Jealous God

"May they rot in hell," I spat onto the cold tile of a hospital corridor as the social worker guided me to the exit. I had just turned from the slam of a heavy door as it shut out the terrified screams of a desperate four-year old. My foster son, a child who had in the past year clung to me, not with love, but with an animal instinct seeking survival, had degenerated into ungovernable behavior resulting in the need for intervention. His terror at being left alone in this strange, institutional place pulled from me a rage borne of love, a fierce primal force determined to protect, and resulted in words, the likes of which I had never uttered before, words that have caused me guilt in the intervening years. I wanted to hunt down and destroy the people responsible for so profoundly wounding this innocent child who, as the years progressed, I realized would never fully recover. How could I as a follower of the loving Christ even think this thought, let alone, say it aloud? Didn't Jesus command me to love my enemies?

This memory resurfaced as I listened to a sermon by Fr. Justin Howard (http://www.idachurch.com/sermons/2018/1/31/128-revealing-the-god-who-pursues) on our God being a jealous God, a God who would jealousy defend me, relentlessly pursue me, and violently rescue me. Thinking of the ferocity that I felt those many years ago for a child that was not yet my legal child, let alone a child of my own flesh, I begin to understand the desire and pursuit of God for me. Where else could these "Mama Bear" passions come from if not from the God who placed His image in me? If I could love so deeply and fight so passionately for my children, must not God be outrageously committed to me? Is the passion of God not seen even in the Christ who would unleash havoc in the Temple court of the Gentiles in response to religious leaders fouling the only part of the Temple that the nations could access? What else but his passionate, jealous love could bring him to the most violent act of history, the cross? So is there violent passion in the love of God? I think in some way, the answer has to be yes, not a violence that is retaliatory, vengeful, or political, but a "violent" passion that will do anything to love. This, too, is a mystery.

How I need to burrow into this, to let it seep deep inside me. If I indeed truly believe this, what fears could possibly overwhelm me? How could I not have utter confidence that all will be well, that my end is secure, that my life is deemed precious, even a treasure to the Divine One? Thanks be to God.

Sunday morning lesson

I believe I had a word from the Lord this morning in church--a word set against the backdrop of two things: (1. ) Karen's admonition to go through our present discernment process with gratitude and open-mindedness; (2.) thinking about Jordan and my temptation to devalue his life because of his intense need and lack of productivity and reading yesterday about a book dealing with the value of spending time with the disabled (Becoming Friends of Time: Disability, Time-fullness, and Gentle Discipleship). This addresses deep-seated notions of intrinsic value and productivity that are too fully formed in me by society and culture and are antithetical to kingdom of God thinking.

While waiting for the church service to begin, I chatted with Nancy, an energetic retiree who is heavily involved in ministry at COTC. Our conversation primed the pump of my heart and mind to hear the Divine One point out an area of ingratitude in my life. As I am wont to do, I thought with disappointment about the lack of an intergenerational congregation at the historic campus, voiced this thought to Nancy, and asked her if volunteers from the historic campus ever interacted with those from the Cross Church campus (wondering if these two campuses ever acted as one). She replied that folks at CC didn't have the time to be involved in ministry like the older people do (with jobs, family concerns, etc.), so often did not cross paths with the historic campus volunteers in ministry endeavors, but the CC folks were recipients of the ministry of the older generation through avenues such as the Stephen Ministry. That seed worked its way into the soil of my heart as I sat through the service surrounded by septuagenarians and octogenarians. I realized that I held almost prejudicial thoughts deep down in the core of my soul for the elderly. Maybe I haven't met enough elderly people whose minds were still active and growing and who showed real concern for living out a vibrant faith. I also fail to remember that the end of this life isn't the end of learning and growing. The end of life stage is not a time of diminished value. Thus, when I wonder about the significance of Carl teaching church history to this bunch, I must remember that these saints, though they may not have many years and opportunities ahead to share what they are learning (that's "productivity"), are on a pilgrimage that will continue into eternity. Their desire to learn is evidence of their vitality of mind and full engagement with life. This is instructive to my soul.

I think, also, that being surrounded by the elderly is a poignant reminder of my own aging process, a process that I want to defy and forget. Today, as I looked at those heads, I confessed my dismissal of these people and thanked God for their presence and teaching in my life. This may not be my "ideal" church, brimming with young families, but it is the will of God for me in this moment. And it is a holy and precious place, filled with folks whose years have overflowed with joy and fruitfulness, as well as sorrow, bondage, and loss. They may use canes and battle illness and bereavement, but they have much to teach me. These people have not lost their value, even their usefulness, in God's economy. They remind me of the way of all flesh and the beauty and grace that is present in all stages of life. I confess the dread and fear that the aging process often elicits in me, and I claim the power and grace of God to continue growing into God and offering his love to those around me, whatever that may look like. I choose to have gratitude for these gifts and the solemn, yet joyful, lessons they give.

This may seem like a small thing, but I believe that God put a finger on a place in me that needs adjustment. I want to see the COTC and its elderly band of brothers and sisters through a different lens. No more should I lament the spiritual family that God has provided for this time in my life. I don't want to miss the truth and love that they have to give me. Thanks be to God.

A beautiful thing happened to me this morning. Serendipitous. It lasted only a few minutes but seemed to balloon in time. As I was walking, I paused a moment and texted Jeremy to ask for a phone call if he had down time today. I wanted to discuss my situation at work with him because I always like to hear his advice. All of a sudden, spontaneously, music started playing on my phone. I couldn't tell where it was coming from as there was no open tab on my phone indicating its source. It was music that immediately pulled me into almost another dimension of knowing, drawing me to God. My heart rate and respiration quickened and I felt pulled forward, almost as if I needed to run forward toward what could only be Jesus. My eyes scanned the woods and I looked ahead expectantly, searching for the unseen. As the music continued to play, with tears streaming down my face, I said aloud, "Let me hear the music. Let me hear the music. Let me hear the music when I die and everything will be okay." It touched emotion in me that has no name. I really wondered if I was going to die and welcomed the thought in that moment. The music ended and I figured out that it was coming from Pandora, even though I had not opened Pandora. When I tried to get back to the song, I was unable to do it. I don't know what it was. Maybe that is as it should be, for I could not duplicate the experience. It was a gift, a peek into another world, the curtain pulled back for only a moment. For me. Drawing me into the love of God. Assuring me of His presence. Telling me that it will be okay. No matter what happens.

revelations

As I reflect on who I am through the lens of my behavior and seek to find its origin, I think about family members with whom I seem to share personality components. Grampy George, my childhood hero, was a man of substance and depth, at least in my eyes. He was emotionally sensitive, maybe even a conflicted soul, and loved fiercely. He loved nature and music and would sacrifice and fight for people and the earth with all its creatures. He also was a man of strong opinions, impatience with people, and anger and bitterness over losses and grievances. In all of this complexity, which I'm sure I only know in small bites as I observed him as a child without an adult's fuller understanding of people and situations, I recognized a thread of passion. I have seen this thread running through my mother in her strong sense of justice, her impassioned beliefs, and her love for her family, especially her grandchildren when they were young, and her great-grandchildren. As with all human qualities, these are coins with two sides.

I inherited this sensitive, passionate, impatient thread running through me, as well, but that inheritance alone did not fully form me. The crucible in which my soul was formed was a culture of performance, judgment, punishment,  guilt, and a denial of strong emotional expressions. I was nurtured in an environment that allowed for no ambiguity in issues of right and wrong and that encouraged strong moralistic teaching and confrontational interactions about behavior and life style choices. Fear was an underlying and constant presence, fear of failure and judgment. Even in early adulthood, this pattern of relating and "helping" others was enforced by Christian psychologists that I read.

So I suppose it is no surprise that my life has been marked by passion, a passion for people and causes, a passion for "getting it right" and perfection, a passion for self-sacrifice. I have never even considered that my life's purpose was anything other than service to God and people. A savior, a helper, a rescuer, a teacher, a spiritual exhorter--these have been my identities. While my passionate, sensitive nature has positive aspects which I want to embrace and accept, I am learning that my approach with others has been sorely misguided. I have strongly entrenched patterns of relating to people that, as Parker Palmer says, push the shy soul away causing it to flee to the woods. In my passion and sincere love, I have over and over "attacked" the shy souls in my life, smothering them with my words and advice, so sure that they need to hear the truth from me. After all, the book of Ephesians says to "speak the truth in love." My personality, with its direct (no beating around the bushes) tendency, is big on exhortation and helping the Spirit reveal truth to those around me, most often family members, but I've seen it also in work-related interactions. There are so many scenarios that run through my head of times in which I very directly and passionately interacted with people, passionately made my opinion known, passionately pleaded for behavior changes. I'm not saying that there are never times in which passionate pleas or exhortations are necessary; sometimes people may need to be firmly confronted about their sin or misguided thinking. However, I am learning that that is not always the case, probably usually not the case. I advise, and people don't usually need my advice. They need the safety of a listening heart, one that is patient enough to wait for them to discover the truth within themselves.

Here I am now with decades of behavior patterns that, it turns out, may have actually caused more harm than good, despite the sincerity of my heart. This is a humbling place to be. And sad. However, I also realize that my tendency is to be very dualistic in my thinking, to look at my life as a total failure because of this new knowledge. That cannot be true. I have loved deeply and given my life in sacrifice to others, and good has come of it, but if I want what is left of my life to be better, more loving, more helpful to others, I must embark on change. I repent of ineffective and even damaging ways of relating to others and commit myself to growing in building trust and loving others.

Parker Palmer, in A Hidden Wholeness, writes of circles of trust in which people do four specific things:
1.  Speak their own truth.
2.  Listen receptively to the truth of others.
3.  Ask honest, open questions instead of giving counsel.
4.  Offer the healing and empowering gifts of silence and laughter.

These are signposts for this moment in my life. New focus for my soul with regard to relationships. I'm sure it would be very helpful for me to attend a retreat featuring a circle of trust. Maybe one day I can do that. But for now, I at least have a new direction to follow. Sadly, I know it will take years of stumbling as I seek to alter the way I interact with others. This will not happen overnight, but I hope with God's help to begin a new journey of better love.

I have written this on purpose, knowing that it makes me vulnerable. Vulnerable to being fixed, dismissed, or judged when I fail. Taking that risk is part of my journey.

I believe a true and deep understanding of love, the source of which is God, has the power to transform and heal even the most broken lives. Perhaps seeking healing and transformation any other way will always fall short and add to the accumulation of guilt, shame, and hopelessness. Yet, how can I see or experience this love when my vision is obscured by the clamor of my own self-seeking and endless attempts at shielding myself from pain? I must be willing to go down to the depths of pain, suffering, and self-denial to recognize the Christ who is already there, who indeed has shown me the way. I must not equate the love of God with the gratification of my self-serving desires. This God in Christ has expressed love in a far greater and eternal way through becoming flesh and suffering all possible indignities, losses, cravings, and pain (physical, mental, spiritual, and emotional). He crushed all of these elements of death and then rose up into eternal and glorious life. He offers that to me. And he does this by going with me, not just sending me into the abyss. "Even when I walk through the darkest valley, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me.Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me" (Psalm 23:4).

There is no greater love, only cheap imitations. There is no other way to be free from the bondage of addiction, lies, delusions, and disappointments. There is no other gospel. 

Theodicy...

I often think about evil and suffering in the world. It's hard not to if you have a pulse and pay any attention to the news. Most people don't even have to listen to the news; there is enough fodder in their own lives to prompt such musings. I also hear people who teach about healing ministry say things like, "God wants everyone to be healed," and I ponder the credulity of that assertion. While I believe the statement on one level, and I respect and learn from those who teach healing ministry, something inside me jerks back when I hear it. If God wants everyone to be healed, why isn't everyone healed? The answer I give myself is that everyone will eventually be healed in the afterlife, but is that all there is to it? We live in an exquisite world without a doubt, but it is a world that also seeps pain and suffering--a fallen, broken world. To think that God wants everyone to be healed and eventually will accomplish this has not satisfied my quest for meaning in this brokenness.

Peter Kreeft, in chapter 27 of Bread and Wine, penetrates beyond questions of how a good God can allow evil and suffering in the world and turns the lens on the character of this God. In contrast to an aloof, unaffected God (like Buddah), one who is disconnected from the tortured existence of his creatures, this God in Jesus Christ descended to our depths, entered our suffering spaces and gave the gift of himself. In an ironic twist, Jesus outwitted Satan  by voluntarily taking the death penalty for our sin and our suffering with the promise that by his wounds we would be healed. Does this just refer to soul salvation and healing in the afterlife? Not so says Kreeft, who contends that Jesus took our blows on the cross and descended into all of our hells.  Indeed, even when he doesn't heal our wounds in the present, "he comes into them and is broken, like bread, and we are nourished." And, "since we are his body, we too are the bread that is broken for others."

Everything belongs, according to Richard Rohr, in a book by that title, because God can hold everything. We can't, but he can. That gives me the freedom to embrace brokenness as so much more than a curse of living in this world. In brokenness, we are invited to be in Christ, because he has come to be in us and in all of our suffering. Maybe this is what Paul had in mind when he said, "that I may know him and the power of his resurrection, and may share his sufferings, becoming like him in his death" (Phil. 3:10, ESV). I can do this because he became like me first.

Daily Office Lenten Reading
Hebrews 2:11-18
       
        ". . . Since, therefore, the children share flesh and blood, he himself likewise shared the same things, so that through death he might destroy the one who has the power of death, that is, the devil, and free those who all their lives were held in slavery by the fear of death. For it is clear that he did not come to help angels, but the descendants of Abraham. Therefore he had to become like his brothers and sisters in every respect, so that he might be a merciful and faithful high priest in the service of God, to make a sacrifice of atonement for the sins of the people. Because he himself was tested by what he suffered, he is able to help those who are being tested."

Did He sometimes feel like time was crawling and that He would never get to do the work of ministry?

Did He sometimes feel like time was speeding toward his ruin and destruction?

Did He sometimes wonder if He was actually hearing the voice of His Father or just operating out of some fancied construct?

Did He sometimes wonder why He didn't hear the voice of His Father more often or feel alone when He didn't hear the voice of His Father at all?

Did He sometimes strain under the injustices of life?

Was He sometimes tempted to doubt the goodness of His Father?

Did He sometimes feel impotent in the face of society's power structures?

Did He sometimes feel like His Father was not listening to Him, didn't hear the cry of His heart, or worse yet, heard but then turned apathetically away?

Did those 40 days in the wilderness seem interminable, and did He sometimes wonder if He wouldn't survive them?

Thank you, Oh most vulnerable Savior, that because you were tested by what you suffered, you are able to help us who are being tested. Help, we pray, for we have no other hope but you alone.