Rabbits in Manhattan

“Are there rabbits in Manhattan?” my son Isaiah asked yesterday. And if I didn’t laugh, I wanted to, for what midwestern city doesn’t have rabbits? But Isaiah hadn’t seen them around, so how could he have known?

When I go out into the forest, I find it still sets the stage for my soul to be nourished. It was a confused and frantic soul this morning, and I didn’t know why. A restlessness had settled over me even though I’d seen evidence of new life in my community. How was it that seeing those newly hatched nestlings thrusting bare necks out for food wasn’t enough to keep me rejoicing for even a day? Hope was springing up like all the vibrant leaves everywhere after the persistent winter. But who knew spring would come again? We did. We all did, even if we dared not admit it to ourselves. We surely dared not hope in our own growth.

I walked into the wild today and I lay my confused mind and restless soul on the table before God. I said: “It isn’t right that I should be in despair with all this teeming life. I acknowledge that new things are birthed in pain, but birth is not a funeral! I refuse to despair, so teach me how to hope again! I know you taught me yesterday, but I’ve already forgotten.”

Abba took my hand and led me into the forest. And I saw a possum walking in broad daylight, weaving its way over forest floor. It climbed a tree. “I thought you were nocturnal, o possum,” I said to it, and God and I chuckled at the joke.

God led me down new paths and I saw hoofprints, and a little snake. It’s funny how one can imagine that there aren’t really animals in the forest, except for an obvious robin or two. But new eyes see new life. I was seeing already how hope — the antithesis of despair and confusion — is birthed in alertness.

We had a feast in the forest, Abba and I. I had lain despair on his table and he transformed it into a feast. We toasted to life and love and King Jesus. The enemy wrung his hands as his plot to confuse fell to ridiculous ruin.

Mouth bursting with bread, I acknowledged that there had never been chains binding me from praise except those of my own choosing. What mirage of insufficiency, what necessity for anxiety stood in my path were all cleared away. True identity in Jesus Christ, my mind and soul and body had been brought to attention and rest. Sitting by a trickle of stream, I sang out loud.

Oh, hope is not elusive. Life may not be evident, for we walk among much that is asleep. But hope? Hope teems. There has always been hope, and there have always been rabbits in Manhattan.

You Can Stop Defending the Bible: A Book Response

We trust the Bible, not because we can show that there is no diversity, but because we believe, by the gift of faith, in the one who gave Scripture, not in our own conceptions of how Scripture ought to be.

I love it when God knocks down my notions about how I’m supposed to be a good Christian. He did it when Kyle and I adopted Ari by totally wiping hero complexes right off our faces. And now He did it again when I read Inspiration and Incarnation: Evangelicals and the Problem of the Old Testament (Peter Enns).

I love the comparison Enns makes between Christ and Scripture:

Scripture is the only book in which God speaks incarnately. As it is with Christ, so it is with the Bible–the ‘coming together’ of the divine and human sets it apart from all others.

Enns says his purpose is to begin a conversation about biblical difficulties, such as those that exist in Old Testament historical accounts (some in 1 and 2 Samuel differ slightly from the same stories in 1 and 2 Chronicles, for instance); diversity of commands that change according to context (conflicting wisdom within the book of Proverbs); and outright misquoting of Old Testament passages by New Testament authors.  With the specific examples Enns shares, we’d be hard-pressed to argue that no inconsistency exists in Scripture. Even an argument to only read passages within context falls through when we lack the complete cultural lens through which each biblical author wrote. Objectivity is overrated, I’d say, if even the apostle Paul misquotes Scripture in Scripture.

These are uncomfortable subjects, and for many — including me — the knee-jerk reaction is to defend the Bible. After all, if there are inconsistencies within the book, then won’t our system of beliefs fall like a house of cards? If we really believe in God, though, perhaps it is best to admit that He can defend His own word, since He chose to reveal Himself in this manner.

Any clipped “black and white” interpretations of biblical expectations are always up for discussion, are they not? If they hold water, they will not be threatened by honest discussion.

That’s what Inspiration and Incarnation makes me want to do — reach across the mysterious span of my church experience and start thoughtful, love-inspired conversations with people. With you, if you’d like.

It’s been a long journey here, growing up as I did in a church tradition that took select biblical passages literally, such as greeting others with kisses and requiring head coverings for women believers. But this type of literal reading breaks down when Jesus commands us to cut off a body part that causes us to sin. He couldn’t mean that! we say. And so we are bound to biblical interpretation. It takes a good bit of humility to exegete Scripture, and we must be willing to discuss it with those who differ in opinion, resting firmly in the Spirit Himself to guide us into truth.

It is our own limited cultural context that causes us to interpret the Bible one way or the other. But the point that Enns makes is that the incarnation of God through the Bible means that He did come into our messy existence to give us the words that we have.

That God willingly and enthusiastically participates in our humanity should give us pause. If even God expresses himself in the Bible through particular human circumstances, we must be very ready to see the necessarily culturally limited nature of our own theological expressions today. I am not speaking of cultural relativism, where all truth is up for grabs and the Bible ceases being our standard for faith. I simply mean that all of our theologizing, because we are human beings living in particular historical and cultural moments, will have a temporary and provisional–even fallen–dimension to it.

If that sounds hopelessly dismal, Enns reminds us, too, that God intends for us to be strapped to our time and place. Awareness of my limited nature sends me into awe of the One who incarnated Himself in the Bible for us, and it makes me more willing to discuss doctrine rather than demand that my interpretations are right.

I think this gives me space to talk to my brothers and sisters in my former churches, even if the doctrinal differences are awkward. It gives me space to talk to my current community of believers, where we can challenge and strengthen each other. I can also respect and feel at peace in communities like that of the Benedictine abbey I visited. I can talk to soldiers even though I have more of a pacifist bent. I can form friendships with homosexual or transgendered people who love Christ. The same Spirit guides us into all truth. They have access to God’s incarnated word just as I do, and He can effectively handle all of our junk.

And beyond the body of Christ, trusting in the Spirit to teach gives confidence to discuss the Bible with Muslims and Buddhists, and anyone who does not claim Christ as God. We can have solid faith in the One who gave us the Bible without trying to make excuses for its tricky parts. It can stand on its own.

 

Linking up with Kelley Nikondeha

Afternoon Tea

God, You’re a funny lover.
What’s up with that?
What’s up with the way You
get me to ask You big things
like letting my year-and-a-half-old baby
sleep through the night for the Very First Time Ever,
and then You totally make it happen?
Why do You tease me with these things?
Are You sleeping while I’m trying to make love again?
Because if You haven’t noticed
it’s never happened since,
and it’s not for lack of asking.
He still acts like I’m all the world,
unable to sleep without Big Mama
singing his eyelids closed.

 

Ray was crying — not sleeping –
again this afternoon.
I put my palms on my baby’s cheeks and told him
“You need God, not me!”
I am worn like a canyon, and I don’t get the point.
I get that my hard times
make me all the more desperate for You.
But what about Ray?
He needs more sleep!
I’m his mother.
I should know.

 

Maybe it is I who wants to sleep.
Is that it, God?
You’re the one who can’t get enough of me?
When I’m talking heatedly
to You under the pillow
(so Ray doesn’t play with my face),
I can hear You answer in that funny way:
my teapot whistles;
another little boy retrieves it,
clicks off the burner,
and makes me a cup of afternoon tea.
In my favorite cup too.
I didn’t know six year olds do that.

 

I drink tea and write You this poem.
The boys are awake and they ask things of me.
We’re all awake hanging out together.
Cheers, You say, lifting Your cup.

I Still Flinch

God,
sometimes
I still flinch
to see You smiling
at me naked.
Which is practically
all the time now.

But it seems that You
think I’m good
at this love thing
too.

pregnant with the embryo of a novel

I’ve spent time in suspicions about online community, loathing Facebook, dubbing my screen a beast. I think it took peeling those away to understood more about Christ’s kingship over all. Then blogging and social media, too, were able to come back into proper perspective. I value our local community as the central expression of the church. But I’m ready to admit that these relatively new formats of creative expression and even community are building us up into temples, too. (So what if it took me five years to figure that out?)

God is temple-building around the web, and He has put good craftsmanship into my heart through Kelley Nikondeha, Kristen Rosser, Kimberlee.

Kimberlee had a true email conversation with me about mentorship! We chatted to God about each other. So you can’t tell me online community is a farce. I guess I won’t die on that altar.

(So, I praise for the web, I praise for virtual friendships, I praise for the steady journalism of bloggers! I even praise for Facebook, which I severed from my life over a year ago, and which, upon reentering, has tied my heart close with a suffering friend’s. God’s totally got a handle on all things technological, says the hippie idealist. There is grace for modernity and complexity.)

This blog is beginning to feel more like a love letter to you all. I don’t feel like squeezing out my love letters to you on a daily, or even weekly basis, keeping one eye to the stats record. But when I need to update you on how my mind is wrestling with big God-questions, or if I can’t stop explaining why my mouth is drop-jawed at some new discovery, you can expect to find me here.

But in the in between times, when I’m not with my boys or my lover, you will find me at Radina’s. I’ll be writing a novel. Maybe, like Annie Dillard, I’ll be facing a wall instead of a window, so that in blandness and ugliness, I can write the beauty that begs to be unveiled. But it’s going to be a long, slow beauty. I’m going to give myself years. And though I want it more than ever, I will stake no claims on my book’s success.

I’m just saying, I’m catching wind of where this ship needs to be headed. And I’ll send postcards!

Have you read this viral post by Sarah Bessey? The one where she blesses you and me?

This is the part I’m talking about right now:

Your ministry, your work, begins now, and it began long ago, in your world. Turn around, and face your life. Look it in the eye. This is it.

If you are surrounded by jelly-faced toddlers or thousands of longing hungry souls, or if you lift your head to find yourself in a hospital or a back alley or a church or an orphanage or your own suburban kitchen, if you are given a voice for dozens or only one other soul, you are a minister, feel it, say the words, roll them against your teeth: you have been commissioned for the work of the Gospel, in Christ Jesus, you have.

She and my parents, my husband and motherhood, our adoption, our displacement in Texas — all of these (and more!) have brought me to this work of writing. It’s gospel-driving life, and as with gospel force in general, it’s irresistible.

On Writing: Leaving Port

I’ve been docked here for a month, wondering if the seas are safe. Never quite, I’m sure, but I’m convinced it’s time to pull out all stops and begin writing again. This morning, the work is beginning in the dark, while my boys sleep. I will press words out onto white, not merely for the sake of itself, but for the sake of the gospel. If the gospel does not perpetuate creative power, I don’t know what does. For in creating, I feel His glory. We work, and that gospel pleasure flows. He is the wind, and we sail to give evidence of Him. Safety is of no account when salvation is guaranteed.

I have yet to get my sea legs under me. Something about being docked — whether in study, or in sex, or in writing, or in the creating of any work of art — causes me to doubt whether I’ve got what it takes to stand. And fear paralyzes until broken by love. And then the threat of being too small is proved a fallacy, for even two pence can be everything.

So I leave the shoreline slowly, writing in snatches as the moments come. As Christina Crook reminds writing mothers: “Grab them with tenacity.”

The Humility Story: A Reason to Hunger During Advent

No one can celebrate
a genuine Christmas
without being truly poor.
The self-sufficient, the proud,
those who, because they have
everything, look down on others,
those who have no need
even of God — for them there
will be no Christmas.
Only the poor, the hungry,
those who need someone
to come on their behalf,
will have that someone.
That someone is God.
Emmanuel. God-with-us.
Without poverty of spirit
there can be no abundance of God.

-Oscar Romero

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