Spiritual Hiccups - Addition and Subtraction

I'm not sure why this has been on my mind so much of late, but I've been thinking a lot about adding and subtracting with regards to what makes for a good and full life. We live in a world that presumes addition lies at the heart of a better life.  We need more; we need bigger; we need better.  We need more money, more and better things, a bigger and better house.  We also need more and better experiences.  We want to travel to places we've never been before.  After all, to be well rounded is to be acquainted with many things. 

Now who would argue against reading more classic literature or having college students experience study abroad.  And there are certainly times when more money comes in very handy.  But the fact that more of certain things is often good does not necessarily justify the notion that more is better, that the good life is about having it all. 

Our obsession with more underlies a lot of the anxiety in our world.  It puts us in endless competition with other folks who also want more.  We vie for attention, favors, influence, and prestige.  People worry about whether or not they have "made it," by which they usually mean having acquired the requisite amount of things, status, position, etc.  Our anxieties are sometimes aggravated by those who have added more than us and gotten ahead of us, just as they are sometimes soothed by comparing ourselves to those who have not been as good at addition as we have.

"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life...  Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these."  In his teachings, Jesus acknowledges that we need certain things, but he also insists that true life comes, not from grasping for these things, but from letting go.  Quite often, Jesus argues for subtraction over addition.

Recently someone pointed out to me that I and just about everyone that I have ever met has read more books than Jesus ever did, learned more than Jesus ever did, traveled to more places than Jesus ever did, enjoyed more entertainment and fine food than Jesus ever did, lived in luxury Jesus never dreamed of, and so on.  By the math of our culture, our lives are infinitely superior to Jesus' life.  And yet many of us label ourselves "Christian" and say that following Jesus is the way to true life.  

I made need to sharpen some of my math skills.

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Spiritual Hiccups - Money and Spirituality

I have heard it said, and believe it true, that you can tell more about a person by looking at her checkbook and credit card bills than you can from anything she tells you.  That is because when you figure out where someone's money goes, you figure out where his passions lie. 

I think it is common in our day for people to think of spirituality as an add-on, another consumer item acquired to enhance the quality of life.  It means learning some techniques on meditation or prayer, and perhaps some sort of participation in a group or even in a religious organization.  It is somewhat akin to an exercise program for the interior life.  And unless one gets caught up in it, its financial implications are limited to the costs of the program.  Like joining a gym or buying some running shoes, a spiritual program may require purchasing some books, attending a class, or going on a retreat.

But Jesus makes an explicit link between spirituality and finances, between one's heart and one's checkbook.  "For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."  Where your money goes, there goes your soul.

Given that we live in a consumer society, and that our religious culture has lived in a capitalist system for the entire life of America, it is hardly surprising that we tend to view faith and spirituality as one more thing to help life be good and full and complete.  But true spirituality aims to draw us into the divine mystery and, in so doing, to help us discover who it is we are truly meant to me.  This cannot happen by adding more or by acquiring something.  It can only happen when our lives, both inwardly and outwardly, are reshaped so that they conform more to the character of the divine.

And when this happens, our passions begin to look more like God's passions.  And the evidence will be found in checkbook registers and on MasterCard statements. 

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Spiritual Hiccups - Remembering

I have discovered over the years that one of the great spiritual difficulties for me is remembering.  By that I mean that moments which were formative, that spurred me to make some change in my life or convinced me that God wanted me to take a particular path, become fuzzy, without the power they once had. 

I presume such many others have had similar experiences.  Remembering, at least meaningful remembering, can be a difficult thing.  Over time, couples often forget the feelings they once had for each other.  Current irritations are more vivid.  Sometimes they drown out those old moments to the point that people doubt old feelings of love, dismissing them as youthful infatuations. 

When relationships run out of steam, the present overwhelms the past.  All relationships deal with this at times, and remembering is essential.  Remembering old promises, remembering old commitments, remembering formative moments in the life of a relationship is necessary for it to grow and continue. 

Today's reading from Deuteronomy realizes this need for remembering.  Even the powerful experiences of God in the wilderness will lose potency in the face of the present if people do not work to remember.  "But take care and watch yourselves closely, so as neither to forget the things that your eyes have seen nor to let them slip from your mind all the days of your life; make them known to your children and your children's children."

When I was growing up in the Church, I was taught some of the history of God's people.  I was drawn into this remembering.  But too often, it seemed an academic exercise.  Faith was about knowing the material and agreeing with it.  But faith is about relationship, right relationship with God.  And relationship is not about knowing the correct facts and agreeing with certain doctrines.  But it is about remembering.

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Congregational Singing: "Stayed on Jesus"

It can take Presbyterians a while to get warmed up, but by the end, we're doing okay.

Preaching Thoughts on a Non-Preaching Sunday

As a boy, I loved Mad Magazine and its slacker icon, Alfred E. Neuman.  Neuman's catchphrase, "What Me Worry?" seemed to bespeak more a devil-may-care attitude than his having figured anything out.  His lack of worry appeared to be the product of dullness and ignorance more than anything else.  Alfred E. Neuman doesn't worry because he doesn't know any better.

Small children and slackers may not worry, but that's only because they don't get it.  Anyone who pays much attention to the state of the world, anyone who has responsibilities and a family to support, how could she not worry?  And yet here is Jesus, suggesting we strike a more Alfred E. Neuman like pose in our lives.  "Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life..." 

Our culture is certainly filled with worry and anxiety.  Much of the partisan rancor in our politics is driven by this.  People are worried and anxious and easily become afraid.  When we are frightened our actions become more primal, more primitive.  Those old fight of flight instincts kick in.

You see it in the Church, too.  With all the major denominations losing members, losing influence, and struggling financially, people of faith worry, they grow anxious and afraid.  Far too often, we lash out at those who disagree with us.  We identify "them" as the problem.

I wonder how one becomes less of a worrier without simply burying his head in the sand.  How do we find a way to say "What, me worry?" without it being a sign that we don't have a clue about what is happening?  Jesus is no Alfred E. Neuman, but he says stepping back from our worry is part of life in the Kingdom, in God's new day. 

I don't think Jesus means by this that we are not to respond to the situation around us.  After all, when Jesus saw people's needs, sickness and hunger, he tried to help, and he commanded his disciples to help as well.  But Jesus seemed unconcerned with whether or not what he did solved all problems or fixed everything.  He was able to live out his call and trust that God would use his ministry to bring about God's plans.  And I think that is exactly what Jesus is asking of us.

What, me worry?  Actually, I do more than my share.  But now and then I do experience a touch of what Jesus is talking about.  When I am willing to give up control of things, when I am able simply to do what I should, and let God do with that what may, there is a genuine peace there.  But that is the heart of the faith problem isn't it, really trusting our lives to God.

Spiritual Hiccups - Are We a "Christian Church?"

I live in Ohio, one of several states currently considering legislation to curb the bargaining power of public employee unions.  While Ohio hasn't produced the sort of headlines coming out of Wisconsin, the rhetoric here is no less bitter.  Republicans are "attacking the middle class," while Democrats help unions gorge themselves on taxpayer money, totally unconcerned about the state's fiscal crisis.

American politics has long been a "contact sport," but it isn't all that hard to find instances where fights in the church don't look so different from the polarized, partisan bickering that passes for legislative debate.  I am over-generalizing and stereotyping, but I have seen debates on the floor of my own denomination's governing bodies that appeared to be opposing sides employing whatever carefully crafted strategy they deemed most likely to defeat their evil opponents. 

Contrast this with Paul's words in today's epistle reading.  He says that because it is only by God's mercy that he is who he is and engaged in his ministry, he does not lose heart even in the face of huge difficulty, suffering, or what appears to be defeat.  Because he doesn't measure by the world's standards he can say, "We refuse to practice cunning or to falsify God's word; but by the open statement of the truth we commend ourselves to the conscience of everyone in the sight of God."  Paul doesn't need to employ a slick strategy to counter the equally slick strategy of his opponents.  He simply speaks the gospel and leaves the rest up to God.

And if that seems like an unworkable, impractical way of accomplishing anything, consider what Jesus says.  "Do not resist an evil doer... Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you."  Now I've never been sure if Jesus expects people to employ such methods, or if Jesus would condemn force used to save someone.  And the Church has long wrestled with how to reconcile Jesus' teachings with the states need to employ force and "just wars."  But even if there are reasonable exceptions to Jesus' teachings on non-violence and pacifism, surely such exceptions must be carefully weighed and thought out.  Surely we must acknowledge that we are acting contrary to a particular teaching of Jesus, and own up to that.

One of the arguments that has become a part of America's current partisan divides is the question of whether we are a "Christian nation."  Without engaging that debate, it seems to me that, in light of Jesus' teachings on love, at times we would do well to consider whether or not we are even a Christian church.

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Spiritual Hiccups - Dry and Parched

It seems that "dryness" as a synonym for God's absence, for feeling spiritually bereft, is an ancient one.  It's there in today's morning psalm.  "I stretch out my hands to you; my soul thirsts for you like a parched land."  That's how it feels to me. After I first experienced the stirring of a mature faith but before I had learned the language of "spirituality," I described my first real encounter with God's absence as "feeling dry."

Such dry times come over me with more regularity than I like to admit.  It is terribly frustrating to pray, to spend time in silence, and feel that I am alone.  It feels like being in the desert, aching with thirst, and lifting a water bottle to my lips to find nothing but dust.  My worst doubts emerge in such dry times.

I have often longed for a surefire way to quench these times, some magic formula or practice that would immediately leave me feeling spiritually refreshed.  But I have never discovered one.  However I have begun to develop, somewhat grudgingly, some appreciation for my dry times.  Not that I enjoy them, but they are often powerful motivators, and they also provide a contrast that makes me relish those times of God's bountiful presence all the more.

I think that much of my spiritual "growth" over the years has come out of searching for a presence that seemed to have become lost.  This dryness might be compared with a lover's longing for the other.  I cannot imagine a lover who has never experienced such longing. It may even be that this longing is necessary in order to validate and confirm a deep and abiding love.  So too with dryness?

I think it was Frederick Buechner who said, "Doubt is the ants in the pants of faith."  Perhaps dryness works in similar fashion, prodding us and drawing us deeper into the mysterious and wonderful life of God.

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Spiritual Hiccups - Not My People

"May I continue to find favor in your sight, my lord, for you have comforted me and spoken kindly to your servant, even though I am not one of your servants."  If you knew that these words were from the Bible, but did not know the context, what would you suppose they meant?  In the Old Testament, Israel is often spoken of as God's servant.  In the Greek of the New Testament, the same word is sometimes translated "servant," other times "slave."  Paul writes of being a slave to sin, and Jesus speaks of a servant not being greater than the master.  Many of these uses speak metaphorically about relationship.

And so I think it would be reasonable to hear the opening sentence of this blog and presume it to be the words of an outsider, a Gentile perhaps, acknowledging God's grace and asking that it continue even though this outsider is not one of God's people.

I love to tell a story about my grandmother-in-law, a wonderful lady who was 95 when she drove herself to the doctor with "the flu," which turned out to be the heart failure that ended her life days later.  One time when I had replaced the filter on her furnace (a complicated procedure that required measuring and cutting filter material from a roll and fitting it onto a cage-like structure that went in the furnace), she wanted to pay me.  I objected but she insisted.  When my wife also objected, she said that she had to pay me because, "He's not my people."  

It was her way of saying I wasn't a blood relative, and as such I didn't have quite the same obligations toward her.  Not being "her people," I wasn't required to help her, but since I had, she felt required to pay me.  Strange as it might seem, by not being "her people," I had it better than those who were.  She treated me no differently from her biological grandchildren.  In fact her statement, "He's not my people," was so funny to all of us because there was nothing in her behavior toward me to bear it out.  And so the only difference between me and those who were "her people" was that I got paid and they didn't.

"May I continue to find favor in your sight, my lord, for you have comforted me and spoken kindly to your servant, even though I am not one of your servants."  These are Ruth's words to Boaz after his kind treatment of her, kind treatment motivated by Ruth's loyalty to Naomi, and in spite of the fact that Ruth is "not his people."  

For most of modern history, Western Christians have tended to understand the faith along sharply drawn lines of "us and them."  But it is not clear to me whether these dividing lines are rooted in God's character or in our own.  And if the story of Ruth is to be read at all metaphorically, God's character seems not unlike that of my grandmother-in-law when it comes to those outside the family.

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