Holy Places Are Dark Places

"It is shallow nonsense to say that God forgives sin because He is love. When we have been convicted of sin we will never say this again. The love of God means Calvary, and nothing less; the love of God is spelt on the Cross and nowhere else. The only ground on which God can forgive me is through the Cross of my Lord. There, His conscience is satisfied."

--Oswald Chambers

After a number of years, I have come back to reading My Utmost for His Highest by Oswald Chambers (that link is to a version with "updated" language; my copy has the original text, first published in 1935, but compiled from talks Chambers gave around 1915-17, according to the Foreward). It's challenging. Chambers strips away the warm fuzzies that we often wrap around the gospel. No sentimentality for him. The way of Christ is difficult, and all-consuming--or should be. The love of God does not overshadow the justice of God. Chambers' God does not say, "there, there, dear, we all make mistakes sometimes." Justice requires payment, forgiveness exacts a price, and the price is "the rending of His heart in the Death of Christ."

I am reminded of my absolute favorite C.S. Lewis book, Till We Have Faces. Much lesser known than his Narnia books, Faces is a re-telling of the Cupid and Psyche myth, in the voice of Psyche's ugly half-sister. Doesn't seem like the myth would have much in the way of spiritual fodder, at least of the Christian sort, but Lewis does it. One of the images? concepts? that stays with me from this book is the contrast Lewis creates between the old goddess worship and the "new" Greek gods. The goddess the main character grows up with is a shapeless, smooth black rock, fearsome and bloody. She demands blood sacrifice. Her ways are dark and mysterious.

In contrast, the Greek gods are clean and tidy, with sharp angles and recognizable faces. They do not smell of blood and darkness. They do not inspire fear or demand too much.

"Holy places are dark places," says the ugly sister.



In my experience, many Western Christians like our religion clean and tidy. God is our Father, Jesus is our buddy, the Holy Spirit...well, the Spirit is in us, but let's not get too crazy about it. We soften the hard edges of sin and justice and the bloody sacrifice that was the Crucifixion. We see the Bible as a blueprint for life; we gloss over things that are not clear to us, that shake our comfortable certainty.

In other churches, I've seen names for children's choirs or Sunday School classes like "Jesus' Little Lambs," and I'm sure to the modern mind it conjures up cute images of furry animals cavorting in grassy fields. But that's not what Lamb of God is meant to convey. In the Lutheran liturgy (and the Catholic as well, I believe), we sing "Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world, have mercy on us." Jesus is the Lamb of God, because Jesus was the blood sacrifice for our sin. Lambs were routinely sacrificed under Old Testament law. So I wince when I hear children in the church being called "little lambs." (One could argue, I suppose, that the reference is to Jesus the Good Shepherd, but, still...)

By nature, I think, we don't like mystery. We want to know with clear certainty. We forsake the murkiness of blood and sacrifice for pretty gold crosses. We forget that God is not squishy and sentimental, that his love and his holiness are/were in conflict, that only the mystery and the heartbreak and the bloodiness and messiness of the crucifixion could bring us into any kind of relationship with him. And it was long ago and far away for us, so it is easy to leap over it to the resurrection, to the clean lines of theology, to Acts and Romans.

But, still. At the center of the Christian faith is that mysterious, shapeless darkness, smelling of blood and fear, howling with evil, abetted by indifference, with jeering, wild faces all around. Because of our darkness. Because of God's love, hard-edged, sharp, and ruthless.

Relentless.

Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world, have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world, have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world, grant us peace.

Songs of Lament

There's a song we hear a lot, but only on German radio. On German radio, it's currently in relatively heavy rotation. I haven't heard it at all on AFN (American Forces Network). It's not hard to figure out why.

Dear Mr. President,
Come take a walk with me. ...
I'd like to ask you some questions if we can speak honestly.

What do you feel when you see all the homeless on the street?
Who do you pray for at night before you go to sleep?
What do you feel when you look in the mirror?
Are you proud?

How do you sleep while the rest of us cry?
How do you dream when a mother has no chance to say goodbye?
How do you walk with your head held high?
Can you even look me in the eye
And tell me why?

Dear Mr. President,
Were you a lonely boy?
Are you a lonely boy?
How can you say
No child is left behind?
We're not dumb and we're not blind.
They're all sitting in your cells
While you pave the road to hell.

What kind of father would take his own daughter's rights away?
And what kind of father might hate his own daughter if she were gay?
I can only imagine what the first lady has to say
You've come a long way from whiskey and cocaine.

Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Minimum wage with a baby on the way
Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Rebuilding your house after the bombs took them away
Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Building a bed out of a cardboard box
Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Hard work
Hard work
You don't know nothing 'bout hard work
Hard work
Hard work
Oh

How do you sleep at night?
How do you walk with your head held high?
Dear Mr. President,
You'd never take a walk with me.
Would you?

--"Dear Mr. President," by Pink (feat. The Indigo Girls)


It's no secret that I vote Republican and voted for the president. Some of the lyrics in this song are cheap shots (what, Clinton had no homeless under his watch?), including pretty much all of the second verse. And needless to say, I don't agree with many of the things Pink is so angry about.

But every time I hear this song my heart hurts and tears come to my eyes. Partly because the melody is beautiful and mournful. It's simply a lovely song. But also because you can feel the pain and heartbreak in the refrain. People are crying out for justice, for help, for someone to listen to them. Mothers are crying at night. Families are broken. The world seems so very dark.

But the question to the president in this song, and I think, to the leaders of the nation in general, is not "What is your plan for getting us out of this?" At least, that's not what I hear when I listen. The questions this song really ask are: Do you care? Does injustice trouble you? Do you know what we're going through?

It's obvious that Pink believes the answers to these questions are "no." No, the president doesn't care. No, he'd never take a walk with her (of course, I wouldn't want to take a walk with someone who just wrote a song insulting me, either).

But would any other political leaders and presidential wannabes walk with her or answer those underlying questions differently? Of course, many would say they would, at least during election season. But I'm not convinced that very many of those who call themselves "public servants" truly would listen to someone who's not powerful or in a position to donate to their campaigns. Despite her harsh words, I think Pink asks some valid questions, not just of Bush but of those who are and who would like to become our leaders.

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Perhaps you'll find this an odd juxtaposition, but "Dear Mr. President" reminds me of another song. The context is different, but the underlying questions are the same.

You who live in heaven
Hear the prayers of those of us who live on earth
Who are afraid of being left by those we love
And who get hardened by the hurt
Do you remember when You lived down here where we all scrape
To find the faith to ask for daily bread
Did You forget about us after You had flown away
Well I memorized every word You said
Still I'm so scared, I'm holding my breath
While You're up there just playing hard to get

You who live in radiance
Hear the prayers of those of us who live in skin
We have a love that's not as patient as Yours was
Still we do love now and then
Did You ever know loneliness
Did You ever know need
Do You remember just how long a night can get?
When You were barely holding on
And Your friends fall asleep
And don't see the blood that's running in Your sweat
Will those who mourn be left uncomforted
While You're up there just playing hard to get?

And I know you bore our sorrows
And I know you feel our pain
And I know it would not hurt any less
Even if it could be explained
And I know that I am only lashing out
At the One who loves me most
And after I figured this, somehow
All I really need to know
Is if You who live in eternity
Hear the prayers of those of us who live in time
We can't see what's ahead
And we can not get free of what we've left behind
I'm reeling from these voices that keep screaming in my ears
All the words of shame and doubt, blame and regret
I can't see how You're leading me unless You've led me here
Where I'm lost enough to let myself be led

And so You've been here all along I guess
It's just Your ways and You are just plain hard to get.

--"Hard to Get" by Rich Mullins


My favorite Rich Mullins song, as I've mentioned before. In a crisis of the soul, what does the singer want to know about God? Do you care? Does injustice trouble you? Do you know what I'm going through?

Songs of lament, both of them. Songs of angry questions, shaking your fist: Do you see? Do you know? Do you care? Wrong is being done! People are dying and you stand by, seemingly unmoved! Help us!

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When I was in college, I took a course on religion and modern culture. I was fairly outspoken as one of the few practicing Christians (or admitted ones, anyway) in the class. One of my classmates did a presentation on some song that she deemed was anti-God--or anti-religion, anyway. She nervously warned that some might find the lyrics offensive. I did not. I found them to be strikingly similar to some of the Psalms, and said as much. (I remember the speaker being shocked that I wasn't offended, and me being shocked that she thought I would BE offended. I don't, however, remember what the song was.)

The format, the questions, even the anger and cries for justice--from Pink as well as from Rich Mullins--I find strikingly similar to some of the less-quoted Scripture passages.

How long, O LORD, must I call for help,

but you do not listen?
Or cry out to you, "Violence!"

but you do not save?

Why do you make me look at injustice?
Why do you tolerate wrong?
Destruction and violence are before me;
there is strife, and conflict abounds.

Therefore the law is paralyzed,
and justice never prevails.
The wicked hem in the righteous,
so that justice is perverted.

--Habakkuk 1:2-4

It's the question of evil. Why does God allow evil? Why does he allow good people to suffer? The standard Christian answers have to do with free will, original sin, and the devil. And those answers may somewhat satisfy us intellectually. Until we actually face suffering, until we are exposed to war, to poverty, to injustice. And then all of the theology in the world does not mend our broken hearts. And so we cry out. We cry out for justice, for understanding, for help. We cry out to a seemingly unmoved Power: Do you see? Do you know? Do you care?

One of the reasons I am suspicious of pat, tidy answers, especially within the Christian church, is books like Habbakkuk, like Job, like parts of the Psalms. I believe the Bible holds the truth, and with C.S. Lewis I believe that Christianity offers the best explanation for why the world is the way it is. But the Bible doesn't hold all of the answers. Sometimes, it just asks the right questions.

Awake, O Lord! Why do you sleep?
Rouse yourself! Do not reject us forever.
Why do you hide your face
and forget our misery and oppression?

We are brought down to the dust;
our bodies cling to the ground.
Rise up and help us;
redeem us because of your unfailing love.

--Psalm 44:23-26

Lyrical Friday: Thoughts on Faith

Ah, the news of my impending death
Came at a really bad time for me
Yeah, the news of my impending death
Any other day might have been ok

I was starting to track with my inner guide
I was getting in touch with my feminine side
But when the doctor starts whistling "happy trails"
Tends to take a bit of wind out of the old sails . . .

I'd built iron man stalls in the northern wild
I'd played cabbage patch dolls with my inner child
Now i'm getting sealed bids for a granite vault
And i'm pretty sure this is my parents' fault

--The Lament of Desmond R.G. Underwood-Frederick IV by Steve Taylor




When nothing satisfies you
When nothing satisfies you
When nothing satisfies you
Hold my hand

--When Nothing Satisfies by Jennifer Knapp


I like to read O Magazine because it has longer, more thoughtful articles than most women's magazines. Don't get me wrong, there are still plenty of pages devoted to such world-changing topics as "stuff Oprah wants you to buy" and "fashion trends that you can follow if you have a spare thousand dollars for this hot new designer dress."

But the real articles tend toward the narrative, personal experiences, and sometimes even a feature article about someone doing some good in the world, rather than the "10 Ways To Improve Your Pathetic Life" that you get in other women's magazines.

The most recent issue of the magazine, though, did its readers a disservice, I think. The issue's theme was "faith." As is the standard format for the magazine, there were a number of articles, most relatively short, written by a variety of contributers. Some of the stories were quite lovely, all were well-written, and at least one brought up some interesting insights. But the magazine had already lost me by that time.

"YOU GOTTA HAVE FAITH" the introductory section said. "It doesn't have to be a God thing. You don't have to be religious. But when you're all alone on troubled waters, you need something to hold on to..."

Seriously? It doesn't matter what you believe in, only that you believe in something?

This sentiment is standard Oprah/O Magazine stuff, and, perhaps the sentiment of a good many people in American society. It goes even beyond the idea that all religions have truth. Because O Magazine says faith doesn't "have to be religious."

No. I just can't agree. The object of faith is important. What you believe (or, as Christians say, who you believe in) in shapes you. The mere fact that you believe distinguishes you from the athiest or the nihilist, perhaps, but even they believe in their non-belief.

And (although "the terrorists" are getting to be like "Hitler" in over-the-top comparisons) I venture to say that Muslim extremists are pretty high up on the "strong faith" scale.

Think about what a person's life would look like who had faith in:

• a vengeful, demanding god


• a merciful god


• his/her own abilities


• his/her own feelings (another Oprah gospel)


• the power of money


• other people


• Mother Earth


• aliens


• nothing

Faith matters, yes. But faith is only the act of holding on. Our lives sometimes depend on what--on who--we're holding on to.

True Confessions

A while back, another blogger sponsored a writing contest about what raising children has taught you about God. But when I started thinking about it, the biggest lessons I've learned have been about me. How self-centered that sounds! Of course, yes, I've gained some insights on the love of God; being on the parenting side makes the "God as Father" metaphor more meaningful to me. But the daily challenges of parenting have also uncovered aspects of myself that I wasn't aware of (or perhaps, wanted to remain blind to). And the picture is not pretty.

I'm terribly impatient. All day, every day. I always thought I was just easily bored. But nothing will show up adult impatience like a preschooler. A preschooler has no concept of what it means to hurry. She lives in the moment, every moment. And the speed at which she selects her outfit for the day or puts on her shoes does not change, no matter how many times you tell her that she'll be late for school. The decision of which of several pink dresses to wear is vital. She must choose the right one, no matter how long it takes. Late? What's the point of being on time if you're wearing the wrong ensemble?

Of course, in the "getting ready for school" scenario, I have a valid reason for hurrying her. But I find myself clenching my fists and trying to bite my tongue even when there is no hurry. Will you just do it (whatever "it" is) and be done! Do we have to stop five times on the walk to the playground to look at random stuff on the ground and ask fifteen questions about it! Can't we just get there and start having fun already!

So, we must hurryto the playground, or, what? All the swings will be gone?

I also tend towards laziness. I always thought I was just physically lazy. I've never liked to exercise, especially if it involves actually breaking a sweat. (I'm working on that one, by the way. Been going to the gym at least three times a week. Sweating, even.)

But, here's the thing. When your daughter gets obsessed with, say, a video game, it is soooo easy to just let her have at it. For way longer than is really, uh, good for her. Why? Because turning it off brings with it a few consequences for me that my inner sloth doesn't like: first, the protests of the child, which can go on for, yes, the rest of the day (it is an obsession, after all); and second, I'll have to figure out an alternative activity for her. And sometimes? Not really inspired to play Cinderella or Littlest Pet Shop or several games of Candyland. (Candyland at least has a beginning and an end, even though you're in big trouble if you accidentally pick up the Princess Frostine card, because that is Katrina's favorite card and woe to anyone who would evilly keep the card from her with the lame excuse of following the rules of the game!)

Now, that's not to say that I don't value time with my daughter. Snuggling up to read a book to her? Anytime. Hanging out on the playground? Not bad at all, especially after what seems like months of rain. Dressing up teensy-tiny plastic dolls while re-enacting the Cinderella story? Not my favorite.

Sometimes when I ask Katrina to do or not do something, she says emphatically "I want to do what I want to do!" And I think, "Me, too!" Usually, what I want to do doesn't involve wiping a little one's bottom, playing repetitive games, or answering a series of twenty questions on the same topic. (This morning, it was on where the Pharoah's bad guys went when they were drowned in the Red Sea. And why did Pharoah chase God's people? But why was Pharoah mad? Why didn' t he want Moses to go? Why was Pharoah mean? Why did God put the water on the bad guys? Did they die? Is their skin peeling off in the water? Did the bad guys go to heaven? This series of questions brought to you by "Prairie Home Companion" on AFN radio, where they sang a spiritual about Pharoah being "drownded" in the sea. Thanks, Lake Woebegon!)

ANYWAY, when my (natural?) impatience and/or sloth (and don't forget plain old selfishness!) comes to the fore, my mothering suffers. When my impatience builds up, I say things I regret later...or, even if I manage to control my words, my tone of voice gives it away every time. And it's not like my sharp words help the situation or motivate her to get moving, already! Similarly, when I give in to my desire to relax just a few more minutes while Katrina stares at a big screen, she and I both get grumpy later. We lose time when we could be doing something more positive, healthier, more nuturing to our relationship and to her development.

What have I learned from mothering? I've grown in understanding my own sinful nature--and how it can affect my attitude, my habitual reaction to frustration, and my parenting. And from the time we brought Katrina home from the hospital, I gained a new and terrifying understanding of how powerful a parent is in the life of a child.

And that's the kicker. Most days, I am powerless to make my daughter really hurry up. But the words I say and the tone I use are powerful enough for her to remember forever--good or bad. They shape her. Will I use my parental power to build her up or, in my impatience and frustration, will I tear her down?

In the midst of this inward struggle, the cycle of sin and regret, the Lord's Prayer comes to mind. "Deliver us from evil," it says. And me, I always prayed that evil would not harm me or my family. But some time in the past few years, that has changed.

Now, I pray "Deliver us from evil," and what I really mean is, "deliver me from doing evil." Because I see now, the damage that can be done to children. The damage that I am capable of inflicting through thoughtless words and actions, when I operate out of sin. The power of parenting is the power to choose life or death, to nourish a little soul or to stifle it, to give in to our sin nature or to struggle against it. And these grand dichotomies are presented every day, every minute, in the most ordinary circumstances. Do I speak sharply out of my impatience, or do I take a breath and admire the fragment of rock Katrina picks up? Do I stand firm and require more out of both of us than an afternoon in front of the TV or computer screen? Do I kindly answer the twenty-fifth question about the same topic, or do I shut down her curiosity in favor of a few seconds of silence?

Deliver me from evil. Deliver my daughter from my evil. Cleanse my heart, not for me alone, but for my family. And most of all, cover my mistakes, my sin, with Your grace.

Little Church in K-Town

I’m unexpectedly proud of the little church we attend, Kaiserslautern Evangelical Lutheran Church. It’s a Lutheran church for English-speakers, mostly Americans with some connection to the military here. It’s been here in some form or another since the late eighties. When we first started attending, nearly two years ago, it had been without a pastor for several months. Because of its small size, KELC can’t really afford to pay a full-time pastor. So it has hired a succession of retired pastors from the States, giving them the use of a small apartment, with a half-time salary and the hours to go with it. Despite the small salary, the position is fairly attractive for adventurous retirees who would like to live in and travel in Europe for a few years.

But last year, the church decided instead to hire the pastor who was filling in for us, who just happened to be the full-time pastor of the German Lutheran church where we meet. He is an American who married a German and has lived here for about 15 years. With the permission of the German congregation, he took on our congregation, too.

It’s a good match, I think. And hopefully a bit more permanent than the few years that an American retiree could reasonably be expected to stay. With this decision, however, came another question: what should the church do with the apartment and office space it’s been renting for at least 10 years?

The current pastor doesn’t need it. He already has the parsonage connected to the German church, as well as his own office. KELC uses the apartment perhaps once every few months as a meeting space. Other than that, it is glorified storage, and for not very many things, at that.

We’re progressing rather slowly in deciding for sure what should be done, but it looks like we’ll let some or all of the space go. We could keep it if we wanted—the money is there.

In fact, the only problem concerning money for this church (other than that it’s woefully disorganized) is figuring out what to do with it. Yes, it is a small congregation. But the expenses are small, too. We meet in the sanctuary of the German church, and for what is really a nominal fee plus sharing a few expenses, like altar candles. We have a part-time pastor, but because of German tax regulation concerning second jobs, we can’t pay him what we would have paid someone from the States. The biggest budget decision to be made at the last members’ meeting was which charities the church should contribute to.

That in itself is refreshing. A church that isn’t short of money. But here’s the other thing—even though we have the money to keep the church office and apartment, many of the members would rather give up the space. Why spend thousands of dollars a year to keep a barely-used office? We could be giving it to Orphan Grain Train (through which we support a Russian orphanage) or Lutheran World Relief. Or to the German church to help fix their aging roof or paint their sanctuary.

By contrast, a number of years back we attended a church that met in a high school auditorium. It was small, too. It was also short of money, given that rent and a pastor’s salary were both much higher there. But still, for a good number of members, the burning question was, “When are we going to get a building?”
Granted, the situation was a bit different. The ushers for each week did more than collect the offering. They arrived a half-hour early so they could unpack “church” from the storage closet and set it up: a rolling wooden altar, a sound system (which was stored inside the altar), banners to lighten up the dark space. And after the service, it took another half-hour to put it all away again. A bit of hard work that never went away.

So we don’t have that here. We meet in a lovely church already, and everything is already set up. But still. There does not seem to be the yearning for “space of our own.” Even though we fit our service times around those of the German church. Even though everyone here is a transplant.

I’m not sure why the attitude is different. Perhaps because most members are not here for the long term, it is easier to hold things with a lighter grasp, and even let them go. But I like what members are saying, and what their priorities seem to be: not “growing the church,” but being here for those who need us, and using our money to make a difference to those who need it.

Nearer to Thee

I do life on my own. I have never figured out how to do it any other way. In hard times, I turn to God. In good times, I thank God. I make plans to pray. Sometimes I actually follow through. But the moment-to-moment awareness of God eludes me.

At moments in my life, God has been my breath. I have felt the Spirit right here, thickening the air around me, making each breath a sacrament. The Presence presses in, borne on music or worship or silent tears. And the longing, aching heart, answering the call of the Spirit. Here I am. I am Yours. Whatever my complaints, my questions in ordinary time, they recede in urgency. In the moment, there are only whispered intimacies. You are My beloved. I’m here. Here I am, your daughter. Wash me, make me whole. I AM with you. I missed you. I’m sorry. I love you.

Of course, the emotions fade, the sense of Presence recedes. As I’ve heard in many a sermon on the Transfiguration, even Jesus didn’t live on the mountaintop, but in the grime and complexity of the lowlands. The ordinariness of life always resumes, must resume. And I start to forget. I forget that God is right here. Instead, he feels more and more distant. Little anxieties crowd him out so, so easily. My thoughts are taken up by what we should have for dinner, when I need to pick up Katrina, should we go to the playground today or will it rain? And the transcendent moments fade. And God becomes something else on the to-do list that didn’t get done today.

Days, weeks, months pass as I immerse myself in the everyday, forgetting that God is in the everyday, too. I feel that presence fleetingly, once in a while, when I enter a church, when I listen to beautiful music, when I look up at the sky on a spring-like January day.

I begin to miss him. Even as God seems most distant, most irrelevant to daily life, I remember when the air was alive.

The words come one day, as I write in my journal for the first time in months. Draw near to God, and God will draw near to you.

And I make a resolution—again—to pray, to read, to write, to listen, to focus. Even as I feel most resolved, I remember countless times when I failed to follow through. I imagine God as Divine Critic…yeah, sure, I’ll believe it when I see it. But, no, that is me. Those are my words of self-doubt, of a misplaced desire for perfection. God is even now running toward me. Welcome home. I’ve been waiting, my beloved. Draw near to me. Let me hug you. Let the feast begin.


Listening to: Redemption Songs (Jars of Clay)
Read recently: Murder, Mayhem, and a Fine Man (Claudia Mair Burney)