no-man’s land

So, I’ve wanted to share this for a while, but haven’t exactly known how to put it.  Fortunately Dear Friend Daniel called the other day, and I talked with him about it, and he didn’t seem particularly horrified (he never does, when will I learn this?), so I’m feeling a little braver.  Here goes.

So I’ve already shared that I had a hard time in my Spiritual Autobiography class.  Not because of the people in it, really.  Most were kind and open to hearing others’ experiences.  And there were a lot of different experiences, different views.  It went remarkably well, for the most part.

What was hard for me was being in a sort of in-between place.  I wasn’t like the two or three Christians in the room who were avidly involved in Campus Christian Fellowship, who prayed and sang songs to acoustic guitar out in Red Square.  But neither was I like Jamie.

Jamie and I have had classes together our last couple of quarters, and I really like her.  She’s funny and a little brash, and that usually goes a long way with me.  So much of our experience has been the same.  Deep involvement in the church.  Musical worship.  An intense internship with a charismatic church leader.  Broken relationships, an eventual stepping away from the culture, and a lot of questions as a result.  In fact, when we started discussing the details, I realized our paths had crossed twice before we knew each other: once when her group came up to Poulsbo, and once when our group visited her ministry down in Sacramento.  (I had always thought she looked familiar).

We talked about going and grabbing coffee at some point, talking about our experiences, in that loose way where coffee never actually will happen, but it’s fun to think about.  Things hit a bump when a woman in our workshop group asked us about our experiences in the church.  She’s Buddhist, but has a twenty-year-old son also attending Western.  He’s a Christian whose very involved in campus ministry, so naturally she was curious.

During the course of the conversation that followed, I saw a difference between me and Jamie: she’s as fervently anti-Christian as she once was fervently Christian.  She launched into why she’s not a Christian, why she wants absolutely nothing to do with Christianity, naming off several criticisms of the Christian viewpoint — criticisms I really couldn’t argue with, because they’re views that much of the mainstream evangelical movement embraces (i.e. anyone who hasn’t said the sinner’s prayer before he dies goes to hell, gay people are a threat, etc).

It was a tough conversation.  Whenever I would object, saying, “Not all Christians think that.  I don’t,” she would respond with, “Well, most do,” and she was right.  She was harsh, even angry, although I know she didn’t mean to be, and I can understand her reasons why.  She could tell I was feeling raw, and apologized after class.  I told her not to worry about it — the truth was, it really had very little to do with her at all.

I cried most of the way home.

It just sucks living an in-between existence.  I’ve lamented more than once to Justin that we’re too Christian for most, and not-Christian-enough for the rest.  I’ve had the same disappointing “We-don’t-fit-here” experience with churchy couples’ small groups that I had on this particular afternoon with Jamie.

I find it impossible to reject Jesus.  I also find it impossible to swallow the idea that if I’m a Christian, I do this thing, I don’t do that thing, I vote for this party, I exclude these people, and march contentedly in rank and file.  I don’t like the idea that as soon as I walk in the door, I have to surrender my ability to think, to question, to respond as an individual to what I read in the Bible.

This puts me in a tough spot.

It puts us in a tough spot, I should say.  Justin and I have tried a few times to go to church, because I’ve said, “We should try to go,” but each time, it’s done more damage than if we’d just stayed home, and it’s always me that says, “Let’s not do this again.”  Let me say: they’re good people.  And there are probably plenty of good things I could give and receive as part of that community.  I just can’t get past the weird culture, the group-think, the things that remind me of when I was so fervent, so sure of myself, and yet so completely in the wrong.  It’s kind of like when we first moved up here and I joined the worship team, and shortly found myself sitting at a piano bench singing songs with words that I would never actually use in everyday conversation, watching everyone raise their hands and close their eyes at the same time.  It’s a constant “twilight zone” kind of experience.  Yuck. 

At first, we did what was easiest.  We buried the issue as much as possible and just focused on being newly-marrieds.  Enter the Spiritual Autobiography class.  Oops.  Lots of things coming to the surface.

Near the end of the quarter, we sat down and talked about it for a few hours.  We realized we could probably bury this for a good ten years under the distractions of a happy marriage (and it has been one), but that we wouldn’t be living in good faith.  So it came down to it: do we believe in Jesus and his teachings?  (This was an actual point of discussion, by the way).  Yes?  Or on most days, yes?  Okay.  Well, what the hell do we do about it then?  For some reason we pulled out Thomas Merton and came to this passage:

There is no neutrality between gratitude and ingratitude.  Those who are not grateful soon begin to complain of everything.  Those who do not love, hate.  In the spiritual life there is no such thing as an indifference to love or hate.  That is why tepidity (which seems to be indifferent) is so detestable.  It is hate disguised as love.

Tepidity, in which the soul is neither ”hot nor cold” — neither frankyl loves nor frankly hates — is a state in which one rejects God and rejects the will of God while maintaining an exterior pretense of loving Him in order to keep out of trouble and save one’s supposed self-respect.  It is the condition that is soon arrived at by those who are habitually ungrateful for the graces of God.  A man who truly responds to the goodness of God, and acknowledges all that he has received, cannot possibly be a half-hearted Christian.  True gratitude and hypocrisy cannot exist together.  They are totally incompatible.  Gratitude of itself makes us sincere — or it if does not, then it is not true gratitude.

Gratitude, though, is more than a mental exercise, more than a formula of words.  We cannot be satisfied to make a mental note of things which God has done for us and then perfunctorily thank Him for favors received.

To be grateful is to recognize the Love of God in everything He has given us– and He has given us everything.  Every breath we draw is a gift of His love, every moment of existence is a grace, for it brings with it immense graces from Him.  Gratitude therefore takes nothing for granted, is never unresponsive, is constantly awakening to new wonder and to praise of the goodness of God.  For the grateful man knows that God is good, not by hearsay, but by experience.  And that is what makes all the difference.

(Yeah, any of you longtime blog buddies will recognize that last little bit, a favorite quote of mine). 

We realized that our distaste for mainstream Christian culture is not an excuse for burying our pursuit of faith beneath a pile of frustrations.  It won’t strengthen our marriage, won’t strengthen our character, won’t make us more like Jesus.  I hate the idea that I had let my relationship with church get confused with my relationship with God.  I hate that I let it cloud the grace I once saw so clearly.  I hate that I wasn’t grateful for each day as I once was.  It was an uncomfortable realization to come to, but it was a needed one. 

We’re hopeful that at some point we’ll find a capital-C church with like-minded folks where we can worship in good conscience.  For now, we have time set aside each Sunday for what we call our Guppy Time.  (In jest, I named our weekly time our Gratitude Unification Procedure, and it stuck).  We read the Bible, and are working through Soren Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling, and we talk about it.  It’s been good.  I haven’t felt in-between in a while now.  There are lots of things I’m still uncertain on, but I don’t wonder if we’re chasing faith authentically or not.  I’m learning to be grateful again.

I was telling Dan about all of this, and his only admonition was something I’ve already been thinking about: we need to be willing to be home for others, too.  I’m hoping at some point that we’ll have people join us in our living room.  I like the thought that other people who feel they don’t fit can find a place where they do.  We’ll see.  

Anyway, thanks for letting me share where we’re at.  For those of you who’ve been reading over the long haul and have chimed in with lots of “me-too’s” over the course of this messy journey, thanks also for being a home of sorts when face-to-face conversations with like-minded folks were rare.

A haven from my unbelief

I’ve been sitting in front of my computer for an hour or two tonight, staring yet again at a white screen and blinking cursor.  I’m supposed to be writing a 12-18 page essay regarding some aspect of my spiritual experience.

***

Why is it that I’m always called upon to say the most about something when I feel I have so little to say?  I’m not really even sure anymore how I came to be here, but here I am.  The details feel foggy.  Kind of like when you see someone on a talk show, and they’re asked about why they haven’t spoken to a family member in 10 years.  They would be hard pressed to remember what it was that ever drove them apart, what it was that started that ridiculous argument, but as soon as the anger receded, awkwardness took over rather heartily.  They never quite found the words to begin the relationship anew.

I’m like that lady trying to remember why she hasn’t spoken to her sister in a decade, except that in my own case I’m trying to remember why I can’t sit five minutes in a church without utter regret at having walked in the door.

Julie and I talk about it sometimes.  She says that where usually I’m so full of sure words, here I become halted, fumbling.  She’s so patient with me while I alternate between rambling and crying, badly attempting to put words to my thoughts.  The best thing she’s ever said to me: “I’m not worried about you.  You haven’t disappointed me here.  Believe it or not, you’re in a great place, an honest one.”

Gulp.  Honesty honestly feels like a bit more than I’ve got in me most days.  It’s too hard to remain vulnerable very long.  Too raw.

***

The internet being my favorite distraction from that nagging cursor, I surfed for a while.  It’s been so long since I’ve really been in church that I can’t really say what it is that’s hard for me.  So, I went back to my old intern stomping grounds (rather, my old stomping grounds’ website) and listened to some sermons.

Listened to about five minutes worth, anyway.  I can’t go too long without having the same gut reaction that I have, say, to watching Jesus Camp.  It’s not that people have inherently bad intentions.  On the contrary, their intentions are for good.  It’s just all too familiar, and yet, so unfamiliar after these years away. 

In kind of a “help!” moment I wrote Dan and asked him to tell me what it was like for him during the season he was away from church world before re-entering ministry.  (I’m kind of open to whatever thoughts people who have walked there can offer, by the way). 

I’m just wondering what you did during those years away from church to keep your faith alive, if anything.  I know you and Julie think this is a great place for me to be faith-wise because I’m asking so many questions and trying to do this thing for myself, but the truth is, I feel pretty lonely and wonder if I’m just totally off my rocker to be wondering the things I do about how to “live for Jesus.”  Even saying those words feels awkward and horrible.

I think the tears started to trickle right around this point.  Just around the moment I finished up my email, this song came on my Pandora, and while it may be complete coincidence, it still moved me in a way that I haven’t been moved in a long time.  Two minutes later, I bought it on I-tunes and it’s been on repeat ever since.  Alison Krauss sings:

A LIVING PRAYER

In this world I walk alone
With no place to call my home
But there’s one who holds my hand
The rugged road through barren lands
The way is dark, the road is steep
But He’s become my eyes to see
The strength to climb, my griefs to bear
The Savior lives inside me there

 In Your love I find release
A haven from my unbelief
Take my life and let me be
A living prayer, my God to Thee

In these trials of life I find
Another voice inside my mind
He comforts me and bids me live
Inside the love the Father gives

In Your love I find release
A haven from my unbelief
Take my life and let me be
A living prayer, my God to Thee

Take my life and let me be
A living prayer, my God to Thee

***

In her sweet voice, the words seemed to say:  It’s dark sometimes.  It’s lonely often.  And unbelief shows up for some of us far more often than moments of certainty.  Still, we offer what we can of ourselves, knowing it’s not enough – knowing, somehow, it might yet be.

For me, tonight, it’s enough.

Messy

I’m having a tough time in my Spiritual Autobiography class.  I’m not exactly sure what I was thinking.  (Actually, I do know what I was thinking.  It was something foolish like, “Yeah.  I’m ready to revisit this.”  That was a bit of a miscalculation on my part.) 

Since returning to school this past September, I haven’t had too many cases of anxiously staring at a blank white screen, but the number has definitely gone up in recent weeks.  I look back at the old blog posts and think that things would have aligned much more nicely had I taken this class a few years ago, when writing about my spiritual life was what I did for fun.

Now… “Meh” would be the most accurate term for how I feel about trying to find good words for the particular place I’m at in my journey.  It’s one thing to fling my thoughts out into cyberspace, allowing them to be read by whoever cares to visit more than once.  It’s quite another to be vulnerable on the page, and then sit in an arbitrarily selected workshopping group, nervously reading out loud to three or four blank faces who may or may not have any idea what it is I’m talking about.  Some kinds of hangups only make sense to those who have been there themselves, at least, I suspect this is the case most of the time.

Meh, indeed.

When I mentioned to Daniel that I was going to be taking a Spiritual Autobiography class, he couldn’t have been more pleased. “Let me know when the book’s coming out,” he quipped.

“Yeah, I don’t know about that.  I haven’t even figured out which way is up yet when it comes to all of this,” I said. “It’s all… messy…” I said, trailing off into defeated silence. Over the last few years, “messy” has become a catch-all term for what’s left of the faith I used to know.  (Perhaps you’ve noticed.) 

“Ah. There’s your title. ‘Which Way’s Up’ seems like a great place to start.”

I wonder if he’s always been this comfortable with uncertainty. It very nearly makes me want to slap him. Then again, it’s nice to have someone in your life I can tell all the horrible things I think sometimes. He never cringes, much as I would expect a pastor to.  I told him once that I wasn’t sure if I was really a Christian anymore.  The conversation continued no differently than if I had told him that I like pepperoni pizza.

I love him for this.  It’s this kind of permission that helps me keep trying to find a place for faith in my life — somewhere I can be a thinking person and a graced one.

Still… I’m not quite sure what to say.  At 27, I haven’t come close to anything resembling a landing place yet.  An autobiography of any kind, much less a spiritual one, seems like an exercise in futility, an exercise in ascribing significance to events as they’re happening.  I don’t have a good lens for this yet.  I haven’t really moved past that moment of finding myself on the ground, looking around to see who pulled the carpet out from underneath me.  

I’m not sure how to.

on discovering England

As I’ve been pondering and wrestling and reading emails (thank you!) and pondering and wrestling some more, a single thought has entered my brain several times regarding this journey I am on, and regarding my particular place along it:

I am discovering England.

It’s been years since I read it, but at the very beginning of Chesterton’s Orthodoxy,  he writes:

“I have always had a fancy for writing a romance about an English yachtsman who slightly miscalculated his course and discovered England under the impression that it was a new island in the South Seas.  I always find, however, that I am either too busy or too lazy to write this fine work, so I may as well give it away for the purposes of philosophical illustration.”

– Just so you know, GK Chesterton’s voice, in my head, always sounds like John Cleese of Monty Python.  God, I love English accents. –

“…I have a peculiar reason for mentioning the man in a yacht, who discovered England.   For I am that man in a yacht.  I discovered England.”

“…If this book is a joke it is a joke against me.  I am the man who with the utmost daring discovered what had been discovered before.  If there is an element of farce in what follows, the farce is at my own expense; for this book explains how I fancied I was the first to set foot in Brighton and then found I was the last.  It recounts my elephantine adventures in pursuit of the obvious.  No one can think my case more ludicrous than I think it myself; no reader here can accuse me here of trying to make a fool of him: I am the fool of this story, and no rebel shall hurl me from my throne.  I freely confess all the idiotic ambitions of the end of the nineteenth century.  I did, like all the other solemn little boys, try to be in advance of the age.  Like them I tried to be some ten minutes in advance of the truth.  And I found that I was eighteen hundred years behind it.  I did strain my voice with a painfully juvenile exaggeration in uttering my truths.  And I was punished in the fittest and funniest way, for I have kept my truths: but I have discovered not that they were not truths, but simply that they were not mine.  When I fancied that I stood alone I was really in the ridiculous position of being backed up by all of Christendom.  Heaven forgive me, that I did try to be original; but I only succeeded in inventing all by myself an inferior copy of the existing traditions of civilized religion.  The man from the yacht thought he was the first to find England; I thought I was the first to find Europe.  I did try to found a heresy of my own; and when I had put the last touches to it, I discovered that it was orthodoxy.

It may be that somebody will be entertained by the account of this happy fiasco.  It might amuse a friend or an enemy to read how I gradually learnt from the truth of some stray legend or from the falsehood of some dominant philosophy, things that I might have learnt from my catechism — if I had ever learnt it.  There may or may not be some entertainment in reading how I found at last in an anarchist club or a Babylonian temple what I might have found in the nearest parish church.  If any one is entertained by learning how the flowers of the field or the phrases in an omnibus, the accidents of politics or the pains of youth came together in a certain order to produce a certain conviction of Christian orthodoxy, he may possibly read this book.  But there is in everything a reasonable division of labor.  I have written the book, and nothing on earth would induce me to read it.”

Ah.  I love reading this man!

It may be that I’m walking a slightly similar route, only backwards.  I started my search for truth at the nearest parish, and orthodoxy was far from what I found.  So many distractions and add-ons; so many religious-y things that had little to do with Jesus and how he said a life is to be lived.  In a lot of ways, I’m unlearning the catechism I was taught.  Trying to strip all that away and come at this thing fresh. 

No, I won’t be original.  But perhaps I’ll have discovered something new, at least new to me.

talking about doubt

I received an email from a pastor today asking if I’m a worship leader.  He’s looking for one at his church down in California.

Hmmm.

It’s weird when the old world and the new world collide like that.  Whatever the old world and new are, I suppose.  They blend together in ways that are hard to define with any clarity.  I just know the Christian I was yesterday would be scandalized at meeting me today.

I know I’ve been fairly silent on the subject of faith lately.  It used to be what made writing here so enjoyable for me, and also what helped me find so many connections with others I felt were similar somehow.  Now, when it comes to faith, I feel like I don’t have anything valuable to say.  Doubt — now that, I can talk about.  But most days I feel too ashamed.

I once was on a path toward full-time ministry.  Sprouting wings seems more likely these days.

I haven’t stopped praying, not yet — but most of the time I really wonder if there’s anyone on the other end of all those words.  My husband has had to take over our nightly moments of prayer, because I just can’t do it, at least not right now.  Even The Lord’s Prayer is too hard to get through.

(There.  I’ve said it.  I guess today is a day in which I’m not too ashamed to be honest for once).

Justin says that a similar thing happened in his own life several years ago.  There was what he called a “stripping down” of his faith to nearly nothing, to the point where he wondered if it might be dead or gone completely.  A stripping down of all the traditions, all the usual arguments, all the “American Christianity” we’ve both grown up with — til he felt like it was just him and God.  Then, piece by piece, his faith was restored.  It was nothing impressive compared to the stalwart, certain-of-everything Christian he was before; it was more messy, more shaky… but at least it was his own.  He seems to think that things will resolve themselves with time, and is so supportive and understanding of where I’m at right now, it’s ridiculous.

(I find myself thankful at the moment that I’m not in ministry currently, and that I’m not married to anyone in ministry.  Could you imagine what hot water I’d be in if my job or my marriage depended on being certain of all this?)

I take hope in Justin’s words, but for me, there’s a fear hand-in-hand with them: what if things are stripped down to the point where there’s nothing left?  What if there’s never a point where I’m able to make the leaps that traditional Christianity seems to be asking of me, where I’m able to be at peace rather than be nagged by what seem to be great contradictions?  (i.e. God’s great judgments and killing sprees in the Old Testament vs. God-is-Love in the New Testament; the Church’s treatment of homosexuals; end-times prophecy, etc.).  I’ve never really had a problem with Jesus — the Virgin Birth and the Atonement of Sins and the Resurrection are not huge problems for me.  Grace still seems to make sense.  It’s some of the other stuff that throws me, now that I haven’t been indoctrinating myself with it each Sunday.  If there’s anything that has been drilled into me, though, it’s that faith has to be swallowed whole to count.  I don’t know if I can do that.

I can’t help but feel like I’m letting God down somehow, that this need to better understand things comes across as impertinence or something.  I don’t mean to sound like I expect to be able to fully comprehend Truth in order to try to live by it.  I guess I just don’t want to live out my faith in bad faith, that’s all.  And to continue without at least admitting that troubling questions exist for me would be to live in bad faith.

So.  That’s where I’m at these days.  Anyone been there?  Shoot me an email, we’ll talk. 

daily bread, etc.

Ooh, boy, am I groggy.

To make sure I never get into a regular sleep pattern, my job switches me from a week of 5:30 or 6 am – noon shifts to a week of 2 pm -7:30 shifts.  Ack.  This is my afternoons week.  I always sleep too late and accomplish nothing at all til my shift starts.

I guess I should enjoy it while I can.  Soon, things are going to look quite different.

Right now I’m in that annoying place where you know a whole bunch of change is right around the corner, but you can’t do a thing about it at present.  I know we’ll be moving in approximately three weeks.  Can’t pack yet.  I know we need to find an apartment.  Can’t look in earnest until Saturday.  Our car is on its last legs, but we won’t be ready to get a new(er) one til September, so we’re hoping she lasts.  School starts at the end of September, and apart from the “oh-crap-I-haven’t-done-this-in-four-years-what-was-I-thinking” type of thoughts, there are very real scheduling concerns.  It’s a possibility that if things don’t fall into place just so, J and I will have fully opposite schedules where he leaves for work at 5 am and I don’t get home from my job until 8:30 pm, taking our classes at Western at different times, etc.  I’m not a fan of this arrangement.

I know that in all honesty, most likely things will work out just fine, with little adjustments here and there.  But still, it seems I’d rather worry than trust.  I like to have all the details nailed down, and when I can’t secure them, I feel all out of sorts and get overwhelmed easily.

I was talking with a girl at work last week about training into that new position at work.  She dragged her heels big-time at having to stick people in the arm, and really had to be pushed to take on the new role.  I asked her whether she liked it now (she does).  But she said she really prayed about it hard.  She prayed that God would steady her hands, that he would help her remember what to do.  A few months later, she looks like a pro out there.

It was just an off-hand comment made by someone who is much better than I am at speaking of God openly.  (She’s also much better than most at being sincere when she says it).  But her words stuck with me.  I wrote her a little note and thanked her for reminding me that God even cares about little things like us learning to put a needle in the right vein.

*****

In letting go of “youth group” faith, I let go of a lot of the emotionalism, much of the spiritual superstition that I had long believed was part of being an “on-fire Christian.”  (I chuckle to myself here at my keyboard as I wonder what this sounds like to an outsider.  What a poor choice of words.  An on-fire Christian is a horrific thought.  Stop, drop and roll, etc.). 

Faith has become much simpler, and much more complicated at the same time.  I don’t miss thinking that if I could just get things a little more together, God would be more happy with me.  I don’t miss looking for all these mysterious signs that I was doing God’s will for me, forever fearing that I might not be.  I don’t miss being in The Club, saying all the right spiritual words and having all the expected things to say right there in my pocket.  I don’t miss trying to please everybody with a spiritual title, thinking that somehow that was pleasing to God. 

I do, however, miss the constant (even if sometimes misdirected) awareness of God that came from having so many of my activities centered around “church stuff.”  I miss having him on my heart, praying in the car for opportunities to show grace that day.  I miss turning to him first when I have a need, rather than simply worrying for weeks at a time until I remember God, until I finally think to pray.  (Most of the time, it’s Justin who prays first, which always humbles me).

Letting new faith grow where the ashes of my youth group faith still lie and smolder– that has not been easy.  I don’t want to go back to the Christian I used to be, but I’ve been hesitant and scared to do the hard work of figuring out how, exactly, to follow Christ in the here and now.  It’s been… awkward.  Halting at best.  Immobile at worst.  I’ve never felt less good at being a Christian.

I don’t know exactly what to do with that, but there.  At least I’ve said it.

*****

Give us this day our daily bread.  Today I remind myself that God knows my heart.  He knows my needs, he sees beyond today’s concerns, and he is incredibly faithful.  I remind myself that he actually cares about little things like finding a good place to live and having time together to play and rest.  Even though the words feel painfully awkward, I pray for help.  I pray for guidance.  I pray to be a blessing.

Regarding our little family, he cared enough to bring the two of us together — I’m sure he’s not going to leave us on our own now.  He will provide what we need when we need it (and, I remind myself, he gets to decide).

If I can keep this in mind all day today (or even five minutes into my shift), it will be a miracle.  But I’m going to try for at least 51%.

yesterday’s deep gladness

The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.

–Frederick Buechner

*****

Hadn’t mentioned that I was back playing and singing again because I wasn’t sure if I would stick with it.  It’s easier to keep some falterings and hesitations and back-and-forth-ness quiet.  It’s a little less embarrassing, I guess.

It isn’t all that earth-shattering.  For some, it would look merely like the decision to pursue a hobby or not pursue it; nothing more, and nothing less.  I suspect there might be a little more riding it on it.  Heavy words like Identity and Vocation and Potential come to mind whenever I think about it.  Which makes it both a scarier and an easier decision to make.

Justin and I attend a great church here in Bellingham.  Well, kind of.  We sometimes do.  We started off going almost every Sunday, but these days we’re not so consistent.  If one of us worked late, or if we’ve had a week that’s low on rest and low on connection between us, or if we’re just simply feeling lazy, we stay home and read Philip Yancey together.  Much as I appreciate the church and the people who serve it, my favorite Sabbaths are those spent reading out loud in bed.  For some reason, I feel closer to God when I’m reading the experiences of those who struggle to connect with God than I do sitting in church, surrounded by people who speak of him in such certain terms.  It’s like they had coffee together at Starbucks on the way into service or something.

I don’t experience God this way.  The relationship part of our relationship is glimpses only.  Sunsets, unexpected grace, something good following my gut-wrenching anxiety over something, my husband taking my hands and bowing his head and saying, “Hey, God.  Um, we need help.”  The gratitude is there; the awareness is there; “Wow”; and then it fades into the background again. 

Apparently I’m still not up for the Faith-Filled Christian of the Year Award.  All I can say is that I’ve gotten better at seeing those quick glimpses, gotten better at simply standing there for a moment, jaw hanging open, eyes wide.  ”Wow.” 

(Sometimes we have to measure our Christian growth in millimeters.  If you’re like me, I highly advise it).

During the time when we were going almost every Sunday, I started trying to get back involved with the musical worship team.  It was really hard to get things moving — took months.  My emails inquiring about any openings for pianists were swallowed into some internet vortex, but I kept pushing through until finally I made contact with the necessary folks.  It’s only now that I wonder if I should have yielded to the initial difficulty in even making contact.

When I last called Bellingham my home four years ago, I played keys and sang my face off.  I loved every moment I could spend with those folks.  We recorded a few albums together.  I grew phenomenally as a musician and as a worshiper.  I felt that ever-elusive “fit” that I now ache about not feeling.  Everywhere I looked, there was an opportunity to be a part.  Open doors.  With people who, quite frankly, were way cooler and way more talented than I was (am).  Meeting a need?  Check.  Deeply glad about it?  Check.  I was in the right place vocationally, and had good relationships with those I served beside.

The two-car-accidents-in-four-months saga began, however, and the rest is history.  I moved home, healed up after a while, entered an ill-advised internship with a pastor who abused our trust and deeply let us down in the end, and quit going to church for about a year.  There were various starts and stops, where I’d try to get involved again, would freak out about how awkward it all felt, and then make a bunch of apologies to people who had the bad judgment to trust me with something.  I’d feel horrible, but relieved. 

The starts and stops were of brief duration.  Dear Friend Daniel (a pastor friend who had the grace to stick with me at some of my messiest faith-moments) said that things had changed; rather than begging to be a part of the team, I now preferred to stay just off the radar.  I had been too wrapped up in my own junk and hurts to notice it before, but Dear Friend Daniel was right.

So I get up here, start feeling relatively comfortable being on speaking terms with church again, and want to contribute.  What poor decisions sometimes follow good intentions!  I met with the church’s very-cool worship pastor and auditioned for the team.  Told him part of my story because I wanted him to know what he was getting.  He was okay with it, told me I was welcome to be a part, but that he wanted me to go home and pray about it.  

I went home and didn’t pray about it.  I figured I’d done enough praying about it when I was praying that someone would answer my emails in the next year or so.  I wrote him the next day and said, in effect, see you soon.

That, in retrospect, was stupid.  I felt a vague sense that I was cheating a little, but was so excited about playing again, about being a part again, that I didn’t pay it much attention.

I’ve been paying for it ever since.  Early in the morning and late at night, when I’m too focused on trying to fall asleep to have my filter up and running, I have a really strong sense that I’m not where I should be; that I rushed the process.  I’m up there on a stage in front of about 1,500 people.  I’m singing words about Jesus that I never would actually say about Jesus in normal conversation.  I’m sometimes singing things that don’t reflect my experience.  (And up on stage, it’s not like you get to pick and choose which ones you feel are honest for you.  That privilege is reserved for the hidden). 

I’m singing like we had coffee together on my way in that morning.  We didn’t.

I feel like a fraud.  I often struggled with feeling like a fraud before, because it was always so hard to keep my motives in check.  When someone would say, “That was just beautiful, you have a lovely voice,” I had a tendency to agree with them, although I’d probably say something trying to prove how humble I was that in the end just made us both feel awkward.  But this is different, a whole other kind of faking it.  This is me acting like there’s a connection that isn’t there when I’m up there playing and singing the notes. 

It’s true that I once was very able to experience God and feel like I was communicating with God by singing songs.  It’s just not the case anymore, at least, not consistently, and at most, very rarely in the environment that a Sunday morning church service provides.  It’s just making noises these days.

The truth is that rather than being brave, trying to forge out a new way to serve God’s family, I went back to where my old deep gladness used to be.  I went back to the way I used to serve, and the people I used to serve.  I went back to who I was four years ago.  And scary as the thought is to me, that person isn’t there anymore.  As soon as I spent some time outside, I was forever changed.  I don’t pray too often, but one of my biggest requests of God is that I’ll stay changed – that I’ll never go back to life as an insider.

People in huge churches have no shortage of people to lead them musically into a time of focused worship.  There’s no ads desperately seeking people who would like to serve on stage.  In fact, there’s a waiting list.  There’s no shortage of church people to do church things.  But I know there are people who are far from church, or maybe just far from church inclusion, but perhaps not far from God, that I could at least help to feel affirmed and cheered on in their own millimeter-by-millimeter faith. 

We’ve had people in our home this past month who are experiencing messiness in varying degrees, and Justin and I have enjoyed making efforts to put them at ease and make them feel safe and welcome.  It usually comes in the form of eating together, and playing some games, and talking.  My God, is it a deep gladness for me.  And my God, what a deep need it is for some folks.  The doubters.  The oddballs.  The failures.  The fuck-bomb droppers.  Those who haven’t had coffee with God in years, if ever.

I needed it, and I wouldn’t have made it but for a precious few.  I still need it, and probably would feel like the loneliest failure at faith in the world were it not for my dear husband and his simple, sweet, honest prayers that make me feel like maybe talking to God isn’t so complicated or so hard.

If I had the choice between the two, I’d rather spend my time on the one that feels honest, the one that feels natural, the one that never wakes me up anxious.

I wrote the powers that be and let them know I would not be continuing, and a lot of why, and that I was sorry.  One wrote back and said he wasn’t sure he was ready to say, “Okay, don’t continue.”  He’s a really cool dude, and I immediately knew 1) that I’d meet with him as he asked me to, if only because he’s one of the Christians who seems to get it, whatever “it” is, and I like talking to him; and 2) that I’d need to figure out how to explain all this to him.  Thus, the above.  We’ll see what comes of it.

If you think of it, say my name out loud to God and ask him to help me over the next days.  These may seem like really trite matters, and they probably are, but these millimeters of growth are important ones, expensive ones.  I wouldn’t trade the new way of looking at my faith that has come with these last few years for anything, but there is a tension that comes with it, and I get discouraged sometimes. 

Everything is a lot less certain than it was before.  But at least it’s honest, or at least as honest as I know how to be.  I’m hoping that counts somehow. 

square peg, round hole

So, hi.  Me again.  After quite the hiatus this past several several months, I think I need to be writing on a slightly more regular basis again.  I’m sure it won’t be anywhere near the amount of words I used to produce, but this is probably all for the best.  My goal?  To purge my oft-overwrought little brain via typing at least once a week.

J and I were talking this morning, and he had this wonderful bit of insight: “I think you might be like me that way.  If you’re not writing, you go to a dark place.”

Justin will often say that he has a lot to learn about being a husband, but the truth is that when it comes to being a husband to me, he’s got a whole lot more figured out that he realizes.  In many things, he knows what’s best for me even when I haven’t quite come around yet, and while this sometimes drives me crazy, I’m glad for it.  Then again, I have my ways of helping too, i.e., “Justin, I know there was an extra hamburger patty left on the Foreman, but we both know you’re going to regret making that a triple-decker.  Eat that much beef, and I’m pretty sure you’re going to be quite ill in about an hour.”  (Justin meekly removes the third patty from his already-huge burger and sits down with me to watch Discovery Channel over dinner).

Ah, the glories of married life.

In this no writing = dark place thing, he’s right.  We’re doing awesome.  Seriously, truly, we’re still living the wonder that is the honeymoon phase, which we hope to continue for, oh, I don’t know, about seventy years.  I LOVE being married to this man.  But life has a way of trying to balance things out.  You know.  Not TOO much ridiculous happiness, or you’ll seriously start to annoy pretty much every person within a five-mile radius of you.

I’m going through one of those I-don’t-really-fit-well-anywhere seasons.  They aren’t rare for me.  I can be friend-LY with just about anyone, and find a certain amount of enjoyment even in that.  But true friendship, real relationship, proves a bit elusive.  I’m an odd breed.  Fortunately, Justin is a similar kind of rare breed, so we get on very well.  I’m blessed in this regard.  I may be lonely for friendship at times, but I’m never in want of love and devotion from my husband, my closest of friends.

I had a gut feeling that building relationships with people was different when you’re married, and I was right.  Friendships that I developed when I lived up here in Bellingham before — our group of girls that hung out constantly – well, we’ve all changed in the past few years.  Mainly, we’ve all gotten married and moved on.  ”Getting together for coffee” is always somewhere on the horizon’s agenda, but the truth is, we aren’t really sure if we’re all that interested in making it happen.  We’re busy.  We’re different.  It’s a little awkward for reasons no one can pinpoint, truth be told.

Justin and I go to a small group from church with three other couples, and it’s good, but I know it will be a fight for me to continue going until I’m comfortable.  I struggle not to be stand-offish sometimes, which doesn’t exactly help me in my quest to make friends.  I never was very good at developing friendships with other girls, being far more comfortable as the token girl with a bunch of guy friends.  Either that, or the friends I did make were non-girly girls.  It’s a little different when it’s a group of married folks and we all split off by gender.  I’m a bit afraid that at any moment someone is going to suggest a scrapbooking party.  I know that there is potential for deeper connection, that we probably have more in common than simply being Mrs.’s, but I have a hard time letting my guard down.

This probably has more to do with the fact that it’s a group of church people than anything.  My mentor/pastor, Dan, had a moment of clarity when were gabbing away at Hot Shots Coffee a while back.  He said that ever since everything happened with my internship and I spent time away from ministry-world, I prefer to stay just off the radar…. I like to submerge for a while and disappear when I’m feeling out of place.  

He’s probably right.  I found out very quickly that I preferred to keep my guard up, rather than letting myself need all that approval again.

(I miss Daniel.  He understood Justin in general and me in particular in a way that few do, especially as regards our faith and our struggles to make it authentic.  I would kill for a coffee date, I really would).

The truth is that I’m just not sure how much I can truthfully share.  I am a messy Christian these days.  I admit it’s not easy for me to be a part of Christian community.  I see who I used to be all over the place, and sometimes, I don’t like what I see. 

Insider, “Christianese” language that I used to speak so freely now openly grates on my nerves.  I wonder if any of us even know what we mean anymore.  I’m quite sure that outsiders don’t.  A month or so ago some folks sitting behind us in church were being extremely demonstrative and loudly displaying their speaking-in-tongues prowess during the musical worship time.  They may have been genuine, but I was so uncomfortable, I was fighting tears a good chunk of the service.  I was so irritated that I found myself unable to turn around and shake hands during the meet and greet.  I sat there, angry, arms crossed, shaken to find the world I’ve tried so hard to get away from sitting right behind me.  I also found myself shaken at how ungracious I can be toward people who love Jesus just like I do — how judgmental and arrogant and self-righteous I can be in my own frustration.  It’s amazing how things you used to say and do all the time can bother you so much.

Other than this incident, however, I’ve found the church a very safe place.  The pastor’s messages are disarmingly authentic and personal, and we’ve very nearly found a home.  In a moment of courage or weakness, I’m not sure which, I met with the worship pastor about possibly being a part of their worship ministry there.  I didn’t want there to be any surprises, so I told him what I basically wrote above, and he seemed very accepting of me where I’m at and not at all afraid of having a messy Christian involved with his ministry.  He encouraged me to “be curious about how God can use the messy parts of your life.”  It was well put, and it has stuck with me ever since.

But, OH!  How I am going to struggle if I am going to stay with it.  In one arena, I was a part of a discussion about outreach, possibly in bars, and I wanted to flee the building. 

Rather than talking about how to effectively connect with people, I heard all about the depravity of people who were constantly in bars, how dark, how meaningless, how misled, how sick it all is, etc. etc. etc.  If there’s anything I struggle with, it’s this I’m-saved-so-life-is-great/you’re-unsaved-so-how-meaningless-and-pathetic-your-life-must-be comparison.  I have a hard time when the comparison is on the differences in our behavior, not the difference of what it means to have Jesus in your heart. 

To be human is to experience darkness, depravity, meaninglessness, and lostness.  Period.  Following Christ is no fix-all for what we experience as human beings.  We’re still who we are, even as we’re being made more like Christ.  We still struggle.  We still are broken people getting put back together.  The difference is not our perfection, but the grace we’ve received through Christ, the hope we have of God working even in our messed-up-ness.  So to distinguish ourselves from the “lost” in their lostness rather than identifying with them seems, well, off.  Not only off, but extremely ineffective since it’s nearly impossible to strike up a meaningful conversation when you’re being condescending. 

And, of course, when you’re looking around to make sure no one sees you in a bar.  (I struggled with whether or not to tell them I spent St. Patrick’s Day evening in one, having a beer with “the lost” as they downed car bombs.)

So… this is the knot of jumbled thought in my mind these days.  Is it worth the struggle to be a former-insider-who-thinks-and-feels-more-like-an-outsider-who-wants-to-be-a-part-but-doesn’t-want-to-go-back-to-being-an-insider?  Most days, I think yes.  The last few days, it’s been back and forth.  It may sound dumb to wrestle over this, but man, have I been wrestling. 

If you pray, please pray for me.  I know some of this is brought on by my own standoffishness and stubbornness, but I’m a bit lonely and could use the encouragement of a kindred spirit or two.  Or, lots of phone calls from far-away kindreds.

      

No Perfect People Allowed, Part 45: God’s Fairness

God the Artist amazes me.  It rained and showered and blustered at intervals today (which I am getting a little sick of, truth be told), but all day long as we looked out our windows, we just saw rainbow after rainbow after rainbow.  We might get snow by week’s end (sigh), but there’s a brave, tiny daffodil that just bloomed two mornings ago in my flowerbed, whispering a tiny reminder that spring can’t be far off.  I’m glad.

***

Okay, back into what will probably be the last little discussion on this book that is rocking my brain.  Again, if you have any interest in helping people bridge the gap from the culture we live in to finding faith in Christ, I can’t recommend it enough.  You guys know my story well enough to know that I’ve fought cynicism where the church is concerned, but I am finding hope and encouragement within these pages — like there might just be a home for outsiders, a place where people can show up as-is and be embraced, just as Jesus would embrace them.

As I mentioned before, the mother-load question that people in our generation often ask of us is this: “How can you say Jesus is the only way to God?” which has a question buried just below its surface: “How can it be fair that Jesus is the only way?”  To ignore the question-beneath-the-question and simply enter into a debate with a person is risky at best, foolhardy at worst.  You might win the argument, but come off so arrogant that you lose the person (A cocky, know-it-all Christian?  Say it ain’t so).

This question of what-happens-to-those-who-have-never-heard-of-Christ is one that I was never comfortable with, try as I might to come to terms with what I’d been taught.  It was so black and white — you’ve either said the sinner’s prayer or you haven’t, you’re either saved or you’re not saved when you get into that car accident on your way home from church. 

Now, please hear me, I’m not saying that there are no absolutes.  (I can hear people wondering if I’ve gone on some relativistic rampage).  I’ve just been challenged in recent weeks to believe that God and God alone determines those absolutes, and that maybe Christian tradition hasn’t had it right all along after all, when we look at the Bible.

The measure that I was always taught for a person’s faith was whether or not they had said the sinner’s prayer and asked Jesus into their heart.  No prayer, no digs.

Here are some of the points from John Burke’s sermon on God’s fairness… I feel stupid for not considering these thoughts earlier, but here’s to new perspective.  To be truthful, I’m still processing, still wrapping my head around what this is saying.  I’m not going to present it as gospel itself.  But I do know that it’s challenging me to take another look at the Christian tradition I grew up with.  Some of the ideas that were presented as hard-and-fast Biblical truth — ideas that I never questioned except quietly in the back of my mind — well, they aren’t holding up.

Ultimately, we don’t know exactly how God will judge others.  We don’t know their hearts.  But there are certain things we know and don’t know from Scripture, according to Burke.

1.  Scripture claims that God is the God of all people, and that all people know about God simply through nature.  We also know when we’re screwing it up — our consciences tell us.  So no one has an excuse for outright ignoring or rejecting God.  God looks at the heart, not religion, of every person.  (2 Chronicles 16:9; Romans 1:16-2:16).

2.  There will be people in heaven made right with God, who never heard the name of Jesus.  (Why did this thought never cross my mind?  All the heroes of the faith who preceded Christ… are they S.O.L.?)  Abraham, Noah, Rahab the prostitute, were all made right with God by faith, which Jesus acknowledged (Hebrews 11 & Romans 4:16-17, John 8:56). If Jesus is the only way, then God took the faith they placed in the knowledge revealed to them (recognizing their need for God’s forgiveness and leadership), and God looked ahead to Jesus’ death on the cross on their behalf, applying Jesus’ sacrifice to them.  (Again, it’s not such a leap for me to believe that God can apply Jesus’ sacrifice 2,000 years ago to my life.  Can he not apply it to others as well?)  Scripture tells us that people from every tribe, tongue and ethnic group will be in heaven — not because they lived a good life or were sincere, but only because of God’s gift of forgiveness and relationship made possible through Christ — accessed by faith.  Burke says, “So I do not know exactly how God deals with those who have never heard of Jesus but are humbly seeking God, but I’m confident that everyone has an opportunity to choose life with God (Genesis 12:1-3, John 1:7-12, Acts 14:16-17, 17:30-31).”

3.  God cannot be unfair.  God looks at the heart and will not unfairly judge a person because of lack of knowledge or cultural or religious conditioning.  God will not send anyone to hell for these things — it would have to be because they truly did not want God’s leadership in their life.  God will let them have their way in this case.  Really, we shouldn’t worry about God’s fairness, since we can’t accurately judge the heart of another, or play judge of the fairness of God.  Jesus continually talked about how surprised people will be when all is said and done (Matthew 7:21-23)… we should take that into account.  It may be that grace is much bigger than we’ve sometimes allowed ourselves to believe.   

4.  Finally, God wants people to find confidence assurance that they are right with him, so he sent Christ.  As John wrote in Scripture, “I write these things to you who believe in the name of the Son of God so that you may know that you have eternal life (1 John 5:13).”  God wants everyone to know with confidence that they can approach him without fear of condemnation because of what he’s done through Christ.  Scripture is clear — that Jesus is the only provision God has made to justly forgive us for doing our will rather than his — so if God sees the heart of a person who never heard of Jesus but is seeking to be forgiven and made right with God by faith, and God somehow does for her what he did for Abraham — it is only through what Jesus did on the cross.

He closes with this thought: “Finally, the important question for you and me is not, ‘What about other religions?’ or ‘How will God judge those who have never heard?’  We really don’t know.  But I promise this, he cares more about them than you do.  Christ gave his life for them; I doubt any of us care for those people that much, so rest assured that God will be more than fair if he didn’t spare his own Son for their sake.  The better question is ‘What will I do with the claims of Jesus now that I’ve heard?’ “

This is why we share our stories of finding grace… this is why we point people to Christ.  In Christ we have confident assurance that we are right with God.  Jesus did what we all demanded, that God show himself to us… and he revealed himself as God of the humble, broken, dependent soul.  The more we speak with authority on what we do know — what God has done in our broken lives — and admit our limitedness and God’s sovereignty on the things we don’t — who exactly is right with God and who isn’t — the more we remove barriers to people finding that same grace and truth in their own lives. 

I’m learning to be perfectly okay admitting to someone that there are things that I don’t know.  I know enough about God — through Scripture and through what he’s done in my own life — to trust him with the rest of it.  I’m sure he’s got it under control, and I’m at peace with that.  I’d like to be a person who helps other people be at peace with it, too.

My job is done here.  Wrestle a little.  And shoot me a line with your thoughts if you’re so inclined.

Blessings, S.

part 3: aren’t they all the same?

Chapter seven goes on to say that we must be able to help people understand the world’s religions because “most everyone assumes they say the same thing.  We have found it very important to diffuse the accusation of narrow-minded intolerance by giving credence to the similarities they do have and explaining the key differences.  Some Christians act as if there is no trace of truth in the world’s religions because they do not proclaim Christ, but this view is not biblical.”

(Personal note: while reading this, I realized that before helping to educate others on the key similarities and differences in the world’s religions… perhaps it would be good for me to understand them first.  That’s the beauty of this book.  It is helping me to understand the gospel more clearly, even as it shows me ways to help others toward faith.)

Burke goes on to relay Paul’s words to the men of Athens (Acts 17).  Rather than zealously condemning these people for their many idols to Greek gods, he walked around among the idols, until he found a trace of truth.  He affirmed them and said to them, “Men of Athens!  I see that in every way you are very religious.  For as I walked around and looked carefully at your objects of worship, I even found an altar with this inscription: TO AN UNKNOWN GOD.  Now what you worship as something unknown, I am going to proclaim to you (Acts 17:23-24).”

Burke makes this point, which I think is worth trying to wrap our heads around: “God has been at work behind the scenes in all cultures, and we can find remains of truth everywhere to build bridges of faith in Christ.”

Now, on to what the world’s religions do say.  Rather than butcher what I read, I’m going to provide an excerpt from one of his sermons on the subject.  It’s a long chunk, but I think you’ll find it worth it:

Without a doubt, there are common moral truths taught in all the great religions of the world.  Mortimer Adler, editor of the Encyclopedia Britannica, who was not a Christian, wrote a book called Truth in Religion.  In it he states, “In spite of the possibility that all religious faiths in the world may be factually false, or that only one may be factually true, nevertheless … there is a common core of sound morality and prescriptive truth in all or most of the major religions.”  And many Christians don’t realize this even though it is revealed in the Bible.  When people say, “Aren’t they all basically saying the same thing?” I think this is what people mean.  Scripture tells us that God has written his moral law on our hearts: “Even when Gentiles, who do not have God’s written law, instinctively follow what the law says, they show in their hearts that they know right from wrong.  They demonstrate that God’s law is written within them, for their own consciences either accuse them or tell them they are doing what is right (Romans 2:14-15 NLT).”  If this is true and there is a Moral Law Giver — that’s the most reasonable explanation of the similarities we see throughout every culture and religion.  And so, in most all of the major world religions, we see evidence of this similar moral law that God has written in our hearts, which comes out in our religions.  So in this aspect of declaring moral law, they appear to be saying the same truths.  In fact, here’s a summary of what they all basically say morally — taken from moral laws given in ancient China, Babylon, Anglo Saxon culture, American Indian culture, Judaism, Christianity, ancient Egyptian, Greek, and Hindu culture:

Don’t do harm to another human by what you do or say (the Golden rule)

Honor your father and mother

Be kind toward brothers and sisters, children, and the elderly

Do not have sex with another’s spouse

Be honest in all your dealings (don’t steal)

Do not lie

Care for those weaker or less fortunate

Dying to self is the path to life

Now, let’s take a time-out and see what this teaches us.  In just about every culture and major world religion since antiquity, we see this common moral law — stated in various ways, but basically saying these things.  So we all basically agree on what’s right and wrong — it’s within us, and always has been.  God’s written it on our hearts.  So let’s look at how we’ve done.  How well have we kept this common moral law of humanity?  Let’s make this participatory — you just give me a thumbs-up if you think humanity has pretty much kept that one.  Thumbs-down if there’s evidence we haven’t done so well.

“Don’t do harm in word or deed.”  What do you think?  People have been pretty darn nice, haven’t they?  We don’t pick on each other on the playground.  We don’t gossip about others or think hateful thoughts or say hurtful words.  We don’t fight or do mean things or hold grudges or murder or start wars — do we?  What do you think — thumbs up?… No?  Watch the news — we’re still not doing so well…

So what do all of the world’s religions teach all of us?  We’re royal screw-ups — myself included, Jews and Christians, Muslims and Buddhists!  The world’s a mess!  We all know the right things to do, they’ve been in our culture or religious tradition, they’re in our hearts — and yet, the history of humanity shows us that we fall short!  We can’t live up to what we know to be right.  So in this sense, there is a universal truth communicated through all the world’s major religions.  Here it is: people have a problem, and it’s affecting all of us.  We need God’s help!  We cannot become who we know we were intended to be without God.

The Bible claims that the problem is that all people, in all religions, know enough about the one true Creator God and what is morally right or wrong, but we’ve all turned away from him, thinking we know better at some point — in every religious tradition.  Scripture says, “For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities — his eternal power and divine nature — havve been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that [people] are without excuse.  For although they knew God, they neither glorified him as God nor gave thanks to him, but their thinking became futile and their foolish hearts were darkened (Romans 1:20-21).”

So does the Bible teach that all other religions are wholly wrong and Christians are right?  NO!  It teaches that every single person is wrong and God is right, and our problem is we all tend to turn from God and go our own way rather than humbly seeking God and his will.  So all the religions may basically say the same thing about people and what’s right and wrong.  But they definitely do not say the same thing about God or the solution to the human problem.  And if you think they are all saying the same thing about God, you just haven’t read or studied the claims of the original founders of the world’s religions.  They don’t say the same thing.

So the real problem is that we need God!  We need his forgiveness and his help.  And here’s something that very few people realize.  Not all the world’s religions claim to be revealed from God.  And you would think that if God exists and loves us, he’d care about our plight.  And he would give us a solution — a way out of our predicament.  But because God is infinite, beyond our discovery — our only hope is if God has chosen to reveal himself.  In other words, God had to take the initiative to communicate.  And if God has, the natural place to start looking would be the claims of the world’s religions — right?  But if you read the sacred texts of the major world’s religions and take them at face value — most do not claim that God has revealed a solution to the human dilemma.

Mortimer Adler says, “Only three religions claim to have a supernatural foundation to be found in a sacred scripture that [claims] to be a divine revelation… among the other religions… only some claim to have logical and factual truth, but the truth they claim to have is of human, not divine, origin.”

What Adler, who was not a Christian, discovered is that if you just read the sacred texts of all the world religions, only three even claim that the one, unique Creator God has revealed himself or his will directly: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.  Interestingly, all three speak of a Messiah.  The other religions claim to be wise human solutions to the problems mankind faces, or they are devotional poems and songs and stories, but do not factually claim God has revealed himself.  Now, if this upsets you and feels narrow-minded or judgmental toward other religions — take it up with the founders of the religions — but don’t assume they say more than they really do.”

Phew.  That was a lot of typing, but I hope it’s helpful.  I welcome your thoughts.  Please.  Let’s make this a discussion.

Tomorrow: the motherload question — “What about people who have never heard of Jesus?” — the question about God’s fairness.