A vow of silence

I said, "I will guard my ways,
that I may not sin with my tongue...
I will guard my mouth with a muzzle,
so long as the wicked are in my presence."
I held my peace to no avail,
my distress grew worse.
My heart burned within me.
As I mused, the fire burned; 
then I spoke with my tongue.
Psalm 39:1-3

After a multi-week silence (at least from a blogging perspective) it is ironic that I am struck today in Psalm 39 with the psalmists unconquerable urge to speak.  But I have known this very experience many times.  The vow, "I'm not going to say anything," firm and resolute, melts then evaporates in the pressing heat of my opinion or my sense of justice or simply my need to be heard.

I have known this vow of silence and subsequently burning need to say something when one my children exits the front door wearing something our household euphemistically calls "a bold use of color."  I have know it in study groups where I feel I am talking all the time and want to rectify that.  And in situations, perhaps more like the psalmist's, where the wicked, or at least wicked behavior, goads me.

As so often is the case, I am amazed that the ancient voice of the psalmist describes perfectly my very contemporary experience - resolution to hold my tongue overcome by my impulse to speak.  And from there I look at and listen to the rest of the psalm to see what it says to me.  And that, today, is also very interesting.

One might think that the application here is to self-control.  But I think not.  When the psalmist opens his mouth it is not to critique alarming clothing choices*, nor to add his wisdom to the conversation, nor to bring justice to the wicked.  It is to ask God to grant him humility:

Lord, let me know my end and the number of my days,
so that I may know how short my life is...
We walk about like a shadow,
in vain we are in turmoil.

And it is not exactly humility that we need?  The lowliness to acknowledge, however good, salient or true, not every situation requires my input. Humility to remember my own failings and "bold uses," to remember that the conversation can survive very nicely without my contribution and that I, too, am a sinner in need of correction.

Lord grant me humility, that I may be enabled to keep my vow of silence.


*A good friend once counseled me on this front: "If you can wash it off, take it off or cut it off, don't sweat it."

Melting mountains

A few weeks ago I was listening to an interview on NPR (National Public Radio, the CBC of the US for Canadians out there).  It was on a program called Fresh Air hosted by Terry Gross.  She was interviewing a woman, T.M. Luhrmann who had written a book called, "When God Talks Back."  The author, who does not identify as a Christian, had spent some time in a Vineyard church community to better understand the experience of Christians hearing from God.  I commend the interview if you can find it.  Ms. Luhrmann is both interesting and sympathetic to the notion of people actually hearing from God.

There was one thing in particular which she said that I found to be quite thought provoking.  I am paraphrasing, but she said something like "In the 1960s God became nice" or "friendly" or some such word.  She was describing perhaps a social and cultural phenomenon where God's wrath or judgment has been given less focus, while his love and acceptance has been emphasized.

I thought of this again this morning while reading the Psalms.  Contrasted with the nice or friendly God I read this:

A fire goes before him

and burns up his enemies o n every side.

His lightnings light up the world;

the earth sees it and is afraid.

The mountains melt like wax at the presence of the Lord

at the presence of the Lord of the whole earth.

Psalm 97:3-5

Feels a little less friendly.

Now I quite understand the emphasis on this God of love.  St. John says in his first  epistle that God is love. (Not, as C.S. Lewis points out, Love is God, but I digress.)  The work of Jesus' sacrifice on the cross is the ultimate expression of a God who loves us and longs for us to be in relationship with him.  Too heavy an emphasis on the wrath of God and his judgment might indeed intimidate anyone from every wanting to approach him.

But we simply cannot erase the picture of God as the one in whose presence the mountains melt like wax.  The biblical witness of God includes his power and his holiness.  As we approach God it is critical to remember, as "friendly" as he is, he is totally other than us.  Jesus tells us we are his friends, but it is wise to remember the might, majesty and power of this particular friend.

Mountains melting like wax at his presence serves to underline the inestimable love he has for us.  I am wildly less substantial than a mountain. If the mountains melt, what chance is there for me? (Reminds me of Isaiah's "woe is me" in chapter 6 of that excellent book.)  And yet, because of his love for us in Jesus, we might be in his presence and not be undone.

There is a balanced road we walk between the terrifying, unapproachable God and God as our bro.  The one may well keep us from him; the other is just too familiar.  He is hidden in light inaccessible, as the hymn suggests AND he is our Father in heaven, as Jesus taught us to pray.

Moon-like

This morning I find myself disposed to a short survey of the moon, the one heavenly body which besides moving also changes, in classic literature.  Happens to everyone, I know.

In Dante's vision of heaven, the circle of the moon is reserved for the blessed who, while in this life, were inconstant in their vows.  In short, they were changeable like the moon.  The moon here is a symbol or picture of that which grows and fades, sometimes repeatedly.  As an aside, this picture of Dante's is a firm reminder to us that blessedness, or salvation - to use a more evangelically Protestant vocabulary - is dependent not on our moral perfection but on something else.  The blessed in heaven were in life like us, imperfect.

The moon's chageable nature is famously reflected also in the Bard's work.  Juliet beseeches Romeo in the play bearing their names:

O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
(Act II, scene ii)

Again this orb is invoked as a picture of mutability.

A third, less well-known example from an anonymous 14th century poet whom I encountered in The New Oxford Book of Christian Verse.

Moon-like is all other love
First crescent, then decreasing, gain
Flower that buds, and soon goes off
A day that fleets away in rain

All other love bravely starts out,
But ends with torture, and in tears;
No love can salve the torment out
But that the King of heaven bears.

When I read the first lines of this poem I assumed that is was about us loving other things more that we love Jesus - about our idolatries and how they are insubstantial and unenduring compared to our true love of God.  This is a typical modern or post-modern response - it's all about me.

But as one reads the whole poem (it is short, only seven stanzas), one realizes that the author's point is that other loves (mine) are being compared to God's love, not mine for him.  Here the author understands something that Dante did as well.  Something that we understand theologically or in theory, but sometimes lose in practice - that we are saved not by our commitment and constancy but by his.

I remember thinking and feeling in the early flush of conversion that this love and devotion to Jesus will never fade - that it will carry me through.  But, alas, moon-like is all other love.  I have good days and bad days.  Fervent ones and indifferent ones.  My loves wax and wane.  In the end this is a warning against an idolatry - the idolatry of self which thinks that my commitment, actions or fervor is sufficient.  None of them are.

It is good to be reminded by Dante and this medieval poet that I am saved not by my love for or commitment to him, but by his for and to me.  I am relieved, in fact.  For my loves change - run hot and cold.  His does not.  As our anonymous friend says:

For ever springing, ever new,
For ever the full orb it is
A thing not thinned, from which accrue
Always new sweets, new centuries.
(emphasis mine)

The good old days

Some years ago I noted a clever ad published by the Episcopal Church. It was featured in Print magazine's annual review of excellent design. The ad featured a Rubens' painting of Daniel in the lion's den with the comment, "Some people think stress is a 20th century invention.". I thought it clever but find myself at a loss to remember how it was to induce me to attend an Episcopal Church. But that is not my point.

The insightful part of the ad was its naming of the "my life is harder" attitude that infects us frequently. It is good to be reminded that there are others who have suffered before us and in addition to us. Sometimes rather spectacularly.

I was reminded of this reading Psalm 3 this week. Verse 2 goes like this:
"How many there are who say of me,
'There is no help for him in his God.'"

To hear some people talk, you would think that it has only been in the last generation in America, as liberalism and secularism has gained ascendancy that there has been scorn for people who put their trust in God. Imagine my surprise to discover that the psalmist encountered this doubt and scorn thousands of years ago. Like stress, perhaps this brand of derision is not a 20th century invention. Perhaps we don't have it harder than those who have gone before us.

There is little to be gained by whining about the age of doubt in which we live. It does not encourage our own faith - it gives us a sense of entitlement to the good old days when people were not ridiculed for their faith. Those days, it would seem from the wisdom of the psalmist, never existed. The entitlement we feel for them, especially as American Christians, just makes us angry and bitter. And angry and bitter are NOT attractive and winsome to those who don't believe. Making them poor evangelistic strategies.

Psalm 3:2 is a great reminder that the voice that mocks and belittles believers is not exclusively a post-enlightenment or modern phenomenon. But what is more remarkable is not the centuries-long persistence of that voice, but rather the persistence of faith in spite of it.

Differences

I like to ask questions.  I am particularly fond of thought-provoking questions.  So it gets me into trouble sometimes.  Case in point.  Some years ago I started attending a church and went to the Bible study group that was offered on Sunday morning before the service.  I cannot remember the exact text we were studying but it was from St. Paul and it was about Christ being in us.  There are many to choose from.  It is important to remember here that I was NEW to this church.  So my question was: "How is this different from what people say about God being in all of us?"  From the impassioned reaction that followed I realized three things.  First, that it was assumed I was espousing the view that God is in all of us; second that my view and I were desperately wicked; and third that no one actually knew how it was different.  One and two amused me.  Three disturbed me.

Despite being assumed a pagan in their midst, I still think it a good question to ask.  How IS it different when Christians say God, or Christ or the Holy Spirit is in us from when others say that God is within us or that all has the spark of the divine?  Because it is very different.

The articulation that all has the spark of the divine is perhaps best understood as a pantheist notion.  Pantheists are those who would state that all is divine or that all is God.  And a lovely idea it is.  Makes be feel very happy about everything.

The problem is that it is ludicrous and does not deal with the facts.  Look around.  Not everything is divine.  The current violence in Syria falls short, for example.  I find it hard to think of the physical and sexual abuse of children as issuing from that divine "spark."  Even my own petty and cherished resentments are clearly sub-divine.  I'm just saying.

The Christian perspective articulated perhaps best by St. Paul in his epistles talks about the Spirit being within us (very good news) but at war with something else within us, the sinful nature, or as he calls it, the flesh.

"For those who live according to the flesh set their minds on the things of the flesh, but those who live according to the Spirit set their minds on the things of the Spirit.  For to set the mind on the flesh is death, but to set the mind on the Spirit is life and peace."  Romans 8:5-6

And here is the difference:  The pantheist is saying that everything is God.  That means that I am god, as is the tree I see out my window.  The Christian saying quite the opposite.  The Christian is saying the God is totally Other than us or the creation.  The pantheist perspective, taken to its logical extreme might induce me to build a little shrine to myself in the front yard for folks to come and worship.  I expect a small bronze statue of me would draw mobs of people to worship...

In saying everything is God we cheapen and devalue Him.  The universe is not one big divine soup.  He is Other than us.  Holy, exalted, in light inaccessible.  And yet He that is Other has chosen to come and live in us, lifting us from our sinful and patently sub-divine nature, and making us new men and women.

The "divine spark" theory just tries to make me feel good about myself and my world.  The God of Jesus Christ, in his descent into me makes me new.  That is difference that makes a difference.

Consequences

Much of my tender youth was spent in front of a television watching intellectually stimulating broadcasts such as Gilligan's Island and the usual Saturday morning animated fare.  One of the other gems of my childhood was Truth or Consequences, a game show hosted by a raven-haired Bob Barker.  I have no recollection of how the game was actually played, but know that if you did something wrong there were negative consequences (hence the name).  Mr. Barker's game show career continued after Truth or Consequences with The Price is Right differing from the earlier show in that Mr. Barker eventually succumbed to the ravages of time becoming white-haired and, due no doubt to his advanced years, required the assistance of beautiful young women.

I am trying to imagine the market demand today for a game show in which those not telling the truth receive negative consequences.  I expect it would be low.  Perhaps why Bob moved on from the relative moral clarity of Truth or Consequence to the consumerist free-for-all of The Price is Right.  Consequences are just not popular.  I don't really want there to be any negative consequences to my choices and actions.

I was having a conversation with someone a few months ago who had decided to back out of a commitment.  There were people who were disappointed in him for this decision which caused the man a significant amount of distress.  He didn't want to do what he had committed to, but he also didn't want anyone to be upset or angry with him.  But you can't have it both ways.  One of the consequences of backing out of a commitment, is that someone might be angry.  Which do you want to avoid the most, the original commitment or the displeasure of others?  Pick one.

I dislike consequences perhaps especially when the they might involve the displeasure of others.  And that is because I live with a odd confusion which is perhaps peculiarly modern.  When the solidity of a relationship is measured by the relative feelings of the people concerned rather than something deeper - some commitment, either declared or implicit - the consequences of someone's anger or displeasure are decimating.  We are very poor at understanding the realities of commitment and covenant that transcend the ups and downs of our emotional responses in relationships.  We think simply that is someone is angry with us or displeased, then there relationship is over, or at least very seriously damaged.  And while this is sometimes true, based on the gravity of the offense and subsequent displeasure, it is not always so.

Case in point - the people of Israel seeking to enter the promised land.  You can read this in Numbers 13 and 14.  Twelve spies were sent out to check out the land for 40 days.  They came back and reported that it was magnificent - flowing with milk and hone - but also that its peoples were magnificently large and brawny.  Ten of the 12 thought that God's whole idea was a poor one and that they ought to have stayed in Egypt.  This attitude was shared by much of the population.

And here is the deal.  God was displeased by their lack of faith.  And there were consequences.  He decreed that the generation who had seen the miracles of the Exodus but were intimidated by a number of muscle-bound Canaanite goons would not find rest in the promised land.  Forty years they were to wander.  They experienced the consequences of displeasing God. He threatens to destroy them and to fulfill his promise through Moses, but in one of the great examples of intercession in the Old Testament, Moses reminds God of His Name and honor among the nations and the Egyptians.

In the end the consequences remain.  Forty years of wandering in the desert.  But does the relationship with God end?  No.  Does He cease to care for and provide for the Israelites?  No.  The commitment and covenant that God has made with his people prevails.  It does not mean that there are no negative consequences to their actions.  But the commitment, the relationship remains.  It is not determined by ire or wrath but by covenant and commitment.

I think that another way of expressing this modern confusion is that we do not understand the difference between what we do and who we are.  My children will, from time to time, do things that displease me.  Those are the things they do.  Not who they are.  Even when I am displeased, I still love them.  The emotion they may feel from me is anger but that does not eradicate the relationship.  I am related to them as persons not to their actions.  Actions can mar relationship.  But where relationship is based on a bond deeper than transient emotion or approval, there is opportunity for repentance and forgiveness not only to heal, but to actually strengthen the bond.

Getting over it

Not long after my mother-in-law, Rickie by name, died, my family and I took a trip to Disney World, a trip on which she had planned to join us. That's important fact #1 for this story. Important fact #2 is that my wife, a ceramicist (fancy word for "potter"), was in the process of making an urn for the burial of her ashes. The implications of "in the process" is that Rickie's cremated remains were being stored in our house until the completion of the urn. At work one day I was telling a friend about the planned trip and how Rickie had planned to come. I said somewhat casually, "But, come to think of it, we could put her under the front seat and she still could come." My friend was horrified and responded, "Well, YOU seem to be over it."

Notwithstanding the black sense of humor I seem to have inherited from my family, this little anecdote makes me think about what it means to be "over" something, especially grief and loss. Having experienced a fair amount of the grief and loss thing I have learned a couple of lessons.

First, making light of loss is not necessarily a sign of having gotten over it. One of the ways in which we deal with the uncomforatble feelings of grief and loss is by alleviating the tension with humor. I remember when my grandfather died, one of my uncles who drove some of the grandchildren to the internment made a number of (very bad) death jokes on the way in the car. The levity is a way of dodging the uncomfortable feelings of grief. It has a part to play in the process but it cannot go on forever. Avoiding the real sadness over a long period has repercussions.

Second, loss is not just the death of someone we know and love. There is grief and sadness when we lose a job, or move to a new town. There is loss when something we hoped for and dreamed about turns out to be impossible.

Third, there is no statute of limitations on grief and loss. There is a pressure, sometimes subtle, sometimes not, to be done with it and move on with life. Our friends, at times, are anxious for us to be "over it" and back to normal. Sometimes that is a pressure we put on ourselves because we think that we should be done by now.

But the sadness creeps up on us unexpectedly. Things that remind us of any loss bring the breath-taking sharpness back as we are still in the process. Just this morning I put on a Veggie Tales video for a small mob of children who happen to be at my house. My kids are WAY past the Veggie Tales stage by now and the theme song, a familiar strain of a time that, for me, is now gone, brought tears to my eyes. Do I regret that my children have grown up and become adults? Absolutely not. But this small reminder of what is gone touched the well of sadness from larger losses. And those small tears were a gift to me.

I don't know when we should be "over it". Even when we are, we are not unchanged, and there is a new normal. The most recent "big" loss in our family happened last summer when my sister-in-law died. And now, nearly a year later, my wife and I are planning an extended leave from work this summer because we aren't over it yet. And until we take the time to come face to face with it, instead of making light or busying ourselves with frenetic activity, we will never get over it.

Buddy Greene, known (apparently) for his praise harmonica - a little known musical genre - sings a song whose chorus is pertinent here:
Where the pieces of our lives go unattended
Then scars from broken hearts go unmended
And the feelings we've forgotten overtake us like a flood
That's how it always is with flesh and blood
That how it has to be with flesh and blood