Stuff and Substance

This weekend was the first time I've been back in the home where I grew up since my Dad and the Lovely Widow were married. Between their post-wedding travel and my own hectic fall, schedules just hadn't worked out for me to visit.

And, if I'm honest, I was a little apprehensive about walking into the house where my mother had lived and raised her family for 56 years. When she died suddenly we had left everything in its place, but now another woman was cooking at her stove, sitting in her chair.

What would it be like? Would everything be rearranged? Would it feel like a place I didn't know any more? What about Mom's stuff? Would she be gone?

I dragged my bags in the back door, set them down, looked around, and smiled. Some things were different--family pictures from two very different families now are scattered throughout the living room, a new couch has replaced the old worn-out sofa, and the music on the piano is a piece I've never seen before.

But the home Mom created here remains. I realized that if every single piece of furniture had been changed my mother would not have been erased from the surroundings. I still would see her in the air molecules around me, her memory fresh with every glimpse of a hand-written recipe or quirky candle.

Her stuff may be gone, but her substance remains.

That got me thinking about my relationship with God. So often this relationship is built of "stuff"--of special music played at church, of meetings attended, even of chapters ticked off in a Bible reading schedule.

What would happen if all of this stuff disappeared? What would be the substance of my relationship with God? Would I have developed complete trust in His provision, and absolute joy in worship? Would He see compassion in my attitude toward the weak, hurting, and powerless? Would I have developed an attitude of submission to my God?

Would He recognize my substance?

My Platform

Being in the middle of the country is an advantage when it comes to making political decisions. Living in one of the states that doesn't even rock, much less swing, means that we are overlooked when national candidates are deciding where to spend their campaign money.

As Martha Stewart would say, that's a good thing.

Over the years I've come to realize that choosing a candidate is much like choosing a church: There never is a single choice that exactly matches my beliefs and convictions, much less my tastes and preferences. This one doesn't sing enough of the old hymns, that one puts too much emphasis on programs and not enough on evangelism, the one over there does that weird hand-holdy thing that makes me squirm. This candidate is cutting aid to education, that one is raising taxes, and SAVE OUR AQUARIUM!

In this, my tenth vote for a president of the United States, it occurs to me that I have an ideal candidate in mind. Here's what he believes in:

1. He believes we have a responsibility to care for the poor, sick, and hungry.

2. He believes that the person who can work should work.

3. He wants every person to use every talent, no matter whether that person is hugely talented or minimally talented, whether that person is white or non-white, whether that person is a he or a she.

4. He does everything in his power to protect the powerless, and knows that peace comes from both strength and compassion.

5. He hears everyone, not just the loudest voices or those with the most money.

And when I write them out like this, I realize that my politics are not party-linked--I'm casting my vote for the person who most resembles the Rebel Jesus.

Which candidate would that be?

Converting You Is Not My Job

It occurs to me that if I'm going to write about God in this spot, it would be helpful for me to put right out front what I believe about God. That way you, my dear reader, don't have to look for Deeper Meanings, of which I have none.

So here it is. I believe:

1. God is. That's where it starts, isn't it? Omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, all the omnis.

2. God is love. God loves me, and every other human. God created everything (and it doesn't make one bit of difference to me how He created it), but humans have a special place in His heart.

3. I am a sinner. I am in good company, though; so is every other human. And by "sinner" I don't necessarily mean I've killed someone, joined a skinhead group, or done whatever your definition of a "bad" thing might be. I sure as heck have envied and gossiped and have successfully and knowingly used expired coupons (whoops, cheated the grocery store there).

4. God is perfect, and can't have a relationship with a sinner. 

5. Because He loves me (see step 2) God sent His Son to earth as a human, and by accepting his own humiliating and human death, Jesus took my sin on himself so I could have a relationship with God.

6. I, and every other human, can know God because of the sacrifice Jesus made. 

And that's it. I could give you Bible references for each of the points above (oh, I forgot to mention that I believe the Bible), but as theologian Karl Barth pointed out, this set of beliefs was summarized neatly in song you may have heard:

Jesus loves me, this I know,
For the Bible tells me so.
Little ones to Him belong,
They are weak but He is strong.

Please be assured that I am not trying to persuade you to my way of thinking--the Bible makes it pretty clear that beyond letting you know that I have chosen Christ, I'm not responsible for your spiritual decisions. Converting you is not my job; that's between you and Him.

I am not a theologian, I am not a scholar, I'm just a person trying to know God a little better every day and writing about that process.

This is where I start.

Getting My Religion Back

When my Boys were rambunctious toddlers my mom made me a promise:

"When they get older, you'll get your religion back," she told me.

Sunday mornings were such a hassle that I couldn't believe I'd ever look forward to the so-called day of rest. There was the stress of getting all the kids ready for church, and the associated Where-Are-My-Black-Socks refrain. Then once all six of us were lined up in a pew there was the constant vigilance to make sure no one was poking or prodding (or, as they got older, sleeping). Even Husband's and my tactic of dividing and conquering wasn't foolproof: With four of them, even if we sat between them there were always at least two within pinching range of a brother.

I spent the worship hours whispering dire warnings and praying with one eye open. I reconnected with God during my women's Bible study, or during my quiet time, NOT during church.

My faith was always present, but the practice of my religion was something that no longer fit my orderly preconception.

Last Sunday our congregation met to call a new children's minister. Dozens of youngsters were running around--and not one of them was ours. With all of our kids away at college, we could concentrate on the speaker without worrying that the crash we just heard had been precipitated by one of our Boys.

It occurred to me that Husband and I have moved into a new phase of our relationship with our congregation. We had been the ones with all those kids, so we had a vital interest in choosing youth pastors and children's ministers who came alongside the faith-building we were working hard to foster in our family's day-to-day-life. Now, though, we are on the sidelines as the parents of the next generation of kids scrutinize candidates' theology and examine teaching methods.

Does this mean we're no longer relevant in the life of our church? Are we the vestigial appendixes of the body of Christ? Well, certainly we've passed out of our previous roles, and maybe that's not a bad thing.

Realizing that the world does not revolve around us certainly is a liberating concept. We can attend (or not attend) services and events without wondering if we are setting a bad example for our children. We are less tied down to the children and teen events and programs, and can settle in where our gifts and graces are the best match--I can play the piano without feeling guilty that I'm not also teaching children's Sunday School.

There was one tiny twinge of regret Sunday as I realized that Husband and I need to find our new roles in our church. But then I laughed at the thought--I'm at the perfect age to pray with ceasing, to sing with abandon, to focus on God in my life. I can take Colossians 3:16 as my guide: "Let the word of Christ richly dwell within you, with all wisdom teaching and admonishing one another with psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with thankfulness in your hearts to God."

I'm old enough now to get my religion back.

In the Beginning

Husband and I were guests at a new church during our recent camping trip and we sat in front of a pew-full of little old ladies. They were chatting with such volume and vigor that one of them didn't realize the pastor had started the service.

"I JUST NEVER FEEL GOOD ANY MORE," this white-haired dear told her companion during the opening prayer. "NEVER. HOW ABOUT YOU?"

The other lady had heard the preacher's call to worship and replied in what obviously was meant to be a conversation-stopping whisper.

"Oh, I try to not pay attention to how I feel," she said quietly, but this hint was too subtle.

"REALLY? I NEVER FEEL GOOD," the first lady hollered.

"Dear, everyone can hear you talking," the second finally said.

There was silence for a long pause then Lady One replied.

"WELL, GOOD. THEN THEY KNOW I'M HERE."

For a couple of years now I've blogged about my new life stage as an empty nester. Every once in a while, though, I want to dig a little deeper into faith thoughts than is appropriate on a blog that spends as many words on pantyhose as that other blog does. This, then, is the corner of the internet I'm setting aside for another apsect of my life--my thoughts on faith, on living a life that not only includes God but attempts to put God squarely in the forefront.

I am not theologically savvy or an expert on these matters, but every once in a while I catch glimpses of the train of His robe.

I'm here in the temple, and this is what I see.