The Lord is good to those who wait for Him, to the soul who seeks Him. v. 25

v. 42 We have transgressed and rebelled; You have not pardoned.
AND Oh Lord, You have pleaded the case for my soul; You have redeemed my life. v. 58

v. 43 You have covered Yourself with anger and pursued us; You have slain and not pitied.
AND Through the Lord’s mercies we are not consumed, because His compassions fail not. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness. v. 22, 23 (Here’s the Hobby Lobby verse I was looking for!)

v. 44 You have covered Yourself with a cloud, that prayer should not pass through.
AND You drew near on the day I called on You, and said, “Do not fear!” v. 57

At this point I’m either thoroughly confused (I am), or my both/and thinking is expanding exponentially (it’s trying). The more I read, the more oddities I find. Is this a portrait of grief, not meant to make “sense”? Certainly an either/or mindset would require a diagnosis here, probably something along the lines of, “These are just feelings. Of course God doesn’t actually break our teeth, remove us from peace, or make our chains heavy. This passage is an upset person blowing off steam, exaggerating to express their angst.”

But couldn’t you say the same about the verses that extol God? What if the reality is that God turns His face away from us and punishes us, but sometimes we feel like He is listening to us and redeeming us?

Maybe it’s all of the above. We feel all kinds of feelings that aren’t about what God is actually doing or not doing. We also receive Her work in our life through our feelings. And maybe God is both punishing us and redeeming us. That’s hard for me to even write, as I have completely abandoned the idea of a God who punishes. But what if it’s both? And what if sometimes salvation happens in a sheep-and-goats sort of way, and other times in an all-shall-be-saved sort of way?

Jeremiah writes, “Is it not from the mouth of the Most High that woe and well-being proceed?” (v. 38) I love that it’s a question and not a statement. It’s an invitation to conversation, and invitation to keep wondering, keep talking, keep paying attention to what is there and what isn’t there.

Could it be comforting that the Bible is basically bananas? Imagine if everything matched up nicely and could be distilled to a handful of logical statements. No need for 66 books full of words that paint God (and Her creation) in every light imaginable. Let’s have one painting of God, at dusk, when the light is most complimentary and the air is calm. Let’s keep this one painting in a vault and burn all other paintings, and the people who paint them.

But no, the Bible will not allow this. Its vivid portraits of God and humans are all bound together. For my part, I’m done pretending the Holy Spirit is going to match it all up for me. Bring on the paradoxes, contradictions, violence and patriarchy, and the portrait of a God whose love is so inclusive and profligate it’s ridiculous. Both/and.

Special thanks to Marla Taviano (@marlataviano, @whitegirllearning) for the phrase “the Bible is basically bananas.” Go preorder her newest book of passionately beautiful deconstruction poetry, titled whole. (And while you’re at it, order her other books of poetry, unbelieve and jaded.)

Blessed or Lucky?

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I possess the leisure of asking questions like, Am I blessed or lucky? This is a testament to my comfortable life, and my pedantic nature. It may also involve just a tiny bit of reputation management. I don’t want to say I’m lucky, as though I’ve left my destiny to a four-leafed clover. But I don’t want to say I’m blessed and be seen as a rare recipient of God’s favor.

I suppose I could dispense with both words and use something else altogether—maybe grateful. Still, there are connotations I don’t like. What if people think I’m grateful for ev-er-y-thing, or that I avoid talking about hard stuff because—you know—I’m just grateful. Why is it so damn hard to manage my reputation?

The church taught me not to say lucky—because luck’s got nothing to do with it. But as I near my 40^th birthday, I’m fairly certain luck has everything to do with it. Luck means things happen to me because things happen. I can have bad luck or good luck, divorced from my character, my actions, and the circumstances preceding said luck.

In in a much less haphazard fashion, blessed seems to mean God is smiling down on me and providing extra special things, probably because of my good character. Or at least because I’m praying. You know the verse to that children’s song about the wise man and the foolish man—“the blessings come down as the prayers go up”? I take that to mean when I stop praying I’ll stop being blessed. Yes, the Lord makes the sun shine and the rain fall on the good and the evil (Matthew 5:45)… but surely draughts in California have something to do with legislation, and floods in Louisiana serve to tighten the Bible belt a notch or two.

The protestant work ethic suggests that accepting luck into my worldview will cause me to sit on my keister all day and wait for the garden to grow. As Mrs. Marcus complained in the comedy It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World, “This whole country is just full of people, who when these things happen they just say, ‘these things happen,’ and that’s why they happen!” This sentiment implies that if I worked harder I could be in control. Maybe if I prayed harder I’d have a more predictable life, good health until I die, financial security, children who stay “in the church,” and a permanent smile on my face. It’s laughable, really.

But isn’t every good gift from God? Is this a distribution problem? God’s blessings flow forth from Her heart of love, but the weather patterns dump them across the world haphazardly, piled up in some areas and entirely missing in others? In that case, blessed is really identical to lucky—I happened to be born in a wealthy country to parents who provided a stable home. I married a 22-year-old who happened to mature into an attentive and wise life partner. Like a video-game-player spawning into a game, I appeared here in a resource-rich environment. And I’m enjoying the benefits.

Everything I have is something a billion people don’t have—happy marriage, good health, both parents alive and still married, big house in a safe neighborhood, a comfortable wardrobe, not to mention the three meals I chew daily with well-cared-for teeth. It is tempting to wonder if God likes me better.

I’m not making much headway here. Thankfully, Elizabeth Gilbert leads me to the heart of the matter. In her book Eat, Pray, Love, she defines destiny as, “a play between divine grace and willful self-effort. Half of it you have no control over; half of it is absolutely in your hands, and your actions will show measurable consequence. Man is neither entirely a puppet of the gods, nor is he entirely the captain of his own destiny; he’s a little of both.”

There’s something underneath, a philosophy, a worldview. If I use the word luck to strip away all agency, lie down, and let life roll over me, I’ve become a puppet. If I use the word blessed to assign myself too much agency, I put God on puppet strings, and that can’t be good. But if I use either word to relax into the goodness of my life, the scales may tip from control to celebration. Celebration implies there is goodness worth noticing and lingering over, worth sharing with friends and family.

God blesses me.

Also, I’m just lucky.

Holy What?

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe:
flame—do You warm cold bodies
or burn “wrong” people?
wind—do You play with our hair
or destroy our homes?
rock—do You stand firm beneath us
or avalanche upon us?

Blessed are You
beyond understanding
yet close as my skin,
a mystery, infinite, expanding,
yet fully present in the nose on my face.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe:
light, but creator of night,
the kind of wild that is safe for a child,
loving fire, burning desire,
bread and oil, seed and soil,
lawmaker and lawbreaker,
water-fountain of life.
I wonder about all this
(God isn’t supposed to be chaotic),
wonder if I should be worried,
until I remember we are holding hands,
fingers laced together,
and You don’t mind
if I close my eyes
for the scary parts.

Big Joy

From Pink Leather to Diversity

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I cannot imagine the “Urgent need for Bibles” depicted on my social media feed and in letters from charities. I don’t know the hunger for Scripture that thousands have felt in prison, in remote villages, in countries hostile to Christianity. I have more Bibles than I want, and only need visit a book store or sit in a church pew to access even more.

Over the years, I’ve accumulated seven or eight Bibles, including a small pink New Testament with Psalms, a Seminars Unlimited Edition KJV (free for everyone who attended a Revelation Seminar series—hallmark of the Seventh-Day-Adventist Church), and the bright, almost-holographic NIV children’s Bible I earned by memorizing the books of the Bible. I’m still proud that I can recite the minor prophets in order.

During my high school years I bought a metal-covered NLT Bible with a magnetic clasp, and a Spanish/English NIV. In Senior Bible class, each student chose a new-to-us style or version of the Bible. I picked the Serendipity Bible, designed with questions and study helps in the margins for group discussion. Lover of small groups that I am, I thought—and still think—it’s brilliant. But I’ve hardly used it.

The only Bible I truly loved came to me in its pink leather cover on my ninth birthday. As I wrote in last week’s post, I read it all the way through that year, and over the next ten years it became like a fifth appendage. When I flip through it now, I find a quarter-sheet of paper with notes for a worship talk to the student body at my high school, and another with multiple-choice options, showing a checkmark beside the statement, “I rededicate my life to Christ today.”

I still get a feeling of companionship when I turn the pages of my pink Bible, but it’s connected to life before I moved away from home. I must have taken that Bible to church during my college years, but memories are vague. Did I have morning “quiet time”? I can’t remember. By the time I graduated from college, the focus of my small groups had moved away from Bible study and toward facilitating safe spaces for personal growth. The women in my life wanted to be heard, and so did I.

Two years after I graduated from college—and fifteen years after my parents gave me the pink Bible—my college-boyfriend-turned-husband gave me a burgundy NKJV Remnant Study Bible with my married name embossed on the front, in silver. Pink Bible retired to the Bible shelf, safe in a pleather case. But I never really moved in to my new Bible. Only a handful of verses are highlighted or underlined and no papers are tucked between the thin pages.

I can’t help but wonder if I loved the Bible as a book in its own right, or if I only loved that Bible. The pink Bible meant purpose, connection, expertise. Perhaps it filled the role of a cup of coffee or alcohol—to buffer social spaces. During my 20’s, as the years filled with grown-up responsibilities, the Bible settled down along with the rest of my life. The excitement of spiritual leadership, learning to drive, falling in love, and working a dozen different student jobs during my late teens and early 20’s turned into the predictability of a dual-income home. I rose at 5:40am for quiet time, and prayed through Stormie Omartian’s The Power of a Praying Wife at least twice. I read the Bible and journaled and expected life to continue in much the same way. The Bible was habit—was that all?

By the time I turned thirty, we’d added two babies to the family. Prayer journaling ceased during the years of babies and young children, and at the same time my confidence in God and Scripture took a beating. As I fought for sleep and struggled to maintain a shred of self-worth, my youthful confidence gave in to confusion, anger—and curiosity. I wrestled with God and mostly left the Bible out of it. An aching emptiness took hold of me, and the Bible’s companionship didn’t comfort. I read other books and prayed and went to counseling. Half a dozen agonizing years later I emerged with a different confidence and a different companion. My confidence resembled the flowing water of a mountain stream more than the steadfast rocks at its bottom. My new companion emerged as a sense of spiritual belonging and safety with myself and with the divine.

My “faith,” or whatever you want to name the relationship I have with myself and with the divine, is safe, flexible, curious, gentle. I have little interest in church doctrine, and equally slight interest in church pews. The occasional sermon I’m obliged to hear tends to raise my hackles. But I may be closer than I’ve ever been to possessing something I want to share. And it’s not a Bible study.

These days I’m timid with the Bible. When I want to find a verse, it’s faster to google a key phrase than open my Strong’s Exhaustive Concordance of the Bible, or—if I know the reference—I type it in BibleGateway and select the version I like best. My burgundy Bible sits on my writing desk more as a prop than a friend, and my pink Bible remains in the bookshelf.

Rachel Held Evans, in her book Faith Unraveled, takes readers along with her on the journey promised in the subtitle: How a Girl Who Knew All the Answers Learned to Ask Questions. Her Bible, like mine, absorbed a nontrivial portion of her time and energy as a teen. Unlike me, she started to ask questions, and learned that all questions do not have clean, three-point answers. Over time she found a different way to approach the Bible:

“As much as I struggle with the things I don’t like about the Bible—the apparent contradictions, the competing interpretations, the troubling passages—I’m beginning to think that God allows these tensions to exist for a reason. Perhaps our love for the Bible should be measured not by how valiantly we fight to convince others of our interpretations but by how diligently we work to preserve a diversity of opinion.”
Faith Unraveled, pg. 194

Diversity of opinion sounds terribly healthy. Am I that healthy? How comfortable am I, listening to another person share—from the Bible—a theological view different from mine? Will I allow them the certainty that irks me? On the other hand, am I able to hear doubts and questions without offering a solution? Can I experience spiritual intimacy with the people I disagree with, or only with those who have the same interpretations and “aha” moments that I do?

I’ve avoided the Bible for years now because when I pick it up and begin to read, I’m often thrown back into black-and-white thinking. Scripture is not a place of curiosity for me, but a textbook with answers. It’s hard to come back to a text I poured my life into as a teen, with a different view of myself and the world. We don’t fit together like we used to. But Rachel Held Evans gives me permission to try a more nuanced, messy relationship with my Bible. I haven’t picked it up yet, but I might. When I do, I want to look for diversity and contradiction, and practice making friends with the parts that are uncomfortable. I would like the Bible to be an irritating friend—by turns funny, exasperating, wise, sometimes a gentle companion and other times giver of good advice I’d rather not hear. I want it to remind me there are more questions than answers, and that what we write about God is as oddly erratic as what we write about humans. Maybe, in a year or ten, I will again be friends with a Bible. I don’t know what color the cover will be, but the inside won’t be black and white. It will be grey and rainbow.

Bible Sidekick

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When I was eight years old, I signed a baptismal certificate, and Pastor Bryson baptized me into the Seventh-Day Adventist Church. I remember practicing how to hold his arm while he held the dry washcloth over my face, so I could go under without breathing in water.

Six months later, for my ninth birthday, my parents purchased a Bible from the Christian book store, where they had my name embossed on the cover. They let me choose the embossing color—rainbow shimmer—but they kept the Bible out of sight. I used to wish I had chosen plain silver embossing, to please the adults and to match my tastes as I grew older. But at eight-going-on-nine, I wanted rainbow shimmer.

I was allowed to invite one family to our home for my birthday celebration each year, and for my ninth birthday I invited Laura and Eric. They were the only people I knew in their early 20’s, and I admired them as only a nine-year-old can. Laura had dark brown hair with one curly spot in the back where her previously-straight hair grew back in a curl after a diving accident. She had a petite frame, and a lovely accent from spending a year in Latvia. Eric was tall, with long everything—legs, arms, torso—and a wide, impish-yet-innocent smile.

I don’t remember much about my ninth birthday. Pictures remind me that I dressed up in elegant old skirts from our dress-up stash. Laura and Eric gave me a miniature rose plant, and my parents gave me the Bible—a red letter edition NKJV with a pink, bonded-leather cover.

I read the Bible cover to cover that year. I read about creation and Abraham and Moses, the cut-up concubine, prostitution and murder, lying and rape, greed and gratuitous violence. I read about Ruth and Esther, the Song of Songs, and somehow made it through Lamentations and the major and minor prophets. I read the shocking story of Jesus’ beginnings and the shocking story of His death, and through the exhortations of the apostles, all the way to the “Amen” at the end of Revelation chapter 22, verse 21.

I don’t recall having any questions, registering any shock at the violence, or finding any difference between the God portrayed in the Old Testament and the God portrayed in the New Testament. It was the Bible. I assumed it was all okay to read, and unnecessary to question.

By the time I completed 8^th grade, I could find any Scripture reference in 30 seconds or less. My pink Bible accompanied me for the livestream of Dwight Nelson’s Net ‘98 evangelistic series, and Mark Finley’s Net ‘99 evangelistic series, both projected on the big screen in my home church. I began a lifelong habit of morning prayer-journaling after Net ‘98, the year I turned 13. In the front of my Bible I glued a handwritten copy of Robert Frost’s poem, “The Road Not Taken,” and a variety of Bible “study helps” I never used. With The Marked Word study guide as my starting point, and armed with half a dozen pastel-colored gel pens, I underlined more than 30 chain studies.

After homeschooling basically forever, I attended Milo Adventist Academy (MAA) for 11^th and 12^th grades. Our family lived in the small southern-Oregon community where MAA occupies a slope beside the South Umpqua River, so as a high school student I attended the same church I’d been attending since I was born. As a student at MAA I served in almost every spiritual leadership position available. I was a group facilitator at a youth Bible conference, Spiritual Disciplines small-group leader, Junior Class Spiritual Vice President, and Student Association Spiritual Vice President. For a school talent show, I memorized and recited Psalm 139 and won a cash prize.

The summers I was 16 and 17 years old, I spent away from home, selling religious books and vegetarian cookbooks door to door with a Seventh-Day Adventist group called Oregon Youth Challenge. We led church services on weekends and Bible studies some weeknights, and my pink Bible and I took a tour of the SDA churches around Gresham, Oregon and Vancouver, Washington, while book sales helped fund my private school tuition.

Wherever I went, throughout my teen years that well-marked Bible was like a fifth appendage. When the youth leader said, “Hold up your swords!” my “sword” was always handy. I was well-prepared to fight with that sword, but I never did.

I don’t recall interacting with anyone who was interested in the Bible from a curious, unknowing space. Everyone I knew was either a “nominal Christian,” bumping along in apathy, or they were doing the same things I was, memorizing and marking Bible studies and verses that reinforced Adventist doctrine. Books I read and pastors I met told stories about meeting someone who was “hungry for the truth,” but I didn’t see or experience this firsthand.

Despite swallowing the Bible hook-line-and-sinker, even in high school I couldn’t imagine sharing the “plan of salvation,” telling someone they’re a sinner in need of saving. Although I soaked in Scripture and prayer, I didn’t feel any urgency to share my experience as a Christian. I sat squarely in the middle of an us-vs-them mindset, but the act of inviting a “them” to join “us” was far from my desire and far from my experience.

The Bible, I think, was something for me to be good at. I “knew” my Bible. I could find any verse in a few blinks of the eye, ask thoughtful questions (within accepted norms), and share my observations and opinions. I can’t imagine not having the Bible at that time in my life. I read it, marked it, loved it.

When I packed my room and drove eight hours to move into a college dormitory, I had no idea what was ahead for me and my Bible.

Read the next part of the story on February 7.

What Is Kinship?

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This morning I’m sitting in a favorite coffee shop as I write. Country music plays a little louder than I’d like from a speaker above, but quiet enough that I can overhear conversation. Two men in their seventies talk about therapy, travel plans, searching for a church that fits, and learning to support a recently-divorced family member. These men share themselves, hear each other, and speak encouragement. This, I think, is kinship.

I’m on a quest to learn about kinship. A google search provides this uninspiring two-word definition: blood relationship. But kinship can be so much bigger than that, a new way to see myself and others, a way that assumes value and connection. In kinship we are all on the same side of the line, rendering divides impotent. No “them,” only “us,” as Father Boyle would say. Only us.

Kinship has been slow-coming in my life. I grew up in a home where social time was considered a waste of time. If it wasn’t an event—like a birthday party or a hike to the lake—socializing didn’t happen. Although I’d like to blame my family and upbringing for my struggle to settle into friendship—I lived in a tiny community and was homeschooled through tenth grade—I’ve discovered my fears are not unique. Many women feel a lack of intimacy, and fear they don’t know how to participate in friendship. And, of course, each of us thinks other women have it figured out.

Every year I make a photo book commemorating our previous year. That may sound very organized, but it’s actually quite haphazard. Recently, I’ve been sorting through pictures from the last two years. As I put photos into categories and months—pets, school, March, November—a new category emerged: fun with girlfriends. These photo books will be the first to include a friendship photo spread—pictures of lunches out, movie nights, birthday coffee dates, pottery painting, and shopping fun. Looking at them, I feel connected, grateful, and not at all sure how it happened. I used to “do” friendship; now I enjoy friendship. I wish I could tell you five steps from lonely and anxious to connected and content, but, at least for me, it has been more mystical than methodical.

For most of my adult life I have compensated for lack of friendship by joining or creating small groups. A ladies group is my happy place. Crafts, Bible study, accountability, book-reading—it doesn’t matter. The structure provides a place for me to show up, participate in the mutual honoring of each other with our time, and complete the prescribed activity. Slowly I have ventured into one-on-one time with a handful of girlfriends, and casual activities together, like shopping. My circles of belonging widen.

The terror and the joy of intimacy with friends cannot be understated. Could one text or one misunderstanding upset it all and leave me in pain? Yes, it could. But in these relationships, do I feel seen, known, and safe? Do I invite these women into my home when I haven’t mopped the kitchen floor for three months, or done the dishes for three days? Yes, I do. Do I text them when I’m discouraged and take them coffee when I have a free morning? I do. Is it still scary, and do I have social anxiety? You bet.

Intimate relationships cannot be wrangled. It is a fools errand, seeking to avoid anxiety or relational fallout. Instead, I will allow anxiety and fear of intimacy to remind me that I am not impermeable. I am not above pain and misunderstanding. And this capacity for pain, this vulnerability, is what allows me life-giving connection, the joy of belonging, and the wonder of holding safe space for another person. This is the magic of being human.

Stories about men and women who stand in the gaps, go to the margins, hold hands with the desperate—these are my favorite. I want to be the hero in every story—the woman who taught homeless children, the man who endured exhausting legal battles to free wrongly-incarcerated men and women, the writer who teaches veterans to tell their stories, and the 22-year-old who adopted more than a dozen impoverished children.

At the same time, I don’t want to get anywhere near such unpredictable, messy situations. Can you imagine teaching at a homeless shelter, where traumatized children are in your classroom for 90 days or less? What about working long hours as a lawyer, toiling for years to see one ruling overturned, more years to find out it’s too late, the execution is scheduled. That may be charity, but it’s also insanity. How much could I handle?

There is tension between my relentless desire to love, and the ever-present awareness and fear of my limitations. I don’t know what’s coming for me in life, but I know I want to rise to the occasion and choose real love over false safety. I’m grateful for the thousands who have done this before me, proving it is possible and powerful. I watch the nonprofits in my hometown of Walla Walla, Washington, as they construct shelters for homeless, hold hands with the formerly incarcerated, provide dental services, food and clothing, love and dignity. I want to be part of that.

Children’s Home Society,* a local charity that works tirelessly to keep families together through in-home visits and a score of other services, has discovered the power of kinship—linking arms with the marginalized and misunderstood. Each year at their fundraising luncheon, one of their clients gives a keynote presentation, a story of their move from the thinness of broken family, addiction, and poverty, to a wholeness they didn’t know was possible. These people, unlike many of the donors in the room, haven’t been able to keep their lives “together” and show the polished side to society. But for that very reason, their stories are potent with hope. Every person in the room feels the energy of kinship. Hearts beat faster. Smiles appear. Applause is loud and long. Every one of us loves stories of redemption, and kinship is the catalyst for redemption.

Jesus born in a barn is kinship. He grew up to touch the untouchables, teach the stubborn, and include the rejected. He forever found beauty in ashes, wholeness in tragedy, and life in death. He defied categories, sweeping them into a circle and inviting them to hold hands, mix together like a delicious, forbidden stew. With a twinkle in His eye, He invites me into spaces where the ground is dry and barren. He invites me to bring kinship—the first drop of rain.

*Children’s Home Society is in the process of re-branding as Akin. I love this short-and-sweet name that includes the concept of kinship—the earth-shaking power of standing at the margins and holding hands.

Love Does Not Cover Faults; It Exposes Them?

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With more stops than starts, I’ve been practicing Lectio divina, a meditative reading method I discovered in The Big Book of Christian Mysticism. Although my faith tradition doesn’t go much for Latin phrases or the term “mysticism,” this practice sits comfortably within Christian tradition. It consists of four parts: 1) slowly and carefully read a small portion of a sacred text, 2) deliberately consider the message of the text, 3) respond honestly to God in prayer, and 4) allow prayer to dissolve into restful contemplation in God’s presence.¹

To begin this practice, I chose as my “sacred text” the book Reduce Me to Love, by Joyce Meyer. Each chapter is divided into sections one or two pages in length, ideal for slow reading. In the third chapter, Meyer writes, “Love does not expose faults; it covers them.”² I immediately feel uncomfortable. Covering a fault sounds equivalent to lying. What about honesty and repentance, naming our errors and confessing them? If we cover faults with love, won’t they develop an odor, or grow out of proportion like the rumor-weed of VeggieTales fame? The title of this post feels more comfortable: Love doesn’t cover faults; it exposes them.

The gospel message I learned depends on faults being exposed. It goes something like this: God identifies “right,” and also “wrong.” Once we have right and wrong, it naturally follows to avoid wrong and adhere to right. As wrongs are identified, the way is made for transformation and healing. God is light, light exposes faults, and this is important because if our faults aren’t exposed we won’t pursue a relationship with God. The more we see our bleak character, the more we depend on a Holy God. Who needs God, except as a knight in shining light to rescue us from ourselves?

I’m struggling with this narrative, but I can’t disown it entirely. I do have characters flaws and God is Savior. Maybe it’s both/and more than a division that requires a move from one side to the other. Perhaps black and white—right and wrong—share the same spaces. Could it be that in God’s presence we know our faults, and at the same time know that love is bigger? When the prodigal son returned and looked into his father’s eyes, I think he saw tragedy and pain there—but in small measure compared to love. The father covered his son’s body with a robe and his soiled reputation with the family’s good reputation. A multitude of sins, covered. Love has meaning when it is layered with tragedy and pain.

A covering of love empowers us to offer love. It is out of insecurity—the nagging fear that perhaps we are not worth loving—that we point out the faults and foibles of others. There are two words for this: middle school. Insecure, pubescent young people, feeling suddenly naked in comparison to their younger selves, find solace in laughing at the vulnerability of others, forming cliques, and keeping secrets. It’s a tough time, and even the kids who are covered in love must ask again and again if they really are safe and whole. But, when those questions are answered with a resounding Yes, love becomes a superpower. In finding themselves well-loved they uncover the courage and desire to cover the faults of their peers rather than expose them.

Let’s go way back for a minute and think about about Adam and Eve. Did God expose them and point out their misdeeds? Certainly He could have come in with sarcasm—“Wow guys, way to listen to what I said.” Or anger—“What is wrong with you?! How hard is it to obey one little thing?” Or overblown emotional distress—“I can’t believe you did this to me. How could you seek out the only thing that hurts me and do it? This ruins the whole world!” Or disgust—“I should have known you couldn’t handle this. What a mess. It’s going to cost a fortune to clean this up.”

Certainly, if God was like me, he wouldn’t have come in the evening, allowing time to sew clothes. He would’ve been there at the first bite, to point out their nakedness, ridicule their vulnerability, and mock their lack of self-control—“Do I have to watch you every second?” But God was in no hurry. Nor did He appear angry, arrogant, or distraught. Doesn’t that seem odd? His masterpiece just got spray-painted. It will never be the same again. And what does He do? He covers the perpetrators. He sees their fear, confusion, and sorrow, and provides clothing.

I don’t get this. Maybe I got stuck in the middle-school mindset. I walk into a beautiful room or a put-together group of people and find the one thing out of place. I’m quick to point out faults. The way every smell draws a dog, every imperfection commands my attention. Clean the kitchen and I’ll show you the two spots you missed on the counter. Tell me a memory of last year’s Fourth-of-July potluck and I’ll correct you on the details. To leave a task undone is a liability, and to make an incorrect statement is a lie. Accuracy is more important than love.

The brave souls who love me call this philosophy into question. As friends accept my imperfections—arriving late, overstating things, laughing too loud—I come to know that love is more important than accuracy. My husband, Michael, has opportunity to expose my faults more than any other person. But he chooses to cover with love. When he tells the story of how I plugged our camper incorrectly into our vehicle, causing over $8,000 of electrical damage, he says, “We plugged it in wrong.” When I correct him for the hundredth time on how to straighten the bedcovers, he smiles and teases me. When I get cranky and overbearing, he quietly finds a way to ease my load—fill the dishwasher, spend time with a distraught child, run an errand. My faults have hurt him over and over, but he doesn’t expose them.

Christmas, I think, can be a time of covering. Holidays may bring up painful memories or remind us of broken relationships, and often there’s not much we can do about those things. But this time around let’s find courage to cover up a bit of fault—our own, or the fault of another—with love. In time, maybe we’ll even kill the fatted calf.

Endnotes:
¹Adapted from The Big Book of Christian Mysticism, by Carl McColman, pp. 193-194
²Reduce Me to Love, by Joyce Meyer, pg. 30

God Is Not in Control, Epilogue

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I never intended to write four posts about how God is not in control. What began as one question has evolved into piles of questions, most of which remain unanswered. But today I really am going to wrap up with a final post on the topic (at least for a while).

As I’ve reflected on what it looks like to move away from “God has a plan” and “God is in control,” I’ve found those sentiments everywhere—in books, emails, prayers, small group conversation. We are so desperate for control that we have assigned it to God with certainty and force.

Dare I say evangelism springs from a desire to control? We want people to be on our side. We want them to be “saved”—from what? Eternal burning? I don’t believe in that. Pain? We’re all on the pain train. A meaningless life? Okay, but fitness or family or any number of things can provide meaning in life. Are we proving we’re right by convincing other people to think the way we think? Are we earning God’s favor? Trying to avoid eternal separation from people we love?

Doggedly we seek to control how our lives turn out, how other people’s lives turn out, how the world and eternity turn out. We want to do our part. We want God to do His part.

Jesus wasn’t big on asking people to agree with Him before they followed Him. What if we invited people to follow us, to see what life is like for a human well-loved by God, taught by Jesus, and emotionally intimate with the Spirit? What would it look like if evangelism focused on showing what a messy life looks like with God, rather than on cleaning up the mess?

Church people like to talk about being “in” or “out” of the church. “Our neighbors aren’t in church any more.” “Her oldest boy stopped going to church.” When a kid is “out” of church, the parent doesn’t rejoice and say, “I’m so happy I have no control, and so grateful that God gives the power of choice. I can see the spiritual freedom in my daughter’s choice to not believe in God. It illustrates God’s character beautifully.” Nope. We go to battle, employing rigorous prayer and subtle (or not-so-subtle) manipulation; we adjust our theology; we feel sad and helpless; we obsess about it or refuse to think about it at all.

While eager to praise God for free will and the power of choice, we simultaneously do everything possible to control the people She puts in our lives. Is that because we’d rather trust Her control than Her goodness? Would we rather eradicate addition than accept discomfort? “Better safe than sorry,” we say, not realizing that our version of safety insulates us from God. Am I willing to trust in God rather than trust in the safety She provides? Harry Shaumburg put it like this, and it gives me pause:

As I learn to trust God, I acknowledge how little I really know of what it means to rely on God and demand nothing. I’ve seen only a glimpse of what it means to put my confidence in God in a way that goes beyond a demand for safety and comfort. Yes, I have tasted what it means to have faith in God … but I’ve only begun to trust … [T]rust is a decision to enter the reality of a fallen world that is at best disturbing.
– False Intimacy, by Harry Schaumburg, page 87

I used to think trust ought to take me out of reality. Schaumburg suggests the opposite—that trusting God will immerse me in the reality of our disturbing, broken world. Do I really want that? On the other hand, do I want God to control this spastic world into submission? I don’t respond well to the people in my life who control. I move away from them, subvert their efforts, focus on our differences, and even flaunt my choice to not do what they want. That’s not the response I hope to evoke in friends, or strangers. Am I willing to trust God while feeling the discomfort of humanity? Willing to not know what He’s going to do about this mess?

God invites me to exhale the need for life—mine and everyone else’s—to turn out well, then inhale love. Love is spontaneous, annoying kindness; food and forgiveness; boundaries and truth—in all places at all times. When control dies, an unexpected stream of creativity emerges and confirms my identity: made in the image of God who creates.

God Is Not in Control, Part 3

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God Is Not in Control, Epilogue

God Is Not in Control, Part 3