Category: Faith

Mendicant monk

I saw a mendicant monk today, watching the churning waters of the Merrimack. He was dressed in brown wool –the tassels of a rope belt just barely visible under heavy cowls. His feet were in sandals, with thick woolen socks as an accommodation to harsh northern climes. I could not see if he was tonsured — he wore a regular stocking cap in the same browns. He sported the wispy beard of a boy who wanted to see what would happen if he didn’t shave.

His long strides made quick work of the old metal bridge.

I have seen him before and wondered. What order is he? What brings him here? Where is he going? What does he think, in his anachronistic outfit. Is it a costume he puts on and feels all cool and monkish, an SCA member walking the ungentle streets of Lawrence? Is he a man so driven by call that he put aside not only fancy clothes, as his forefathers did, but all the clothes of the culture into which he was born? Does his stride with spiritual energy to do work among the poor? Does he like that we all slow down to look at him?

24 Notes

I play trumpet. I’ve played in symphony orchestras, brass quintets, pep bands, pit orchestras, regular bands, church… pretty much everything but jazz (I have no swing). At some point during my early playing life, I was asked to play taps at a funeral. I’m not really sure what my first funeral was. Was it Heath’s? That boy who thought he could beat a logging truck on his 4 wheeler? Was it Grandma Finley’s? Some other misty memory of standing on a hillside in sunlight? I’m no longer sure.

For a while in high school, I thought I could make a little extra money on the side by playing taps for veteran’s funerals. I contacted the funeral home to let them know I was available, and read the obituaries to see if any veterans had died lately.

Then I actually got called upon to play a funeral. Maybe it was Heath’s. I remember his best. I don’t recall if he was actually in the army. I think so. He got drunk and drove his truck into a lake and didn’t make it back out again. This couldn’t have been more than a year or so after graduation. He was, I think, in my sister’s class. It took them a while to find his body. I stood across the grave from his brother and girlfriend, and watched their faces during the service.

Taps always comes last.

I hate getting paid for funerals. I remember that they paid me $40 for that funeral. Two crisp twenties. It seemed like blood money.

During my youth I played mostly in the funerals of those I knew. My great-grandmother. My grandfather. The old codger at the American Legion. Heath. I still volunteer my services when folks I know die. Vickie — so young. Theron Lemly — not young at all.

When I moved to Massachusetts, I signed up with an organization called Bugles Across America. The basic idea is this: any service person who has served their country deserves a real live bugler at their funeral — not a CD player or MP3 player. We get requests to play taps at graveside services, and we show up and play. It has been a fascinating and rewarding way of volunteering.

One of the remarkable things to me about this is just how DIFFERENT each service is. Many of the services I have played have been for aged WWII vets. Those feel different. There is sadness and loss, but the grief is muted. At the service I played yesterday, the family seemed to be having a grand time getting together and chatting. I remember distinctly the service of a greatly decorated Chinese-American veteran, in the Mt. Auburn cemetery in spring. They turned away from the casket when it was lowered, so as not to watch. His grandson stood tall and strong with fierce tears in his eyes. They gave me a red envelope with money and a piece of candy — so I would take away good luck from the funeral.

I remember a service on one of the most glorious days of early summer with a stunningly blue sky. I was playing hookie from work to make it. I hung out with the grave diggers and testosterone-laden, big-truck-driving Marine color guard for nearly an hour in the bright sunlight. The transformation when the hearse pulled in and the grave diggers disappear (I always think of how little they have changed since Shakespeare portrayed them) and the color guard goes all rigid is amazing.

I remember a service where I played up on a hill and never actually spoke to any member of the funeral party.

The saddest of the funerals I have played for them was for an active duty army officer on leave from Iraq. He committed suicide. It was last winter around this time. The snow was thick and deep and the world was caught in iron bars. The army folks vetted me about 3000% more than usual. (Apparently the last active duty funeral they had, their MP3 player malfunctioned to the displeasure of an attending general.) They were afraid I was a protester sneaking in to screw up the funeral. The patriot guard (the intimidating folks with motorcycles who fend off the nutjobs from that Baptist church) was there in full intimidation mode. They had actually plowed a path for me to the flagpole where I stood to play. I was too far away to hear the service, but not so far I couldn’t see the destitution on the faces of his family. I was afraid that one person would throw themselves into the grave with him. He had a 21 gun salute, too.

Taps is 24 notes. Not hard to play. It’s very simple. It’s also the part of every funeral where the stoics start crying. As the last part of the funeral, it truly marks the end. If that space between death and interment is a halfway point between life and death, the tape on the very last space of being runs out with the 24th note. The hardest part of taps is not crying yourself.

I do not volunteer as often as I might wish. Most of the requests are a bit far for me to get to. I have a full time job and two little boys. There’s often not a ton of warning. But when I do play, it is an honor and a privilege.

The Oliphant
The Oliphant

Fear

My church has something called the prayer chain. This is not uncommon in medium sized churches, I think. Basically, someone has a need for prayer (sickness, accident etc.) and the Deacons spring to life. Each Deacon gets called, and they all have a list of church members they’re supposed to call and notify. Then we all commence with praying for the person in question. Prayer chain calls are often sad (although there are new babies in there!), and usually things like “person so and so has fallen on the ice and broken their hip, please pray for them”.

Today in Costco I got a call that a member of my church — and a friend of mine — is in the ICU with suspected meningitis. He’s ventilated and sedated, because he was delirious. He was on church on Sunday and feeling fine. In fact, they gave us a box of outgrown diapers on Sunday. Their daughter was at Grey’s third birthday party. Their second daughter is just a couple weeks older than Thane.

I am praying as hard as I can that he recovers quickly and well. But meningitis is terrifying. One day you’re healthy. Then you’re not. It can kill even perfectly healthy people. You can’t do much to prepare against it (other than be vaccinated — my quick research shows that there are lots of different ways you can get meningitis; some of them have vaccines available and some don’t). I cannot imagine what it would be like to lose him. But then I immediately jump to my own family. The parallels are simply too close. I am not afraid of dying for my sake. I am terrified of dying for my family’s. I am still needed here. And I cannot bear the thought of losing one of my boys – big or small. I’m nearly breathless with sympathetic fear. (And I keep turning my neck around to see if it feels stiff.)

I wish there was lots I’ve offered. I have offered to take the girls (since they’re my boys age, I’m well set up for them) but I can’t imagine that will happen since their family has made it in. I’ve offered my stored milk in case they’re having trouble feeding the youngest with the tumult (not likely, but I’m about the only person in a position to make that particular offer). I offer up my prayers.

But man. Merry Christmas.

Funeral baked meats

This weekend was overlaid with the patina of soft-grief, of the loss of a friend who has been sick for a very long time. I had a lot of interaction with those who were strongly affected and a lot of “touches” with the funeral preparations, so I ended up spending a good bit of time thinking about funerals, death, and comforting the young in a rather concrete way — but distant enough from me that I could bear to think about it.

The woman who died, Lynda, had been very ill for about 2 years. She’d had cancer for near 30, but it was sort of a chronic cancer. Every once in a while she’d get chemo or surgery to remove some tumors, but most of the time she was pretty healthy. They were slow-growing and while not exactly benign, they weren’t doing a lot. Then two years ago, the cancer changed and got much more aggressive. She never managed to fully recover or get back on even footing. The doctors put in a stent — she was getting fed entirely through IV — and that got infected and in the end, it was the infection that did her in. They simply could not clear it up, so she’d go home for a week and it would re-ravage her and she’d head back to the hospital… over and over and over again. It became clear that she was losing ground in the fight, but she had two children — a 20-something young man and a 17 year old girl. So she kept fighting. Once she gave up the fight, once she relinquished and admitted that she was done, she died within two days. It was her will that had been holding her, and once it turned from the task, her body gave up easily.

Anyway, I think that 4 or 5 years ago, I would’ve been looking at this from her daughter’s point of view. I would’ve been thinking how horrible it was to lose a mother and the huge gap that would create. How lonely it must be. And how many practical things will be difficult… can they keep the house she grew up in? (Her parents were divorced.) Is there a chance she’d have to change school districts? Who will help her with her college applications? Who will go prom-dress shopping with her? When a wedding comes around, how badly will she miss her mother?

I’m thinking of those things too. But for me now, I see this from Lynda’s point of view. How unready I would be to die now. I’m not wildly afraid of death — it comes for us all and I truly believe that while death is the end of what we can know from where we stand now, I do not believe it is the end. For me, I am less afraid of death. But I am terrified to leave behind those I would leave behind. My sons! My husband! I, too, would fight against leaving them with all the strength I could muster.

My mother told me not long ago that she felt much freer now. With all her children well-launched into their adult lives, while parting would be sad and we would miss her greatly, we are all standing on our own. I really understand her point of view. Most of my family has been thoughtful enough to die in the fullness of time, after having completed the tasks to which they set their hands and with few regrets. (My grandmother’s only regret is that she’s STILL HERE.) I am not at all afraid of that. But I cannot bear to think of leaving now.

And then there’s the little boy and the practical aspects. I really wanted to go to the reception-thingy. (Wake? I dunno — it seems like a very New England thing to me. You make the bereaved stand in a line and hear for three hours straight “I’m sorry your mom died.” I’m surprised the Geneva conventions haven’t outlawed this practice.) Mostly I wanted to go because I wanted to give the daughter big hugs and tell her I was there for her when she was ready. The issue was that I had sole custody of a Mr. Greypants. Worse, it was the Napless variety of the Greypants.

So I got out the neat photo-album scrapbook from Grey’s baby shower. (He is in a “loves looking at pictures of baby Grey” phase.) I showed him my belly and how I was pregnant with him, just like I was pregnant now with baby-brother. I showed him the picture of Lynda and I together. I explained that she had left (I did use the word die), and that her family and friends were very sad because they would miss her. I told him we were going to see her family and friends and give them big hugs to make them feel better. I told him we needed to be very polite and quiet.

And I put him in the car and took him to the wake. He stood very nicely and politely in line until it was our turn to express our condolences. He *did* give big, comforting 3-year-old hugs to the bereaved. And then I sat with the other church-mothers (mostly the moms of my teens) and we talked about Lynda and the kids. I critically failed my “be welcoming to other people” roll, though, I realized on my way out. It can be so nice to sit and talk with your friends that you forget to talk with the people who don’t have as many folks to talk to. May I be forgiven for it.

Tonight is the funeral. (Very fast!) Part of the unspoken role of the church is to provide snacks to the mourners afterwards. I remember that when my grandfather died — after a very long and protracted Alzheimers-decline — the church my grandmother attended put on quite the spread for us. It was especially kind as none of them would have known my grandfather when he could, you know, talk. The funeral baked meats and funeral feast stretch back into the mists of time. If memory serves, Gilgamesh had a funeral feast. And that story is one of the first ever written down. They’ve changed over time of course. But it is a sacred obligation, a continuation of a story, a link to our history and tradition, and a very real and present comfort in a time of tears.

Somehow it seemed wrong that I should take up this sacred burden and acquit it with funfetti cupcakes, but by then I was really, really, really tired. I thought about a tea ring (which seemed to me like an appropriate funeral-food), but weariness won out over symbolism. I do wish that I’d had frosting other than the pink stuff I used for the Patrick cake.

Lynda wouldn’t mind.

I’m a little sad that I’m far too pregnant to play for this funeral. Much of the time I end up getting called on in my role as a trumpeter for funerals. I play “Lord of the Dance” and taps. (Lord of the Dance is apparently my church’s gold-standard for funeral music. It pretty much always shows up. For the record, I prefer “How Great Thou Art”, “Abide With Me” and some of the evening hymns. Also, I’d like the funeral to happen before I die so I can enjoy it and plan it out properly.)

I wish I had a good way to tie this up — to talk about the Christian confidence in redemption. In our church we do not pray for the dead, for they are the care of God. We pray for the living who are left behind. I truly have full faith and confidence that Lynda is where she belongs. I pray for the rest of us wisdom to know how to reach out and comfort and support those who will miss her every day for the rest of their lives.

Modern sinfulness

Sinfulness just isn’t something I *feel* very much. I very rarely walk around despairing of my own sinfulness. That sort of diminishes the power of grace, when you don’t feel the weight of sin.

But I was thinking today that I’d love to not feel guilty, even for a little while. I forgot to give my guest a clean pillowcase last night. Guilt. I didn’t talk to everyone as much as I wished last night. Guilt. I think I was too preachy in Sunday school today. Guilt. I’m behind in planning some things. Guilt. I complain too much. Guilt. I spent money on things I don’t actually need. Guilt. I didn’t talk to a single guest in church today. Guilt. I don’t practice my trumpet much anymore. Guilt. I haven’t talked to my parents much lately. Guilt. I’m working right now. Guilt for working. If I wasn’t working, I’d be feeling guilty for not working.

So imagine, maybe, if God’s grace for me was not about removing the weight of sin, but instead the weight of guilt. What if I could give him all my own guilt, and come off scott-free and feather light? Maybe what Augustine and Paul were talking about — the weight of that sin — maybe I *DO* feel the same thing, but I call it guilt. And maybe God would be willing to take that from me, if I asked.

Religious action vs religious belief

I’ve been thinking lately about the difference between belief and action in a life of faith. One of our hosts at our Maine retreat was raised an observant Jew, and obviously since it was a Christian Education youth retreat, most of the rest of us came from Christian backgrounds. At one point in an excellent discussion, he pointed out that being Jewish had very little to do with belief, and a lot to do with inheritance and observance. You could think the whole Yahweh thing was so much hogwash, but if you were born Jewish and lived according to the law, you were still Jewish. (Forgive me, friends, if that’s an oversimplification.)

Christianity, meanwhile, has evolved to be almost exclusively belief-based. If you (yes you!) wanted to join my church, all you’d have to say is, “I believe in Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior”. You don’t have to promise to quit having multiple wives, murdering people, cheating the poor, robbing from the blind, etc. The criteria for being Christian has become almost entirely based upon orthodoxy of belief. And lest you blame that on the dissolute modern era, the very first big ol’ schism of the church was the so called Arian heresy (c. 350?) that claimed that Jesus was not coeternal with God the father. Tons of Christians died fighting this difference of belief out.

I’d like to point out that nowhere in the gospels does Jesus claim to be coequal and coeternal with God the Father. At least, I haven’t seen it anywhere. I’d also like to point out that Jesus spends almost no time talking about where he fits into a trinitarian theology. Instead, he talks a lot about helping the poor, being kind to others, etc.

Now, Jesus does talk about belief. There’s the father who prays my favorite prayer, “Lord, I believe. Help my disbelief.” And Jesus says, at one point, “No man comes to the father but by me.” But I would argue that Jesus himself give priority to right-acting over right-believing.

For example, with the youth group all of last year, I taught about a passage in Matthew. It’s a scene of final judgement. The righteous people (the Pharisees and keepers of the law, as I see them) stand self-certain in front of the judge, and he gives them hell because while they may have kept ritual purity laws, and believed the right things, they were not kind to him. And since they worry a lot about important people, and the judge is obviously important, they protest that they never neglected him. He tells them that he is the poor people, and in not helping the poor, they were not helping him. Then he welcomes the dirty people (the people who worked with their hands, upon whom that first group heaped scorn for their failure to abide by the laws, or their superstitious stupid beliefs), and thanks them for being kind to him. And they’re confused — they’re not even usually supposed to TALK to big important people like that. When did they help him? And of course, he gives the same answer. Whatever you did for the poor and needy among us, you did for me.

I love that scripture. Anyway, my point is that Jesus clearly gives priority to right-acting over right-believing — at least in that passage. But I don’t think that means law-abiding-ness. I think that means kindness. And I think that he would find cruel-acting in order to punish wrong-believing anathema. Which is, of course, exactly what we Christians have done for the last 1967 years.

I am an evangelical Christian (please note the little “e” not the big “E”). To me, that means that I have a story of hopeful and meaningful living to offer. I believe Christianity can help guide people towards lives which are better, and offers the hope of a life after this living. I believe there are many people who live lives devoid of hope, meaning, and joy, and that Christianity may help them. So if I encounter someone who needs a path towards joyous, hopeful living, I offer them what I have: Christianity.

However, I think it would be the height of arrogance to decide and announce that I happened to be born into and introduced to the ONLY right way to believe.

Instead, I will try to choose to see the right-acting. You could be a born-again Christian who attacks others for believing “wrongly”, says that the poor and destitute deserved their fates for not working hard, and earns money by cheating the poor. Or you could be an agnostic or atheist or Pagan or Muslim or Jew who is kind towards people in your daily life, tries to do no harm towards others, and would not want to profit at other’s expenses. I will take the right-acter over the right-believer any day of the week.

Stop. Rest. Think. Pray.

This Sunday’s sermon was about time. It was our (beloved) pastor’s first Sunday back after a 3 month sabbatical. He talked about the Sabbath — the divinely mandated one day in seven of rest. He talked about how God himself, after a hard week making creation, took a break. He raised the question: who are we, to think that our labors are more important and more critical than God’s governance of the created world? He could and did rest. Are we so much more integral to the running of the universe?

And he was talking to me and I knew it.

But he didn’t condemn me. And he didn’t say that the working and the striving are bad. He just reminded me that time needs to be taken for all things in this world. God did work hard for the six days. He may even have pulled all-nighters.

We had dinner with a friend from church. He owns his own business in order to make his own hours. He theorizes that we Americans are so busy because if we stop, the silence of the void within us might echo back. And so we’re afraid to stop. I’m pretty sure that my inner life is not echoing. I believe it to be rich, and have taken time for it. But he may very well be right, that it is not a comfortable thing to stop and hear.

My pastor also made a suggestion. In our bulletin was a corny little photocopy of four windows. Pick, he said, four windows of time between now and Thanksgiving. Make them good blocks — four hours or so. For those four windows, stop. Rest. Think. Pray. Do not even plan to do those little hobbies that fill up the corners of our time. Allow that time to be open. Do not do the chores. Do not plan ahead. Do not prepare. Stop. Rest. Be at peace, four times for four hours.

And he is right. I need to.

I threw away my bulletin with the little four windows. But I have before me my calendar — a pretty Presbyterian calendar that I always hope will remind me from whence my time on this world came. I must, of course, coordinate with my husband (who will point out that I do not have these quotes verbatim — that’s what they said to ME dearheart, whether or not it’s what came out of their mouths). But I will do it. I will find four fours. I will obligate myself to let go. I will mark them on my calendar, and they will be inviolate. And I will stop, rest, think and pray.

Lent

Lent: The 40 weekdays from Ash Wednesday until Easter observed by Christians as a season of fasting and penitence in preparation for Easter.

[Middle English lenten, lente, spring, Lent, from Old English lencten. See del-1 in Indo-European Roots.]

Lento: [It.] (Mus.) Slow; in slow time; slowly; — rarely written lente.

These two words have had a connection in my head for a long time. In my youth (ah dissolate youth!) I assumed they were linguistically related. Because, you see, they do go together.

Lent is a long, slow time of year. There are two periods of waiting in the Christian calendar. The first is Advent, in anticipation of Christmas. In Advent, there is music and sound and anticipation. We look forward to the birth of our savior, and to Christmas trees and presents and colors and lights. We have shopping and baking and cleaning to do, and cards to write to our loved ones. Christmas comes all too soon (or too long if under the age of 12), and every day of Advent is delightful.

Lent is the second. Advent lasts for 4 Sundays. Lent lasts for 40 days (not counting Sundays). In Lent, we anticipate the betrayal, beating, humiliation and death of our savior — the man whose babyhood we celebrated a few short months ago. We look forward to a quick change of fortunes, to a friendship sold for silver, and to an abandonment of our God in human form by those who loved him most. Where Advent goes by with the snap of a sap-pocket in a cheery pine fire, Lent is like gradual erosion of mountains of dirty snow.

The end of the Lenten story, though, is the one that makes both Christmas and Easter meaningful and worthwhile. After the humiliation, after death, after despair, after the end of hope, Jesus rose up from the dead. I really think that we forget how surprising — how shocking! a conclusion to the story that is. Imagine if JFK had come out of his final repose, cured of his gunshot wound, three days after that day on the grassy knoll? If Martin Luther King JR. had bestirred his cold body after three days in a coffin? If Lincoln, three days after the theater and the botched surgery, rose up to tell us that not only had he given us guidance during the days of his natural life, that now he was immortal and would be with us always. Jesus’ disciples probably hoped that he would be a political leader (see James and John, sons of Zebedee, sucking up to him the week before holy week hoping for what they probably thought would be material power), but his messiah-hood far surpassed just a political solution for Jews under the thumb of the Romans. It was a promise to all humanity that death itself is not final.

Lent anticipates this, but it focuses not on the triumphant celebration over death at Easter — it focuses on the nastiness of getting there. Being raised from the dead didn’t make dying on a cross any more a pleasant experience. Nor did it help as Jesus was paraded and mocked with his crown of thorns. These were very real and very painful experiences, for a man whom we believe to be God. And in Lent, we think about the love it took for him to do that for us.

The music of Lent is slow and mournful. Lento. Contemplative. The 40 days stretch long, cold, and seemingly hopeless across the span of late winter and early spring. They leave a dusty taste in the mouth, with a touch of New England despair that the flowers will never come, and the countryside will never again be green and verdant. But our dispair is misplaced. Spring does come, against all fears. And God does rise up from the dead, against all expectation.

And Old Testament/New Testament difference

I have my youth group kids for two seperate types of meetings — I have them for Sunday School and for youth group. In Youth Group, we’re currently going over a passage in Matthew that talks about God recognizing us for what we do for others, not necessarily for what we believe or say. In Sunday School, we’re doing an Old Testament summary — mostly Moses lately.

It’s really a pretty striking difference. In the Old Testament, you have a God who hardens the heart of Pharoah, blasts the people of Egypt with 10 plagues, kills the firstborn sons, threatens to eliminate the people of Israel when they create idols, changes his mind when argued with and generally lacks in warm fuzzies. In the New Testament, we have a God who humbled himself, served those around him with kindness and compassion, only got angry like twice and then usually against the establishment, and finally sacrificed himself on a cross for our sakes.

But Christians believe that the OT God of fury and temper and violence, and the NT God of compassion and sacrifice… they are one and the same. There are some mitigating factors. For example, I pointed out to my kids that even in the Old Testament, God was far more merciful than would be expected, while still practicing justice. For example, he killed the first born sons of Egypt. Well, the Pharoah had previously killed ALL the sons of Israel. So he exacted justice, but justice tempered by mercy. God also kept his word to the people of Israel, even when they broke theirs to him as quickly as humanly possible.

One of the greatest differences I see between OT and NT, however, is the scale on which God deals with people. In the OT he is really dealing with nations on a national basis. While he deals with Moses, he is really judging and interacting with Israel on a national basis. Salvation or damnation doesn’t come according to what one person does, but how the nation as a whole acts in covenant with God. Likewise, in Egypt, God deals with the nation of Egypt harshly, not just with the Pharoah in particular. When Jonah goes to Ninevah, the communal acceptance of God’s message is what saves the entire city-state from destruction. God was not going to spare the ones who followed his word and punish those who didn’t — it was all or nothing. So you have a history of sort of spokesperson individuals (like Moses and Pharoah and Jonah), and nations (like Israel and Egypt and Ninevah). If you personally were too sinful, you would be thrown out of the nation, and not be a part of its covenant with God.

In the New Testament, Jesus seems to redefine God’s relationship to humanity on an individual basis. Jesus no longer says that salvation and favor will be given on a national basis — to the nation of Israel, for instance. He emphasises the need for personal action and also personal judgement. He doesn’t stand and exhort the nation of Israel to follow God’s will. He stands in a crowd of thousands and exhorts each of them to do what is right. He answers individuals questions about what they must do, themselves, to live in a way that is pleasing to God.

It doesn’t seem like a huge difference, but it is. Can you imagine what would happen if God judged America on a corporate basis? (I think, by the way, that IS the way the real conservatives look at it, and why they are so eager to impose their morality on others.) I much prefer to be held accountable for my own actions, because then at least I have control. This difference between corporate relationship and individual relationship is a key, I think to understanding the change that happened when Jesus came. It’s also a key for understanding WHY it is that for some religious groups that see us as part of their nation — they are so very eager to make us comply with their morality.

But like Paul, I want to preach Christ crucified. I believe in a God who sacrificed himself in order to still practice justice, but not have to punish us. I believe in a God who judges us on how kindly we treat others — who holds us to the standard of doing unto other people as we want to be done to ourselves. I believe in a God who has an individual relationship with every person on the earth — a relationship that make take different shapes or forms depending on our individual relationship and background.

Faith in God

I had an “ah ha” moment recently. For anyone who is actively involved in the life of a church, there is tons to worry about. We worry about the budget for the fiscal year. (Like all not-for-profits, churches have been enormously hit by the collision of rising needs, and dropping contributions from families who have lost jobs. Unlike many not-for-profits, an alarming number of our members have fled the incredibly expensive metropolis to live in less expensive places, or to chase jobs elsewhere.) And then there are the larger problems of a conscientious Christian. The “bright” movement (a movement of atheists) claims by contrast that Christians are either dull or not so smart — or maybe both. And the extremist hateful Christians that seem to get all the press do nothing to dissuade anyone from this view. Our world is secularizing. Across oceans, rabid and destructive types of religions are rising like bread left too near the oven — getting sour and overflowing the bowl, while losing the qualities that make bread sustaining.

We look at our youth group. We lose them at about 16. They fade away… can’t be coerced or coaxed into something as uncool as church.

And as a Christian, I get this sort of desperate energy. I have to do something. I have to be a youth leader. I have to be an apologist (in the very oldest sense of the word) to help my faith make sense to a world that thinks it understands it, and doesn’t. I have to frenetically work to preserve the church.

And here comes my “ah ha”.

Secretly, in a part of my mind, I had the thought that I need to frenetically work to preserve God. What a 20th century, faithless American thought that is. If I really believe what I think I believe, that at least I can stop worrying about. If my faith is in a God who exists seperate of me and my beliefs — of a God so powerful that he created the universe and so loving that he sustains it — then there is no way the current waning of compassionate religiousity is a threat to God. Now, it may be a threat to many other things — the institutions of the church, the country (I do NOT want a theocracy to take root in America, because I sincerely doubt it will have room for me!), civil discourse, the needy… these are all things that I should work for. But if my faith is sincere, I do not need to fret about the possibility of God disappearing from my life, and from this world. And if I really believe what I think I believe, I can also have confidence that God will be present in the world as well — calling people to compassion and kindness, as well as to confidence in him. We humans are not in this alone.

And you know, that’s a tremendous relief to me. It is not a call not to work, but it is a call to work for what I believe in context of working in cooperation with my God, instead of somehow working to preserve him.