So I finally picked up The Shack by William Young. Not a bad book, by any means, but I must admit that I do not understand the fascination with it. Aside from the first 60 pages, which I felt read like an amateurish Janet Evanovich novel, the rest of the book was a sincere attempt (I think) for someone to place monumental human suffering in some form of context.
I think the author could have possibly benefitted from reading Douglas John Hall's The Cross in Our Context, because I felt that in the book he mired himself in between the ideas of having a kind, generous, and benevolent god that orders the world, and a world that wishes to order itself. That being said, I would hazard a guess (without ever looking up a bio, and I don't ever remember reading anything about his denominational affiliation) that Young is a member of an Evangelical group because of his frequent references to 'choice' language. It seems as if by accident that he occasionally touches the core of Lutheran theology -- the Theogica Crucis that should define our interactions in to the world.
I was extremely happy, however, to note that he avoided Krushner's argument from When Bad Things Happen to Good People -- that bad things happen because God is not, in fact, omniscient and is clueless about ordered day-to-day life.
So, pick up the The Shack if you've been curious about the hype; just don't expect marvelous transformation.
On the other hand, if you want to read a roll-over-and-rub-me-on-my-tummy-I'm-so-enthralled book, I strongly urge you to pick up The Hammer of God by Bo Giertz. Especially if you find yourself thinking "what's really different about the Lutheran approach to things?" The Shack did not make me cry (though it was close); The Hammer of God did - but not in the 'tug at the heartstrings' way - rather, 'the this is why I do what I do' way. Just be sure to pick up the newer edition that has the last chapter translated.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Friday, September 12, 2008
Sermon for Sunday, September 14, 2008
Text: Matthew 18:21-35
A few years ago, I had the opportunity to hear a prominent Evangelical pastor speak on the topic of ‘radical forgiveness.’ He took for his text the Gospel for today, and a preached a sermon centering on the idea that we could all improve our lives by practicing the same kind of ‘radical forgiveness’ that Jesus tells Peter to do.
I could preach a thousand sermons about that – about how incredible the parable of the unforgiving servant really is. But something else caught my attention. I’m focused on Peter.
In the New Testament, Peter often serves the role of the speaker – voicing concerns of the disciples, sometimes of the other people around Jesus, but in an interesting way, I think Peter represents the thoughts all people who read the text. He’s the John Q. Public of the New Testament.
Peter, prone to pride, self-righteousness, denial, and sweeping statements of bravado reminds me of how we are from day-to-day. I like Peter. Seems to me that he knows what it’s like to live between the altar and the door – so close to the kingdom of heaven, but at the same time still mired in the world he knows doesn’t work the way it should, but that he can live in just the same. In Peter, I can see many of our own struggles as we live our lives as disciples of Jesus Christ.
So you’ve heard the back story in weeks past, and just last week we read the text that comes right before this – Jesus lecturing the disciples on how to deal with problems in the church – be they caused by people, or be people themselves.
So in response to that lecture, Peter comes to Jesus and asks, “Lord, if another member of the church (actually, the Greek reads ‘my brother’) sins ---sins--- against me, how often should I forgive him? As many as seven times?”
Now 7 is a pretty significant number to Peter, being pretty important in his tradition. So I think he’s asking a question about his own righteousness, about how holy he should be when dealing with people who wrong him. Again, it seems to me that Peter represents all of us, because he turns the conversation right back to his favourite topic – himself.
Peter exaggerated his answer, because even today we have a term for people who forgive no matter what transgression – at best we call them doormats, or at the very worst victims of abuse. But he wants to know what’s in it for him. He’s maybe ready to forgive seven times – but he wants the other disciples to know that he’s ready to do it. He wants to be holy. He’s ready.
He’s really annoying. Maybe you know somebody like this. I know I do – he’s usually the guy staring back at me in the mirror every morning. A little while ago I had the captive opportunity to sit down with someone and be told for five straight hours why they were a better pastor than me (and no, it wasn’t
How I didn’t really understand the bible the way they did, but the person offered to enlighten me as to the error of my ways. It was all I could do not to throttle him with his own self-righteousness. I would have prayed over him afterwards, of course. But I thought you might be disappointed in me.
So maybe Peter annoyed Jesus, because his reply is to exaggerate Peter’s example even further, to a number that basically be taken to be ‘infinity’ – a practical impossibility. He also reverses a law established all the way back in Genesis 4:24, when Lamech crowed that he had revenged himself seventy-seven fold.
But I think it’s also reflexive – in effect, Jesus is turning Peter’s question back to him: “You think you’re righteous, eh? Well how many times do you think I’ll forgive you of your sins?” I’ll explain why a bit later.
That wasn’t what Peter was thinking of. He wasn’t thinking of his own sins – just those of other people.
__________________________________________
Martin Luther (of whom some of you may have heard) spent a great deal of time thinking about sin. It’s said that some days he would spend up to six or eight hours a day in the confessional, stripping bare his soul of every possible transgression he could think of. As popularized in the movie Luther, his Augustinian supervisor told him, “Yes, Martin, and in six years you’ve told me nothing interesting!”
So later, when Luther was writing about sin, he chose the Latin word “incurvatus,” to describe it, a word literally meaning “inward-turning”.
Because, you see, for Luther, sin wasn’t just a transgression before God, some kind of mindless trespass over God’s moral absolutes. Sin was more than that. It started, and in effect, ended with the first commandment.
Thou shalt not have any gods before me.
The issue for Luther being that as humans we can honestly achieve nothing this is not tainted by self-interest. Which places our own desires ahead of God, which breaks the first commandment – which, in turn, condemns us before God.
Yet, Luther pointed out, we are forgiven. We have no power to make ourselves right, but by the grace of God we’re forgiven. Asking ‘how many times should I forgive someone’ seems pale in comparison with the scope of sin we are forgiven.
And so when we hear Peter ask that question, and hear the reply of Jesus, it seems totally absurd that Jesus would, in fact, demand of Peter that kind of absolute forgiveness. Peter’s not capable of it. We’re not capable of it.
So Peter heard the hyperbole in Jesus’ answers, but ultimately he could not know that this was the size of the debt that Jesus would soon forgive. All the sins of people in the world – an unbelievably large debt. Peter – the one who tried to stop Jesus from teaching about his death – couldn’t forsee the debt that Christ was to pay on the cross.
So really, what does ‘radical forgiveness’ look like?
Is it the image of a powerful king, generously forgiving the incredible debt of a servant? Or is it the image of two hands nailed to a cross?
A friend of mine tells a story from his early years in ministry. He was called into a hospital room to offer what comfort he could to a woman dying of a particularly brutal cancer. She had lived her life alone, and was regarded as an embittered, joyless woman.
When he offered her communion, she refused. “Don’t worry about me,” she told him, “I don’t deserve it and I deserve everything I’m going through now.”
As he asked what she meant, she at first tried to direct his attention elsewhere, but eventually she said quietly “I committed an unforgivable sin.” And she broke down, and wept.
In between storms of weeping she told her story: how, as a young woman of fifteen in the years after the Great Depression she’d fallen deeply in love with a man who stopped by to work on her family’s farm. After a few weeks he’d left the same way he came, by night. She was left, fifteen, pregnant, and alone.
When her family found out she was locked in the house so the scandal wouldn’t be seen in the community. One night her father took her out to the car, and into the city. In a run-down area of the city he dropped her off in front of an apartment building, and sent her in.
On the way home, along a deserted stretch of gravel road he stopped the car, got out, and opened the trunk. He handed her a shovel, and a box, and told her to ‘think about what she’d done.’
As she collapsed in her final fit of weeping, my friend was at a loss. This was a burden that she’d carried for more than eighty years. Never told anyone. Never believed that she could be forgiven. “I’m sorry,” she kept repeating, “I’m so, so sorry.”
So my friend did the only thing he thought he could, because he couldn’t offer her any words of forgiveness that she would hear. No trite explanation of the wrongs done to her would suffice, for eighty years she had condemned herself.
So from the satchel he carried he took out his communion kit, still shiny and new. He took one small piece of bread, and a tiny cup of wine, and he looked her in the eyes.
He said, in the night, in which he was betrayed, our Lord Jesus took bread. When he had given thanks he broke it, and gave it to the disciples saying ‘take and eat; this is my body, given for you. Do this in remembrance of me. And again after supper he took the cup, gave thanks, and gave it to them to drink, saying ‘this cup is the new covenant in my blood, shed for you and for all people, for the forgiveness of your sins.
As he spoke she stopped crying, and for the first time she knew that she could have forgiveness – that there was nothing she could do that could separate her from the love of Christ Jesus. She cried again then, but her tears were those of joy.
________________
I don’t think that forgiveness can happen without love, and radical forgiveness requires an incredible act of love. As Paul wrote to the Christian community in Rome years ago, “God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us.” We remember ourselves forgiven, and loved, when we share in the baptism of a new life, and when we kneel at the rail and hear the words “for you”.
Because the time we spend here, between the altar and the door, equips us with the knowledge that even though we may yet sin, we rest in the promise of forgiveness. And that promise, made at our baptism, follows us through our days. It reaches out past us to all creation, from East to West, from one scarred hand to the other.
May this be so among us. Amen.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Storytelling or Telling the Story?
The other day someone asked me why I wanted to be a pastor. I told him that the reason was simple; I just had problems sitting still for an hour in church and there was only one position that allowed me to still be in worship and walking around. It's not that I'm bored; it's just that my mind can only absorb what my seat can endure.
But even if I was bored to tears I wouldn't be alone -- even some every-Sunday people I've talked to admit that they're bored to tears in church, but feel like they 'should' be there.
I'm very weary of the person-on-the-street interviews that pose the question: why don't you go to church? I think there's a limited script of answers that people choose from:
It's boring; it's not relevant; it's at a bad time; or my all-time tooth grinder I'm not religious - I'm spiritual.
Combining those two charges, when I encounter other Pastors who want to change the way their church worships to attract more people -- most often using the market-savvy "who's our customer and what do they want?" mentality -- I want to bang my head against a wall.
Because, quite frankly, I think that convincing ourselves that contemporary or rock-music worship is more 'entertaining' for people only achieves two things:
1. it really convinces us that people who comes to our churches are idiots who sway whichever way the wind blows, and;
2. it enables worship leaders and planners to find cop-out substitutes for actually working at incorporating people's experiences and lives -- their own stories -- into liturgical worship.
Don't think for a minute that I don't like contemporary styles of worship, or CCM. But I do believe that both the style of worship and the music are better suited to conveying a different message. I do think that liturgical worship -- the great gift of the people -- is best suited to the message brought by the Lutheran church (or Anglican, or RC, or whichever.) We've got 500 years of practice; it we probably shouldn't be struggling to make it work now.
So, as Herbert Anderson points out in Mighty Stories, Dangerous Rituals: Weaving Together the Human and the Divine, perhaps the biggest problem with Sunday Eucharist is "not that it is poor theatre, but that it is poor human storytelling and inadequate divine storytelling."
And maybe that's why contemporary Christian rock worship music is popular. If someone made the argument, I could buy the idea that from it's very roots, rock music is more about narrative and storytelling than anything else. That would be why people relate to it. It may be trite and annoying to listen to endless songs about teen angst, but one can't deny that those songs do actually convey a story, though it may be one that is cliched and shallow. CCW songs may only seldom get out of First Article theology; but they convey said theology relatively easily.
But should not then liturgy, when the very word actually means 'the work of the people', be the foundation for telling the "Story" -- the ultimate narrative combining both the stories of the assembled people of God and also the grander divine narrative -- and in making those stories alive in our own context?
Anderson includes a little story:
Once there was a church where they couldn't find the Bible one Sunday.
The Minister asked if anyone had good news from the Lord.
No one admitted having any, so they all started leaving.
One man said his wife had just had a baby this morning.
The people decided this wasn't a word from the Lord and they went home.
The man stayed for a whole hour. He was sure this was good news from the Lord.
Of course, the parable paints a picture of empty ritual; that is, ritual without story. This is true of many people's recollections of Sunday worship growing up, bored out of one's skull and wishing it would end quickly. This is really ironic, because Christian worship was birthed in story, pushed out into the world by the endless retelling of the words of a man paradoxically dying on a cross for the healing of the world.
So if ritual empty of story is empty of meaning, why then do we continually persist to try to ascribe story empty of ritual as whole and holy? As one young congregand remarked to me about the recent national youth gathering (and I'm not criticizing said gathering here, folks) "the best thing about it was, like, being in a mosh pit and still worshiping God."
Now I'm not terribly familiar with NYG's. But I worked as a bouncer during my undergrad, and I am familiar with mosh pits. I admit I am puzzled as to how, indeed, one would worship God in a mosh pit, but I accept her observation as a real and valid experience for her. But I wonder: was the mosh pit itself a place of worship for God; was it her perception of her actions as partaking in worship of some form; or does the entertainment value of the storytelling through music promote a religious experience for her?
Early in my undergraduate degree, I theorized (and I've never figured out if it's even a valid hypothesis) that religion was made 'organized' solely by the presence of ritual in it's tradition -- how the Story (the grand narrative of any and all religious traditions) was told in community, and thus in turn how the community used and articulated that story into their own individual lives. So, then, ritual is empty in the absence of both story and community. But if story and ritual come together in the absence of community, what then? Or if story and community come together in the absence of ritual? The former is empty religion, and the latter is entertainment. Or, in different terms, entertainment is storytelling, empty religion is lecture, and organized religion is Telling the Story.
(So, if someone tells you they don't believe in organized religion -- that they feel closer to God on a mountaintop, a mosh pit, what have you -- they're probably trying to convey that they don't like religious organizations, but don't want to sound hoity-toity or arrogant.)
Storytelling is fine and good -- but the entertainment of storytelling often lies in its mythic primogeniture -- it's unbelievableness that oddly enough makes the story believable. Such stories exist on their own outside of any context, which is why fairy tales always seem so stupid when 'updated' into modern forms. Storytelling is entertaining, I think, because it allows one to become immersed in a story without involving one's life.
I think that Telling the Story, on the other hand, demands that those listening risk something of themselves in their listening. To open themselves, their lives, and their experiences to both the voyeuristic and at the same time cherished attention of a community gathered and bonded by shared faith. In effect, to be active participants in the work of the people, in the community of believers cared for and loved by God, brought together in the salvation found through Jesus Christ.
Because in storytelling we hear the story, but when if we are invited to be part of the Telling of the Story it becomes our own, a part of our identity, a ritual that places our lives and experiences in the category of "things loved by God."
But even if I was bored to tears I wouldn't be alone -- even some every-Sunday people I've talked to admit that they're bored to tears in church, but feel like they 'should' be there.
I'm very weary of the person-on-the-street interviews that pose the question: why don't you go to church? I think there's a limited script of answers that people choose from:
It's boring; it's not relevant; it's at a bad time; or my all-time tooth grinder I'm not religious - I'm spiritual.
Combining those two charges, when I encounter other Pastors who want to change the way their church worships to attract more people -- most often using the market-savvy "who's our customer and what do they want?" mentality -- I want to bang my head against a wall.
Because, quite frankly, I think that convincing ourselves that contemporary or rock-music worship is more 'entertaining' for people only achieves two things:
1. it really convinces us that people who comes to our churches are idiots who sway whichever way the wind blows, and;
2. it enables worship leaders and planners to find cop-out substitutes for actually working at incorporating people's experiences and lives -- their own stories -- into liturgical worship.
Don't think for a minute that I don't like contemporary styles of worship, or CCM. But I do believe that both the style of worship and the music are better suited to conveying a different message. I do think that liturgical worship -- the great gift of the people -- is best suited to the message brought by the Lutheran church (or Anglican, or RC, or whichever.) We've got 500 years of practice; it we probably shouldn't be struggling to make it work now.
So, as Herbert Anderson points out in Mighty Stories, Dangerous Rituals: Weaving Together the Human and the Divine, perhaps the biggest problem with Sunday Eucharist is "not that it is poor theatre, but that it is poor human storytelling and inadequate divine storytelling."
And maybe that's why contemporary Christian rock worship music is popular. If someone made the argument, I could buy the idea that from it's very roots, rock music is more about narrative and storytelling than anything else. That would be why people relate to it. It may be trite and annoying to listen to endless songs about teen angst, but one can't deny that those songs do actually convey a story, though it may be one that is cliched and shallow. CCW songs may only seldom get out of First Article theology; but they convey said theology relatively easily.
But should not then liturgy, when the very word actually means 'the work of the people', be the foundation for telling the "Story" -- the ultimate narrative combining both the stories of the assembled people of God and also the grander divine narrative -- and in making those stories alive in our own context?
Anderson includes a little story:
Once there was a church where they couldn't find the Bible one Sunday.
The Minister asked if anyone had good news from the Lord.
No one admitted having any, so they all started leaving.
One man said his wife had just had a baby this morning.
The people decided this wasn't a word from the Lord and they went home.
The man stayed for a whole hour. He was sure this was good news from the Lord.
Of course, the parable paints a picture of empty ritual; that is, ritual without story. This is true of many people's recollections of Sunday worship growing up, bored out of one's skull and wishing it would end quickly. This is really ironic, because Christian worship was birthed in story, pushed out into the world by the endless retelling of the words of a man paradoxically dying on a cross for the healing of the world.
So if ritual empty of story is empty of meaning, why then do we continually persist to try to ascribe story empty of ritual as whole and holy? As one young congregand remarked to me about the recent national youth gathering (and I'm not criticizing said gathering here, folks) "the best thing about it was, like, being in a mosh pit and still worshiping God."
Now I'm not terribly familiar with NYG's. But I worked as a bouncer during my undergrad, and I am familiar with mosh pits. I admit I am puzzled as to how, indeed, one would worship God in a mosh pit, but I accept her observation as a real and valid experience for her. But I wonder: was the mosh pit itself a place of worship for God; was it her perception of her actions as partaking in worship of some form; or does the entertainment value of the storytelling through music promote a religious experience for her?
Early in my undergraduate degree, I theorized (and I've never figured out if it's even a valid hypothesis) that religion was made 'organized' solely by the presence of ritual in it's tradition -- how the Story (the grand narrative of any and all religious traditions) was told in community, and thus in turn how the community used and articulated that story into their own individual lives. So, then, ritual is empty in the absence of both story and community. But if story and ritual come together in the absence of community, what then? Or if story and community come together in the absence of ritual? The former is empty religion, and the latter is entertainment. Or, in different terms, entertainment is storytelling, empty religion is lecture, and organized religion is Telling the Story.
(So, if someone tells you they don't believe in organized religion -- that they feel closer to God on a mountaintop, a mosh pit, what have you -- they're probably trying to convey that they don't like religious organizations, but don't want to sound hoity-toity or arrogant.)
Storytelling is fine and good -- but the entertainment of storytelling often lies in its mythic primogeniture -- it's unbelievableness that oddly enough makes the story believable. Such stories exist on their own outside of any context, which is why fairy tales always seem so stupid when 'updated' into modern forms. Storytelling is entertaining, I think, because it allows one to become immersed in a story without involving one's life.
I think that Telling the Story, on the other hand, demands that those listening risk something of themselves in their listening. To open themselves, their lives, and their experiences to both the voyeuristic and at the same time cherished attention of a community gathered and bonded by shared faith. In effect, to be active participants in the work of the people, in the community of believers cared for and loved by God, brought together in the salvation found through Jesus Christ.
Because in storytelling we hear the story, but when if we are invited to be part of the Telling of the Story it becomes our own, a part of our identity, a ritual that places our lives and experiences in the category of "things loved by God."
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Sunday blogging
Apologies for not posting much in the last little bit -- too much on my mind to sift through to get down without a fair bit of reflection.
I love my internship site -- it's a wonderful place to learn, and the people are so concerned about how my family is that they often forget to ask how I am -- it's cute, really. They love my wife and indulge my children. This is good. The Boy's developed a habit of ficus molestation on Sunday morning. There's a ficus beside the altar. Every Sunday service, the Boy toddles up to the ficus, looks out at the congregation, grins, looks at his daddy (who is waving his hands in the air trying to divert his attention), and pulls one leaf off the ficus. Then he runs triumpantly down the aisle back to mommy before daddy can really get a good line to nail him with a well-thrown hymnal.
(for those Lutherans of you wondering, we use the new red book. So, it's not like it would be a loss to abuse one or two.)
Very amusing is when I ask people if they want to have coffee with me outside of Sunday mornings at church. There's a brief moment of eyebrow-lifting surprise (like they're thinking what? what am I going to be volunteered for now?", and then an intriguing "this could be interesting..." sort of acceptance. It's a personality failing, really -- I absolutely love talking and visiting with people without an agenda. Even with an agenda. I needed 200 clinical hours to complete my Clinical Pastoral Education and I finished with around 280.
So in my first experience in a seriously urban congregation my rural roots are showing. Ah well. Apparently every-member visits happen sometime in January, so maybe I can get some serious chatting done then.
On another note, I don't really think I've honestly wanted to be anything other than a pastor since I was a teenager, which leads to a unique challenge for me -- part of this internship experience (as explained to me) is to reflect, opine, and discern whether or not there is an external calling for me in the church -- that is, although there may be no doubt as to my internal call (my relationship with God that I feel calls me into ministry), I apparently should discern my relationship to the church more fully.
Except there's one problem with that. I love the Church. It's true. I love the ELCiC, even though it frustrates me sometimes to the point of pulling out what's left of my hair (so does my wife; that's part of the point). So, I've always looked forward to internship as a more practical experience -- not to learn from scratch, but to get effective and useful feedback on what I already know and do, plus learning some new skills through trial and testing. So now I feel like I should reassess this whole shindig from scratch. meh. Like I reassess and reflect often on whether or not I still feel called to be married. (and please, don't post annoying comments reading into that comment -- I will bite anyone who does...)
Two challenges in the last little bit. A friend was diagnosed with a terminal cancer. She and her spouse have a baby a little younger than Boy2, so I'm more than a little angry with God. Not that I have any right to be, no, I realize that -- but it's still very difficult to pray for them beginning with anything other than "Dear God, what the f#$k?" I am tremendously thankful that the relationship I have with God is one that leaves me space to be angry without fear. Of course, I majored in anglo-saxon while working as a bouncer through my undergrad. Everyone prays to God in their own language, right?
And I'm headed down south to go with my mother while she has an MRI. She has an as-yet undiagnosed degenerative bone and joint disorder -- like rheumatoid arthritis, but not that exactly. So I pray for clarity of diagnosis, if not healing.
So, three weeks into internship and this is where I'm sitting. I'm preaching next week, so I'll post that sermon in the future.
Apologies for no pictures of the Boys lately, but we lost the rechargeable camera batteries in the move. The ones in the camera are dead and I'm too cheap to buy more. So be patient.
So, ciao. And remember, verbum domini manet in aeternum.
I love my internship site -- it's a wonderful place to learn, and the people are so concerned about how my family is that they often forget to ask how I am -- it's cute, really. They love my wife and indulge my children. This is good. The Boy's developed a habit of ficus molestation on Sunday morning. There's a ficus beside the altar. Every Sunday service, the Boy toddles up to the ficus, looks out at the congregation, grins, looks at his daddy (who is waving his hands in the air trying to divert his attention), and pulls one leaf off the ficus. Then he runs triumpantly down the aisle back to mommy before daddy can really get a good line to nail him with a well-thrown hymnal.
(for those Lutherans of you wondering, we use the new red book. So, it's not like it would be a loss to abuse one or two.)
Very amusing is when I ask people if they want to have coffee with me outside of Sunday mornings at church. There's a brief moment of eyebrow-lifting surprise (like they're thinking what? what am I going to be volunteered for now?", and then an intriguing "this could be interesting..." sort of acceptance. It's a personality failing, really -- I absolutely love talking and visiting with people without an agenda. Even with an agenda. I needed 200 clinical hours to complete my Clinical Pastoral Education and I finished with around 280.
So in my first experience in a seriously urban congregation my rural roots are showing. Ah well. Apparently every-member visits happen sometime in January, so maybe I can get some serious chatting done then.
On another note, I don't really think I've honestly wanted to be anything other than a pastor since I was a teenager, which leads to a unique challenge for me -- part of this internship experience (as explained to me) is to reflect, opine, and discern whether or not there is an external calling for me in the church -- that is, although there may be no doubt as to my internal call (my relationship with God that I feel calls me into ministry), I apparently should discern my relationship to the church more fully.
Except there's one problem with that. I love the Church. It's true. I love the ELCiC, even though it frustrates me sometimes to the point of pulling out what's left of my hair (so does my wife; that's part of the point). So, I've always looked forward to internship as a more practical experience -- not to learn from scratch, but to get effective and useful feedback on what I already know and do, plus learning some new skills through trial and testing. So now I feel like I should reassess this whole shindig from scratch. meh. Like I reassess and reflect often on whether or not I still feel called to be married. (and please, don't post annoying comments reading into that comment -- I will bite anyone who does...)
Two challenges in the last little bit. A friend was diagnosed with a terminal cancer. She and her spouse have a baby a little younger than Boy2, so I'm more than a little angry with God. Not that I have any right to be, no, I realize that -- but it's still very difficult to pray for them beginning with anything other than "Dear God, what the f#$k?" I am tremendously thankful that the relationship I have with God is one that leaves me space to be angry without fear. Of course, I majored in anglo-saxon while working as a bouncer through my undergrad. Everyone prays to God in their own language, right?
And I'm headed down south to go with my mother while she has an MRI. She has an as-yet undiagnosed degenerative bone and joint disorder -- like rheumatoid arthritis, but not that exactly. So I pray for clarity of diagnosis, if not healing.
So, three weeks into internship and this is where I'm sitting. I'm preaching next week, so I'll post that sermon in the future.
Apologies for no pictures of the Boys lately, but we lost the rechargeable camera batteries in the move. The ones in the camera are dead and I'm too cheap to buy more. So be patient.
So, ciao. And remember, verbum domini manet in aeternum.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Happy Anniversary!
On this day three years ago my wonderful wife and I began our cohabiting life together. Since then, things have gotten a little crowded, but that's all right :)
Of all the things that I am thankful for in my life, her calm and loving presence remains the most important.
I say this as I sit at my computer in my office at the church instead of at home. My laptop computer packed it in this morning, so maybe it's telling me I should go home...
Anyways, to my dear and darling wife, my friend, and my companion for eternity -- I love you so very much, and will always strive to be the person that you think I am -- because I know that man is so much better than I really am.
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