There's Something in the Fog

But though He had done so many miracles before them, yet they believed not on Him.  -- John 12:37

Somewhere in the fog of time I may be able to stumble around until I trip over the very moment. At some point in my life I came to no longer blindly accept the precepts, tenets and doctrines I had been taught since that first Sunday my Mom took my sister and me to a little baptist church in my hometown. Even though the sign outside the church had words like, "Independent," "Premellinial" and "Pretribulational" on it, I was just a little kid, so in the beginning it was simple things. I learned the Bible stories, David and Goliath, Noah's Ark, the Beatitudes, and always, ALWAYS...did I know Jesus as my personal savior?

And it was an ambitious little church. I learned that the Great Commission meant soul-winning on Saturday mornings, stuffing the church bus with as many little kids as could be fobbed off by parents who would never darken the doorway of the church, and special Sundays where we just might, with a little prayer and a lot of work...get 400 into that little place.

Man! Those were halcyon days! I measured my spirituality by how many times I went to church in a particular week, how many chapters of the Bible I read, how often I prayed, and how detailed were my sermon notes. It was a simple Christianity, but then, I was just a kid! Everything was simple! My biggest concern was - would The Sporting News even mention Duffy Dyer that week (don't ask).

I remember arguing creation vs evolution with my biology teacher - wouldn't my youth pastor be proud of me? My heroes were the likes of Jack Hyles, Jerry Falwell, Curtis Hudson, and a whole string of Independent, Fundamental, Premellenial, Pretribulation, Dispensational, King James Only preachers. Going to church on Sunday was a given. 

Somewhere in that fog was a day when I came to understand that Christianty was indeed the opiate of the masses. It was a collection of myths designed to sedate us from the anxieties of a miserable and utterly meaningless existence. I began to question every-single-thing I had ever learned about God.

Reading was for me the principle vehicle of my discontent. From Brueggemann I learned that "those of us who think critically do not believe that the Old Testament was talking about Jesus..." Tillich, in turn, taught me that God was essentially an impersonal "necessary being". And of course, Nietzche instructed me in the art of killing God. After all, God "had to be killed because nobody can tolerate being made into a mere object of absolute knowledge and absolute control." 

Over time I came to understand that not only was Christianity a simple fable, it was a farce, a cruel lie that robbed people of freedom, subjugating them to a code meted out by weak men with control issues and delusions of grandeur. It gave false hope, and just plain made people, ah - who am I kidding? The fact is - it made ME miserable.

Somewhere in that fog of time Christianity became nothing more than a vapor. But here's the weird thing - I actually know how it all started. I can't see through the fog of time clearly enough to see the date on the calendar, but in my mind's eye I can pinpoint the exact spot when it all changed for me. And it all started in church.

It was in the Men's Sunday School class when the pastor was discussing the miracles in the Gospels. I don't know by what twist of thought it happened, but for the first time in my life I heard the miracles and thought, "Oh reeeeally now." Up until this moment I had always thought of the miracles in the Gospels as the great proofs of the Christian faith. But as I listened, I began to run through all the possible explanations, to rationalize how the "miracles" actually happened. No longer able to accept the isolated fact of each story, I became utterly baffled by each telling. Bit by bit the very foundation of my faith evaporated into the fog until what remained of the superstructure of faith shook, teetered and collapsed at the first breezes of the coming storm. 

Since those days, some of which are only now beginning to dissolve into that murky fog, I have begun to see the miracles of The Christ a little differently. I don't know if it's because I can't or because I won't, but I no longer see the miracles as an obstacle - I no longer see them as the bulwark of faith. Rather than as isolated evidence, I've begun to see the miracles as a treasure... God reaching down to man, providing us with memories of how much He loves us, loves me.

Lord, Help Me Forgive

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil:  for thou art with me... Psalm 23:4

This kind of post is difficult to write.  As Paul so aptly pointed out, there lies within each of us two natures.  Never has that been more true in me than at this moment.  In my last post I confessed that I have hatred consuming me from within, and whined about how I wrestled with it.  Then this weekend, during the funeral of my dear, sweet Grandmother, I joked about it, made light of it, and even acted out a bit - much as a petulant 6th grader would do.  I know better.

Let me tell you how I know better.  For one, the very person for whom we were gathered taught me forgiveness.  You see, my mother and grandmother have always had an incredible relationship, one that could stand as a model.  When I was a teenager (and probably a thousand times before and since) I greatly wronged my mother.  Yet, years later when I "returned to the fold" so-to-speak, Gram welcomed me with open arms and that sincere loving smile, that smile that started with her eyes and ended with, "I love you Georgie."  I don't think I ever apologized to Gram for the wicked ways I treated the family, but she forgave me - just like that.  That was my Gram.

Then there's my mom.  Again, I can't imagine (and frankly don't wish to) how many times I hurt my mom.  I have done things in my life that, in most families, would create an unbridgeable chasm, yet mom has forgiven me so thoroughly and completely that I can barely imagine it.  Not only has she told me a million times (okay, hyperbole makes good copy), to forgive others, she has shown forgiveness, not only to me, but even to others whose forgiveness I could never picture.  That is my mom.

The rotten part of this is - it's all so very convicting.  Man!  I have this gut-kicking hatred in me.  Fury, berserk and perverse.  But not only do I hate this person, I hate that I hate this person.  I cannot continue to live this way.  It eats at me.  Like anyone else, I have a job that can be stressful, responsibilities that can keep me up at night, worries of the silly to the serious.  But this hatred, this fire inside, consumes me at times, it is the single most stressful thing in my life.  But why?

Because I was afraid.  That's right.  This person is a thief of the worst kind.  This person has stolen the trust and love of numerous people, stolen it, stomped on it and trampled it to a fine dust.  And this frightened me.  I had already lost so much to this person, and was afraid that I would lose the one thing, the one person I don't think I could bear to lose again.  And so this fear evolved, no - DEvolved, into hatred.  But I no longer fear.  I am no longer afraid.  And with the security of knowing that the thief cannot steal what cannot be stolen, I begin to think with a clearer mind.

I once asked my uncle how to deal with this hatred and anger.  His answer, so simple and profound, was - pray for him, it's hard to hate when you're praying FOR someone.  And that belies my dichotomous nature.  I have been praying, then I acted the boor.

My prayers went something like this:  "Lord, please strike him down."  I'm ashamed to say that, yes, I prayed that - for a long time.  After talking to my uncle, "Lord, teach me what to pray for him."  A couple days ago my prayers began to be more, "Lord, open his eyes."  Then, "Lord help!  I don't know what the hell to pray!"

I had a three hour drive today, and during a lot of it, I found myself praying.  My prayers started out with just thanking God for giving me such an incredible grandmother and such a wonderful mother.  Of course, I spent some time being selfish, prayers like, "Lord, help me be as loving as Gram and mom."  Then something happened...

Now, I don't have one of those relationships with God where he talks to me sounding like James Earl Jones or Sean Connery, but I gotta say, I had a very distinct message come to me.  I was praying about this hatred within me, when I suddenly was overcome with the knowledge that I MUST forgive this person.  I'll be honest - I immediately said a few cuss words and refused, but as I drove, I realized that this is what The Christ would actually do.  This is what Jesus actually did.  He forgave.  And so, this is what I must do, lest my Christianity be even more of a sham than I've already made it.

I don't know how it will work from here.  I don't know how there will be reconciliation or how relationships will be healed across the board.  When all are ready, I trust that God will make that happen too.  But in the meantime, I sincerely take the example of Gram, the forgiveness I have witnessed my mother bestow, and try to emulate He who has forgiven this wretched being.  I forgive, Lord - help me forgive.