Why I Think You Should Go Back to Church (Part 1)

The Bible is more lovey-dovey than I usually prefer to imagine.  It's cloyingly replete with rejoinders to love God, love people, love strangers, love neighbors, love enemies, and so forth.  God loves Israel, God loves the world, Jesus loves his disciples, etc.  And some might say, "Yeah, but there's this many Hebrew words for love and this many Greek words for love, and they all mean different things, and real Biblical love is not the sentimental sort."  Well, I'm no scholar of Hebrew or Greek, but I'm not talking about merely the words.  I mean, have you read about how God tenderly clothed Adam and Eve right after they rebelled?  Have you read of how David said he searched for God like a parched throat thirsts for water, and that God's kindness was better than life itself?  Have you read Song of Solomon?  Hosea?  What about Jesus longing to gather the children of Jerusalem under his wing like a hen?  Have you heard about the rejoicing--the exorbitant and prodigious party--that happens when one sinner turns back to God?

Quite lovey-dovey if you ask me.  And sometimes, I act like I'd prefer to do without all that.  I want to focus on what we're doing.  It's too easy to manufacture emotion, and it leaves me vulnerable to accusations of hypocrisy, not least of all from my own conscience.  The moment a sentiment of love wells up from deep within, I fire back, "How dare you think you love God?  You just broke one of his commandments earlier today!"  "How dare you think you love that person?  They were in need, and you pretended not to notice."  "I can sing God's praises all day long, but how many people are going to think my faith is authentic if I'm not even doing this or that?" 

There is some merit, no doubt, in weighing one's felt sense of piety against the weight of one's actions.  But at what point does the stifling of emotion become a self-defeating impediment?  And who are we to reject what God has embraced?  If his word is to be trusted, love is not merely sentiment, but neither is it merely action. When Jesus said, "All who believe in me shall not perish but have eternal life," he deemed that the ground in which salvation is sown should include not only the will but the mind and heart as well.  For who could possibly repent and believe in such a Gospel without wells of sorrow and gratitude attending?

Which brings me to my point. If you are a Christian and have been away from church, why should you go back?  Jesus told his disciples:

As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you.  Now, remain in my love.  If you obey my commands, you will remain in my love, just as I have obeyed my Father's commands and remain in his love.  I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete.  My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. (John 15:9-12)

So I ask, how can we love each other if we don't even see each other?


  

I might try to not actively contribute to my own cognitive decline.

If the book I m reading now--about the effects of exercise on the brain--is even half accurate, it may be catalyzing a significant lifestyle change for me.  I've dabbled in different forms of exercise before, but the realist in me has tended to believe that I won't truly be motivated to be consistent until I see the consequences of not doing it.  "As long as I don't notice my gut getting bigger or any general symptoms of poor health, I'm just not going to worry much about it," was my mindset.

What I am learning now, however, is that by not exercising, I am actively contributing to my own cognitive decline.  So . . . I want to go ahead and maybe not do that.

Elevate Discontent

The Apostle Paul said he had learned to be content in all things--an impressive statement for someone who had suffered wrongful imprisonment, torture, shipwreck, betrayal, and all of the unceasing labor involved in his efforts to expand and unify the varying strands of Christian communities being spawned during his time. 

I have also been content in all things.  But for me, it wasn't learned and it's not nearly as impressive.  My contentedness tends to be my natural disposition, and it's rarely been challenged. I've typically thought of my contentment as a good thing, but recently I have been calling it into question.  I enjoy life.  I have my basic physical needs met, I have family and friends that I love, and I have plenty of hobbies and passions that ensure I am always doing something I enjoy during my free time.  Naturally, I'd be quite content to keep living life exactly the way I'm living it now for . . . well, for who knows how long.  But . . .

The concept of wasted potential has been pressing itself upon me.  Have I buried my talent?  Have I conceived of God as a hard master, and consequently pursued what is safe?  Please understand, I don't consider "ordinary life" to be a waste of anything, necessarily.  My belief remains strong that most of "thy will be done" happens in the course of "ordinary" life.    But there is a growing sense in me that I want to do even ordinary life exceptionally well. In my vocation, in my relationships, in my thoughts, deeds, and words, I want to excel.

It's a lot to think about all at once, and it feels overwhelming when I try.  I'm not sure where to start.  I need wisdom.



 

The Fourth Perspective in Job

On a cursory reading, I think it's often assumed that the Book of Job presents the outlook of three different entities: Job, Job's friends, and God.  There is clearly a fourth though:  the narrator/poet.  His perspective, which is the one he aims to impart to the reader, can be characterized as making the following four arguments:

1)  Job's friends are wrong in their insistence that Job has done something to warrant his suffering.
2)  Job, in his criticisms of God, fails to fully account for the obvious limitations of human wisdom.
3)  Job's death wish is myopic in light of the totality of Creation and all its grandeur.
4)  The grandeur of Creation is not an answer to the problem of suffering, nor a justification of God's ways, in and of itself.  It's simply a signpost that, when properly read, should lend to us a modicum of awareness that God's purposes cannot be assumed to always align with our individual desires.

One may object by asking, "Isn't this the perspective attributed to God?"  In other words, "Isn't the poet's perspective and God's perspective the same?"  Not exactly.  Job and God are in dialogue with each other, thus God's words are to be taken as a rebuttal to Job's friends and Job, respectively.  The poet then is a mediator between the story and the reader.  Via the narrative and the poems, he is pushing us to probe the question for ourselves:  how should we think of human suffering in relation to the righteous and loving nature of God?  He is not able to present God's perspective because he himself does not know it.  God's prosodic "answer" to Job is indeed a revelation, but not a revelation of understanding.  In its power, grandeur, and beauty, it seeks to imitate the revelation of Creation.  Which is to say, it is a revelation of humility, awe, and wonder.  The poet is a voice offering a hand, to walk alongside the reader in approaching such a revelation.

Further Thoughts on My Atypical Romantic Outlook

I've written about this several times in the past, but it's a topic I will likely continue to revisit periodically, to see if new insights develop in my thinking.  There are a plethora of terms popping up recently to describe circumstances in which people seem to experience something atypical regarding romantic or sexual drive.  Terms like asexual or demisexual seek to describe something atypical--not regarding whom a person is attracted to, but rather--in what circumstances a person experiences attraction at all.

What we seem to think of as the norm is: initial attraction can develop almost instantly in a person, catches them by surprise in a moment, primarily based on perception of physical beauty and/or desirable personality traits.  Then, based on future experiences (dating or other socializing), that attraction can either fade or develop further.  If the attraction is mutual, then a committed relationship can form.

Personally, I don't identify wholly with terms like asexual or demisexual or aromantic, but neither do I identify wholly with what appears to be the norm as articulated above.  I experience attraction to women, I think in a way that's mostly normal (though it's difficult to say what's normal when it comes to internal experiences).  But even in this initial attraction, I've noticed that for me, it has never been exclusively based on physical beauty.  There has to be at least one other factor, and that other factor can be fairly simple or even trivial, like a shared interest.  But I don't ever get "swoony" over a complete stranger based purely on looks.

It's what happens after the initial attraction that I think is most atypical for me:  The initial attraction doesn't lead to a strong desire to date/court/pursue the woman. If, in the circumstances, I don't have the opportunity to interact with the person further, the attraction will simply fade and be forgotten.  Or the same might happen if I do have the opportunity to get to know her, but then other factors lead to being un-attracted.  Throughout my entire adult life, I have only developed a strong desire to act on my attraction in a few rare circumstances--circumstances which have always included first the development of a significantly strong friendship.

I don't think this is an ideal way to be, and sometimes I wonder if it is all simply avoidance.  What I mean is, am I simply so dreading of all the work/responsibility/accountability/vulnerability/life changes that would come with a committed relationship, that I've built myself I nice little fortress around it all?  But even if that were true, I would wonder why that doesn't seem to be the case for most people.  For most, doesn't the desire for romance/sex get strong enough to override their fears?  Why not the same for me?  That question usually leads me back around to the idea that maybe my romantic ambitions really are just weaker than the average person's, for whatever reason that may be.  Or, must I consider that maybe my fears really are just that strong?

Another possibility is that I've rarely been at a point in my life where I feel ready to be a good match for someone.  I mean, considering my current circumstances, my best pick-up line would be:  "Hey girl, do you prefer your men to be low in cash or in assets?  Cuz honey, you're lookin' at the total package.  Pick me up at 8?"

Either way, I have the added advantage (or disadvantage, depending on perspective and context) that I am quite content being single.  Bear in mind that I am Christian and believe that sex is reserved for marriage.  So I don't mean that I am content to be a free-wheeling bachelor.  I mean that I am content to be wholly single.  I could see myself getting married some day, but the thought of not doing so causes me no grief whatsoever.  As I am now approaching the age of 37, my genes and hormones probably despise me right about now, but their dissatisfaction doesn't ever seem to reach my mental state.

And by this point, my thinking always circles back to one thing:  how can I focus more on using my singleness as an advantage and as a blessing to others?  If I am going to be atypically romantic, let me at least be atypically generous, kind, and God-serving.  I have a long way to go, but 'tis a great adventure.
   

Abandonment

I saw myself once.
I was young,
sitting cross-legged
in the middle of the kitchen floor,
absorbed with some simple toy--
an elastic ball I think, something plain--
while preoccupied with other thoughts
too large for my brain.

I left him there.
I mingled with the adults
crowding in as it started to rain
(it was a house party)
and didn't introduce him to anyone.

I didn't take him with me
when I left.

He's likely still there,
readily entertained
with his elastic ball and too-small brain.
I wouldn't know.
My own grew too big
to hang on to just the hem
of a garment of an idea
and look up at something
it couldn't contain.

The Lesser Hope

If it is only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.  (From Paul's 1st Epistle to the Corinthians)

There's an assumption underlying Paul's main point here--an assumption he must have felt was obvious enough that it need not be stated outright.  I'm not so sure it's as obvious to people today.  The assumption is that Christian hope is for this life.  Not only for this life, but no less for this life.  It is perhaps the lesser hope of the two, but it is hope.

Hope for what?  That right now, on this earth, in these bodies, Christ might be present.  That God's will be done.  That the Kingdom of Heaven invade our world

No One Ever Heard

 As soon as they had breakfasted they all went out, and there they saw Aslan and Edmund walking together in the dewy grass, apart from the rest of the court. There is no need to tell you (and no one ever heard) what Aslan was saying, but it was a conversation which Edmund never forgot. As the others drew nearer Aslan turned to meet them, bringing Edmund with him.


"Here is your brother," he said, "and—there is no need to talk to him about what is past."


This brief scene from C. S. Lewis's The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe has left an enduring impression on me for many years now.  As I reflect on it now, it makes me think about how the Gospels bring the concept of justice to fullness.  Bear with me.


For the most part, justice consists of stories we tell ourselves.  They are stories about what is fair, what people deserve, what is reasonable recompense for wrongdoing, etc.  It is subjective and imperfect, but nonetheless necessary and one of the great responsibilities of being human.  It is also one of the great burdens of being human  We have the guidance of Scripture and the Holy Spirit, not to mention the wisdom passed down from great thinkers over millenia.  But we still stumble through much darkness along the path.  We still have to make decisions with imperfect information.  We still have to tell ourselves the best story we can construct with the information we have.  Often those stories have high stakes, and so we even cling to them when we think we need to in order to get what we want.  ("He deserves this because of what he did to me." Or, "I deserve this good thing because of what I've been through."  Or, "I'm not worthy of this good thing because of my past.") 

But thank God, a day will come when we are forced (or allowed?) to lay down our stories.

There is hardly a more powerful image our minds can conjure than that of a person face to face with God, the one who sees them as they are.  At that point, the reality of God's truth and God's justice will supplant every single one of the stories we tell ourselves  To see another person face God is to renounce all of your own stories you may have previously felt entitled to hold.  To face God yourself is to surrender all of your own notions of just deserts.  Wherever the human heart encounters the fullness of God's justice, we are forbidden to craft our own.  .