Before Surrender

from Tuesday: before  ~

I am not surrendered, and I feel it, all this tightness that won't relax.  I don't know what I should do, is my excuse to not surrender.  Do I surrender to something that God allowed but didn't want?  Or did He want it?  How can I know?  And while I don't know, can't I surrender to this gift-life that God has made for me?  I jerk back again, familiar tightening as my heart pulls back from the pain.  Take this pain as a gift?  Surrender to this God who hurts me? 

Love is certainly not all about getting.  I think this as I ponder the way I love others, and the ways I feel alone.  And when I chose to love these friends, I knew there would be pain, and I decided to give love, to sacrifice.  Love doesn't demand a return.  God loved me this way, this self-giving whether I love Him well or not.  And it hasn't occurred to me that I must choose to love God, to give love, to sacrifice, to be wounded by Him because I love.  I felt that loving a lack-less God would not cost.  If love is not all about getting, and all I do is get from God, then I am not loving. 

The invitation is there, and I'm wrestling on the edge.  I don't know what loving God looks like.  I don't know what it will cost, to show love to a God who has anything He wants.  It is, the Scriptures say, a fearful thing to fall into these hands.  And I am afraid.  Who says love ever has to know before it gives, how much?  I grieve that I don't love Him.  I plead that He will give me a passion for His glory.  I ask for His mercy, though I don't know what that means. 

My mercy-pleas hope that He will remember that I am but dust.  Maybe then He will expect no more of me than dust, go easy on me, be gentle and shallow.  Such is not the salvation I want, the redemption that inspires my faith.  It is to God's credit that He has chosen to transform dust.  I hope I will remember I am dust, so I will trust Him who is the treasure in this earthen vessel.  The treasure transforms the vessel.  I am born of the Spirit, set with the Son of God in heavenly places, heir of the lack-less God.  Would I want to be left as dust?  Do I despise His mercy so much as to deny its work?  Would I deprive the God I love of the joy of seeing His sacrifice accomplish its intent?  Though I doubt, He is faithful, unable to deny Himself His well-purified Bride. 

Surrender isn't what I expected.  Maybe I thought it would mean being sent, and employed - maybe I thought surrender was more getting of what I want: the satisfaction of a meaningful adventure-life.  And maybe surrender is letting go of the things that I actually care about.  Maybe I thought I would choose what to lose, that it would be this me-exalting expression of my love: that I choose to leave behind chocolate or bookshelves or the world I have known, all to prove I love God.  God doesn't need me to prove my love; I won't impress Him.  He knows if I actually love.  Getting credit for my love is not what love's about. 

And maybe I've been there before, surrendered, loving, content, sincerely yielded to His whatever will.  Maybe that was before I knew Him this well and saw how little I really know Him.  What do I need to know about God to love Him?  What do I do with this back-of-my-mind taunt that it is foolish to love a God who isn't good, who isn't just, who isn't faithful?  I argue loudly that the only begotten Son dying an excruciating death was not a ruse.  I remind my back-of-the-mind-me that I know I am not wise or all knowing.  I'm doing what is right, to fight the lies and doubts.  But all of it is reaching to understand first, before I surrender. 

after ~

More than one friend this week has quoted to me Jim Elliot’s famous admonition: “He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose.”  I decided that it would be wicked to wait to surrender.  I cannot keep my control or my pride anyway, praise YHWH!  And in giving these things, I have received release and joy.  Thanks is the exercise of continual surrender, and over the past few days I have taken refuge in thanking God for the painful things.  His mercy endures forever. 

To God be all glory.

Still Remembering

I forget sometimes that it is ok to be quiet, to sit in quiet.  There is a baby softly crying right now, upstairs, and I'm waiting to see whether she'll fall back asleep on her own.  But I have to listen for the next noise she will make, and she may not make any.  Meanwhile, it is mostly quiet.  I let the music end.  There is white noise coming from the baby monitor.  A clock ticks.  A train whistle sounds in the distance.  Cars go by, but a few streets over.  My fingernails click against the keyboard.  And I am quiet.  How much you can hear when you are willing to be still.  

This week at the prayer meeting I attend we were talking about what it means to hear God's voice.  When Philip heard the angel of the Lord, and the Spirit, speaking to him in Acts 8, what had he been doing?  Was he busy doing something else God had told him to do?  Or was he doing something he thought was not wicked, but not really directed by God?  Was he eager to be used by God and so praying for God to give him a direction?  And if you do something like that, how long should you wait?  What if you decided to be still until God spoke, and He took longer than you expected?  What if you gave up waiting on Him, went on to some good task, and missed Him telling you to randomly take the desert road?  

Another thing we were talking about was how we can make our own noise, or dive into distractions, keeping us from hearing God.  If we never take the time to pray or sing praise songs, if we fill ourselves with TV and news and work and hobbies, we aren't giving God much of a chance.  And He deserves more than a chance (even though He can break through without chances).

Waiting is hard, especially when God is quiet.  I, at least, start to doubt that He will ever speak, or that He has ever spoken.  Reminders come that there are things that I want God to do, and I start thinking that I could do them - if only He would give me orders.  Or maybe all I need is permission.  Or maybe I'll just do them myself anyway.  And suddenly instead of God's servant waiting, God's servant is taking over.  And I realize that I had been waiting for God to be my servant, not for Him to be my Master.  

There's another side to patient waiting, though.  Rest.  Peace.  Presence.  When we are still, we are not busy.  (And I don't think you can argue that God has called us to constant busyness.)  If we trust that He will work when His good time has arrived, we can have peace: confidence and hope and the absence of that tight anxiety that makes you feel as though you are straining even when you are not moving.  His presence is filling the silence when we draw near to Him.  Maybe He wants us to enjoy Him, instead of just running around trying to earn His love.  His love is a gift, His work in us is grace, and when He is not employing us, that is also grace.  

Lately I've been learning to remember in the waiting.  Remember God's prior faithfulness.  Remember that He has truly led me here.  Remember that He promises to hear me.  This remembering builds faith.  It brings thanks.  It intentionally focuses me so that I can have peace.  It directs my faith to true things, to God's real ways.  And it lets me be aware of His nearness.  

Most times it is hard to thank God for waiting.  Maybe it's because I need to do it better.  

To God be all glory.

Ain't Slang a Problem

I used to wonder why parents and teachers and snobby kids a year ahead of me in school insisted against “ain’t.”  We used to chant to an offender, “Ain’t ain’t a word, ‘cause it ain’t in the dictionary.”  We lived in Texas, where they have their own brand of contractions and substitutions and pronunciations.  This probably resulted from the cultural blend of Mexican Spanish, rogue English, and a bit of patriotism to boot.  Some slang words were enshrined in Country Western Music, a segment of the arts arguably as qualified as Shakespeare to introduce expressions (and evidence says that Shakespeare did a lot of word-inventing).  For the most part, I imagine parents and teachers were doing a more mature version of our parroting chant: they just repeated what they’d been told was good and right. 

As I’ve grown up, and denouncing slang has become less and less popular, I’ve formed some ideas about why it’s so bad.  What I have identified is: association, exclusion, comprehension, and preservation. 

If you go to slang dictionaries like “Urban Dictionary” online, you will find some unsavory histories of words we use.  Prisoners and gangs will start to use a word differently than everyone in the outside world.  Maybe they’ll use it as a vivid metaphorical reference to some coarse or irreverent thing.  Or they can use it with a sort of morbid sarcasm where what is dreadful to decent people is celebrated by them.  As the usage of the word spreads (and why it may spread I’ll discuss in a following section), the original vulgarity is dulled because the new speakers don’t realize the origin.  This happens with respectable poetic quotes as well, so we shouldn’t be surprised.  It is sloppy to make the mistake whether the origin is noble or base.  However, parents don’t usually want their children to have a lot in common with criminals and gangs, so they discourage language associated with them and derived from their lifestyles. 

Most of us have had experience with inside jokes.  A few people in the room know a story no one else does, and someone mentions it, and they all laugh while you feel left out and clueless.  Slang, especially when it starts, is like that.  People begin to use a word in a way that most people won’t recognize or understand.  They can’t go look it up in the dictionary.  There’s no history of literature by which to decipher the code in which the other individual is talking.  This could be intentionally deceptive on their part, like parents spelling words in front of their young children – or the individual using slang may be so unfamiliar with cultures outside his own that he doesn’t realize how specialized his speech is.  Slang uses words that already belong to English – words that have a meaning to most people.  It may not even be immediately apparent to either of you that misunderstanding is taking place.

Unlike learning a second language, where there are grammars and translation dictionaries and classes to take, picking up this exclusive language involves a sort of immersion.  You have to find out what that speaker is feeling and thinking, what experiences have built his past, to determine what he means when he uses a word that you and the rest of the world know means something he does not mean.  While I am an advocate for relationship and community, I value the ability to skip these elementary steps of familiarization to move on to benefiting each other by what you know, by being able to express feelings of approval or displeasure, the ability to share an experience side by side and know there is commonality because you can communicate it.  Language is a wonderful tool for these things, a tool being undercut by the prevalent use of slang. 

Finally there is preservation.  This point may not carry as much weight with most people, but I believe it is important.  A conservative language is one that has access not only to the ideas in one’s own society, but also to far-distant and different cultures: geographically, socio-economically, and even over time.  Imagine if you didn’t have to learn Old English or endure the mediation of a translator to enjoy Beowulf.  What if the Bible read by the Puritans still made sense to us today?  As our language evolves, isn’t it possible that we are gradually losing the wisdom and values of the past, constantly innovating and evolving our identities and beliefs?  Aren’t our people crying out for peace, for stability, for the ability to commit to something and have it mean something?  Do we want to feel so isolated and lonely? 

I’m not advocating that we all learn Old English now, or go back to the King’s English spoken by the colonists of the United States hundreds of years ago – though I support members of our present population studying the expressions of the past so that we can keep hold of what those ancestors have to offer us today.  I am not going to militate against poetry, or to fight new words for new inventions and discoveries.  If you use the word “nice” to mean “friendly,” I probably won’t think too much about whether you actually meant “precise” and “orderly” as a man used to mean when he used that word.  I will keep in mind that “might” has to do with strength and ability at least as much as “can” when mothers ridiculously correct their children from saying “Can I?” to “May I?”  My fascination for words and their meanings and histories will continue to hone my vocabulary, my ability to communicate with strength and economy.  And I suspect that when my children are tempted to adopt the street language of their days, I’ll join the ranks of parents past by discouraging the use of slang. 

What will you do? 

To God be all glory.

Sore Backs & Other Pilgrimage Symptoms

My back is sore and I might blame my posture just because I don’t have many other theories on what’s wrong.  For a minute or two I remember to sit up straight, but my friends say my version of straight isn’t really. 

I’ve been thinking about friendships, and how people love me even though I’m not perfect and even though I keep (quite unjustly) expecting them to get fed up and abandon me.  I write these long emails that I don’t edit and then I can’t help but criticize simple grammar mistakes other writers or speakers make.  I love editing, but I almost never edit my blogs, preferring for whatever readers there are to receive a gushing of my mind or imagination.  It’s those things on my blog, rarely my heart, and a good thing, because my heart doesn’t make sense to me so much of the time.  But the emails are feelings, and I kind of want people to take my feelings seriously even though I don’t – or at least, I do sometimes, but somehow I know which ones are important and which ones are very temporary and friends have little ways of knowing that and sometimes they’re right and I’m wrong, knowing that even if I don’t want to, I should get over certain feelings sooner rather than later. 

I’m glad for friends who don’t let me get away with things, who know my faults and remind me of them.  Sometimes I feel torn down when they don’t balance the list with things I’m good at.  I am incredibly bad at balancing my comments to people, myself.  But what an incredible testimony of their love for me, that they’re my friends even though they could recite the list. 

Or maybe I could blame something else for the knots in my back, muscles not meant to be hard, tightened against showing emotion – tightened against feeling it, maybe.  I have realized lately that I am terrible at relaxing.  I’m not very good at rejoicing, either.  And because those things come hard, real grieving doesn’t come easily either.  I’m always torn between bearing my own burdens (often meaning not dealing with them) and with troubling friends to help me.  I want to be honest.  And I want people to have a good opinion of me.  (A lot of times these things are at all out war in me…  The real me has a lot of sanctification left to experience, and enjoys a lot of grace from others exposed to her.) 

But I don’t want to be all about tearing myself down, and the past several months I’ve been strongly tempted to focus on all the “reasons” for things not to go well in my life, as though grace has no part to play.  The truth is God has worked in me, and done great things.  I’m begging Him to open my eyes to His work in my life, so that I can praise Him and walk further in those ways. 

He has led me to trust Him in ways I never imagined.  When I was at the end of myself, He put people in my way who needed to hear the comforting sound of truth, and He spoke it through me.  There have been moments where this personality trait of clearly seeing what needs to be done or said or the outstanding questions to be asked have been exactly what my friends needed.  God has given me so much time to pray, and often taken away my desire to do anything else.  Thanks has fallen simply from my spirit – not easily yet for deeply hard things, but for happy things and small gifts.  I have been able to ask for help and able to pursue those who need help yet won’t ask.  There are a whole slew of questions I’ve found recently about how to live the Christian life and how God works, but it’s a step forward, knowing what to search out. 

This day is an ok day to not chase answers.  I’ll sit back against a heating pad, and reach for my battery-operated massager, and pray in deep breaths the things that are on the surface of my heart. 

To God be all glory.

Two Parts

My brother says there are songs for almost every experience, every emotion.  Most of them just express well what you feel.  Psalms, he says, does a great job of identifying where you’re at so that you can take it somewhere: offer it to God, learn, move to a new place of trust and worship.  But something I have been thinking this week is that there aren’t always songs.  Or I don’t know them.  My experiences are rather complex right now, and I am dissatisfied with every song on my playlist.  I’m still listening to a few, though, just because I want to hear truth.  So in a way, I’m taking the second half of the Psalms and just begging them to drag me out of this perplexity – not that I believe the remedy I am looking for is as simple as a list of well-written songs.  It’s going to be a process. 

The other night I was discussing this with a friend, how I’ll realize that I’ve failed in my friendships somehow, and what I want to do is call up my friends and meet them in two hours and act the opposite and apologize and explain and generally fix everything instantly.  Repentance isn’t really like that.  I can’t entirely undo the way I’ve acted.  And one burst of being good isn’t worth nearly as much as treating my friends well every day here on out.  I can’t fix my friendships all in a day, and I can’t restore my reputation like that either.  (One thing I realized while talking with my friend is that this impulse is partially driven by pride.  I am not quite as eager to do right by my friends as I am in a hurry to ensure they have a good impression of me.) 

And long ago I realized that friendships aren’t built in a day.  They aren’t even necessarily built in a series of intense interviews.  Sometimes you build friendships by giving a smile when they’re having a hard day, and that’s all.  You can drop a single line of encouragement.  Observe them doing something they enjoy – doing it with them, but without a lot of conversation.  I have to be content with the interaction that comes, even if it isn’t the “baring of our souls and the telling of the most appalling secrets.” 

On the other hand, I’m always after being a better friend, how to make the most of the time that we’re given, how to clearly and concisely communicate who I am and what I hope for them. 

Two parts: Being real and moving towards an unrealized ideal. 

To God be all glory.  

First Save

I wrote "First Save" in 2007, and did not publish it at first just in case there were privacy issues.  This far removed from the actual date, I am confident that the details are sufficiently ambiguous.  After several months of sidewalk counselling almost every Saturday, at last I was privileged to witness God saving the life of a tiny human being:

He was a big man, but not scary.  He wore a pink bag over his shoulder, obviously too small and not his style.  His face was friendly, and he seemed to really listen, even as he tied his shoes: first one with his foot up on the ladder, then the other.  For some reason he had stepped into them, smashing the heel down to make a slip on, but now he was going to wear them like real tennis shoes.  They were blue.  And every once in a while he would look up, and say something – his tone varying between defensive and desperately helpless. 

This strong black man was following a woman into an abortion clinic.  Actually he drove by, turned around, and ended up parking outside the screened-in parking lot, so that she walked about a block to get inside.  Between his Suburban and the door were a crowd of pro-life demonstrators with literature and earnest desire to help her and her baby.  Perhaps he wanted her to walk alone; maybe he was ashamed or maybe he hoped the pro-life voices would turn her back.  Or perhaps the day just went like that.  Maybe he was throwing his shoes on and reaching into the back seat for her pink bag and said he’d catch up. 

When she came by she said she wasn’t pregnant, that she was just looking for someone.  Her clothes matched the description of a woman planning on an abortion: in her twenties, loose gym pants and a sheepskin coat.  She paused for a moment to listen, and then hurried on in, still insisting she was looking for someone.  Once inside the parking lot, she even looked around first to keep up the charade.  And then she entered the facility, with people outside begging her all the way not to go in there where they kill babies. 

Then he followed.  “You can get her out of there.  Do you want to kill your baby?” the man was asked.  One of the protestors shared the story how many years ago he took his girlfriend to this very clinic, paid the money, and then she left him a month later, discovering after she was married and ready for kids that she was unable to ever have children.  He had been an accomplice.  The man listened, but gave the impression he didn’t have a choice.  So he didn’t want to hear anymore.  After much persuasion, one of the men managed to hand him a flyer with pro-life free clinics and resources described on it.  And he went in. 

The parking lot filled up – all except for the row of spaces facing the fence; after over thirty years of business, Planned Parenthood has only recently learned to keep the customers far away from the fence.  About twenty women went inside.  Another woman walked by, quiet and burdened, but telling us that she was going in for other gynecological care.  She took literature about life, and was walked to the parking lot by a pro-life man asking her to give her business to a place that didn’t kill babies.  She went in and hours later still hadn’t returned. 

And then the man came back.  He lit his cigarette and left the parking lot, back to talk to the pro-life people.  I want to say us.  I didn’t say anything to him, but how I prayed!  He said he’d tried to talk his girlfriend out of the abortion, and now she was screaming at him and crying.  Don’t give up, we told him.  Try again.  When he finished his cigarette, he went back in. 

The next time he came out, another forty-five minutes later or so, he had another cigarette and still carried the pink bag.  She was back in the exam room now, he told us.  He had been up for 36 hours trying to talk her out of it.  Her mom told her it was wrong, and he begged her not to do it.  He’d asked again, and she still wouldn’t change her mind.  “Bull-headed,” he said.  “They should make a law.”  It was his baby.  Didn’t he have any say in whether it lived or died?  He couldn’t drag her out of there.  Almost when he repeated that, he wanted someone else to, or someone outside to tell him he could do that.  But Planned Parenthood had threatened to have him arrested if he did such a thing.  So he was back, dealing with the stress through tobacco and venting, and casting a last line for help.  A couple women and a couple men on the pro-life side stood faithfully behind their boundary conversing with him, encouraging him not to give up, telling him they didn’t think the abortionist had arrived yet, that the girlfriend was only being prepped by staff.  I eyed the freedom with which he entered and exited the forbidden zone of the parking lot. 

Sadly, abortion is almost always a selfish act.  Too many women enter the clinic with hearts hardened against the fragile life God has set inside them.  Pictures of blood and accusations of murder do nothing.  Pleas to spare their babies are unheard.  So pro-life intercessors will attempt an appeal to the selfishness and self-preservation on which the women are acting.  They warn of complications, of extortion, of the risks of emotional and physical post-abortion effects.  And one of the scariest things they can tell women is the fact that the shock caused to a woman’s body by artificially terminating a pregnancy greatly increases the risk of breast cancer. 

Just before the man reentered Planned Parenthood, a pro-life advocate handed him a brochure about the link between abortion and breast cancer, featuring a pink ribbon on the front.  “Fold it up and hide it, or they’ll take it from you at the door,” he was warned.  Stuffing it in his pocket, he disappeared.  “We’ll pray for you,” a mother of four called from outside the fence. 

Minutes later, after the crowd of staff and protestors alike had dwindled, the woman came over, and with the pro-lifer who had offered the final brochure, we claimed God’s sovereign provision for the little baby, begging that the man would be given the words to get his girlfriend safely out without inciting intervention by the staff.  “There is one light inside that clinic today,” she said.  Afterward we talked about theology and politics and the way abortion clinics function.  “You want to go to breakfast?”  A pro-life man offered to continue our debate on theology with a couple of his friends.  Torn and hesitant, I said quietly, “I want to stay until he comes out.” 

I don’t know.  I’d been praying for that man since he walked in early in the morning.    Though I hadn’t spoken, I felt connected.  He was my charge somehow, and I had considered even offering to pray with him, or sharing the gospel with him.  Maybe I failed by my silence.  But I still felt so strongly that I wanted him to come out, and I wanted to be there…  Even if he came out hours later the father of a murdered baby, it didn’t seem fair for us to abandon him.  I couldn’t stay that long, but I wanted to. 

“How long?  Fifteen minutes?” my friend asked.  I sort of shrugged and avoided answering.  We continued to talk of other things, and finally knew we had to go.  Breakfast at this late stage was out of the question.  We helped pack his many signs.  Everything was in his van except two ladders (used for talking and displaying signs above the tarps strung around the parking lot) when the man came out with his girlfriend, her head down so all I could see was her short brown hair streaked with bold strawberry blonde highlights.  I caught up with them – I don’t know why, hoping he’d volunteer information, forgetting that since I had never vocalized my concern he owed me no news. 

She raised her head, and meeting my eyes, we exchanged a smile.  I don’t even know her name, but I pray she was encouraged by that.  The remaining pro-life friends hurried to ask whether she changed her mind.  The man waved his hand protectively, as though asking us not to say anything.  It was him she trusted, he who had persuaded her to leave.  If we spoke we might undo her fragile resolve.  “Do you want some literature on where you can get free care, free baby clothes?”  Still the man didn’t answer.  Everyone but me watched him from the corner of the block, across the street from his SUV.  I couldn’t go forward, dreading to learn for certain that it was too late. 

So many mothers had gone into Planned Parenthood today; surely the odds were higher that at least one would change her mind.  God was sovereign.  This poor father had no other options but God’s help in changing his girlfriend’s heart.  Could God stay out of this?  Could God say no?  If the mother had been crying at one point over the decision, wasn’t she weak?  Couldn’t she have chosen to keep the baby? 

But this was a big, life-changing deal.  Keeping a baby is a commitment and a responsibility, an anchor to the relationship and many other things beside.  Walking out of the clinic, her face could have represented either choice – but for the smile.  So the report my friends brought back was that she had decided to go through with the pregnancy.  The man drove away with her in the passenger seat already reading, possibly reading again, the flyers of resources we’d given him hours before. 

We gathered to pray.  I smiled.  I marveled.  God had answered.  Only God could have effected it.  If we hadn’t waited, we wouldn’t have known.  The mother of four who had led us in prayer confessed to calling a friend to ask her to pray for the man’s attempt, too.  And God had heard our prayers. 

I left the clinic soon afterward, already hours later than I usually go on with my Saturday.  And as soon as I was alone, the tears came.  With all the deaths witnessed each weekend, it’s hard to be concerned and passionate about each of them.  So this is what it feels like.  This is how the faithful witnesses outside the fence do it week after week for years upon end.  Sometimes it works.  Sometimes you cry with gratitude that God let you see Him intervene for a life.  And then you realize that all this investment only kept the baby alive; there’s still a lifetime of needs spiritual and physical that the parents and baby will experience.  You see that the harvest is great, but the laborers are few.  So you pray again… 

To God be all glory.

God's Department

I happen to think that a great many things are God’s department.  I believe that nothing happens without Him ordaining it.  This isn't to say that I don’t believe in personal responsibility, especially in obeying God.  It’s an interesting thing about obedience, though: you can’t obey an order that isn't given, even if you feel urgently like the Master needs to get you moving.  A servant is still (or busy at the last assigned tasks) until another order comes.  This shows trust that the Master can make better decisions than the servant regarding how he should be serving.  It is a submissive dependence on the Master.  The Bible talks again and again about waiting on God.  I believe it is essential to faith and humility. 

So many people encourage Christians to see a good direction and go for it.  One that I encounter a lot is marriage.  People think that a servant of God, if he or she desires marriage and a family, should not be sitting around waiting for God to bring them a spouse.  These people may be right, but only if God has told the Christian to be doing something – directly or indirectly acquiring a spouse.  If He has not moved in that direction in their lives yet, then they are not going to be obeying God – or finding the spouse He desires them to be united with – if they make efforts on their own. 

Over the years waiting on God to direct me (and sometimes taking steps that He tells me to take – sometimes taking steps He doesn’t tell me to, and repenting), there have been several verses that have encouraged me to be patient, that God is in control and that His plan for marriages is good. 

Proverbs 19:14, "House and riches are the inheritance of fathers: and a prudent wife is from the LORD."

Proverbs 18:22, "Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the LORD."

Matthew 19:4-6, "And he answered and said unto them, Have ye not read, that he which made them at the beginning made them male and female,  And said, For this cause shall a man leave father and mother, and shall cleave to his wife: and they twain shall be one flesh?  Wherefore they are no more twain, but one flesh. What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder."

Hebrews 13:4, "Marriage is honourable in all, and the bed undefiled: but whoremongers and adulterers God will judge."

Ephesians 2:10, "For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them."

Psalms 37:3-5, "Trust in the LORD, and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed. Delight thyself also in the LORD; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart. Commit thy way unto the LORD; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass."

It is popular among conservative Christians to assert that the headship of a man and the exclusion of women from authority over men applies to initiating romantic relationships.  This seems consistent with the patriarchal values taught in the Bible, though it is not specifically prescribed.  One verse that encourage me, as a woman, to let men take the lead, especially in this area, is Proverbs 30:18-19, "There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not: The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid."

For a while I was strongly influenced by movements which taught that guarding one’s emotional heart from attachment, interest, or affection should be a single woman’s main goal.  I no longer believe this.  There are verses that speak of guarding your heart (Proverbs 4:23), but I believe that those verses refer to temptation, not to caring for others.  We should all be careful that our loves are guided by the description in 1 Corinthians 13, that our love for one another is not selfish or lustful, but patient and kind and humble and selfless and hopeful.  Another verse I have been known to use to argue for “guarding my heart” is from Song of Solomon, the refrain, "I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor awake [my] love, till he please."  That is the KJV; in other versions it is translated in a way that sounds more like a warning against falling in love before it is time.  I am not convinced of that translation, or of its application. 

Generally, I am opposed to flirting.  If it is sexually enticing (and not between a husband and wife), I think that it is wrong.  Other reasons why I don’t like flirting are that it makes one the aggressive center of attention.  It is not modest for a woman to demand that a man pay attention to her silliness.  Finally, I think that flirting often replaces more direct forms of communication and commitment that are too much neglected – leading to misunderstanding and discord.  However, I don’t think it is always wrong.  I believe that if a woman is so scared to show her interest in a man whom she favors that she doesn’t respond to him when he teases or jokes or compliments or questions or even just sits down next to her, she is being dishonest, and setting herself up to be passed over.  A man may deem that she would reject him if he pursued her.  Women ought to affirm our brothers in Christ, whether we are going to marry them or not.  This deceptive reserve cheats them of this natural edification.  If a woman really loves a man, she will want what is best for him, even at the risk that she will grow fonder of him.  She should trust God to guide her heart and hopes.  This trust is, of course, not done apart from investing heavily in her relationship with God. 

Examples in the Bible are diverse: Eve was formed directly from Adam’s side while he slept.  Isaac received his wife because his father sent a faith-full servant to his relatives to find one, and she agreed.  Jacob fell in love with Rachel and acquired her sister also because of his deceptive brother-in-law.  Widow Ruth’s mother-in-law noted Boaz’s kindness, and his position to be the kinsman-redeemer for Ruth, and sent Ruth after Boaz in a very discreet yet appealing way.  Then Ruth had to sit and wait for the man to accomplish all the particulars.  David and Michal fell in love, but that didn’t turn out so well; she rescued David and lied for him and then her dad the king gave her to be someone else’s wife.  He also married Abigail after her first, wicked husband died.  And we know he married Bathsheba because the death penalty for his adultery with her was not enforced against them.  Not the recommended way of entering into marriage.  Esther became Ahasuerus’ wife because he made a decree to bring beautiful women into his harem.  God told Hosea to choose a wife of harlotry, thus his marriage to Gomer. 

Then we have Paul’s confusing instructions in 1 Corinthians 7.  And we can look at the love stories between YHWH and Israel, and between Jesus and the Church.  This last is no small thing and has encouraged me to wait well, and to take this time of deferred hope as a time to learn more about the Church that is awaiting her Bridegroom’s return from his Father’s house. 

My point is that there are a multitude of very different stories, wound about with love and sacrifice betwixt sin and sorrow.  Fathers act, men act, women act, mothers-in-law act.  The moral of the story is to desire good things, wait on God to direct you, and walk confidently by faith.

Romans 14:23, "...for whatsoever is not of faith is sin."

To God be all glory.

Submission, Stillness, and Sacrifice

Once upon a time, right before I started this blog, I was noticing a lack of male leadership in my church.  Women who notice such things are usually pro-patriarchy; we’re complementarians, ok with pastors being only men and husbands being the head of the households (even of the wives!).  Those kinds of people are supposed to believe in submission, in not taking over authority not given to them; some of them don’t even believe in speaking during Church meetings.  So I talked to God about the situation, and asked Him, if I’m not allowed to teach men or take charge myself to get this right – and I’m not – then how shall I fix it?  Because God is not a crying female, He doesn’t entirely mind His children asking if they may be part of fixing problems.  Because He is a good authority, He assigned me the job of fixing myself and my own role in the problem.  What He said was to study biblical womanhood, and to study it together with other women, so that when we behave as we ought, our husbands and brothers and pastors and deacons and teachers and friends can be encouraged (by abiding need and by affirmation) to take up the leadership God has delegated to them. 

This episode of my life is significant for a lot of reasons. 

First, God spoke to me, clearly and directly answering a question I had been asking Him in prayer.  His speaking was inaudible, but it was not circumstantial.  I heard in my head clear sentences about what I was supposed to do and why. 

Circumstances worked out to where the way I was to study with other women was made clear.  That very week before the sermon, an announcement was made that there would be a women’s ministry meeting, and anyone wanting to get involved should stay for the meeting. 

I had become convinced that God had gifted me with teaching and I wasn’t using that spiritual gift.  At the meeting this possibility was specifically mentioned, and I volunteered to teach, subject and format already in mind (we spent 11 weeks on Titus 2:3-5 and Proverbs 31:10-31). 

Fourth, I learned a lot about godly womanhood and about studying the Bible with a community of women and about faith.  One lesson that stands out right now is related to God’s answer about how to get men to lead.  When we came to studying the Titus 2 characteristic of “discretion,” what we came around to was that a godly woman is a woman of influence.  She’s willing to do things behind the scenes, to not say or do overt things that could lead to conflict or disrespect or usurping a man’s role.  Instead she’s the good cousin to manipulative: she’s discreet.  The word carries with it also a sense of wisdom, of thoughtful intentionality, and of self control for the sake of others’ interests. 

Finally, when our group of women finished studying Titus 2 and Proverbs 31, we moved into studying spiritual gifts – a breakthrough study for me and my beliefs about the Holy Spirit’s significant role in the Church and how the way we “do” church generally stifles that work. 

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about these two subjects: about authority and submission, as a woman and in the Church.  I value authority, but I am not sure I go out of my way to build it up over me.  I want to receive a good ruler (father, pastor, husband) as a gift out of the thin blue sky, but maybe I ought to be more pro-actively submissive.  This seems like a paradox.  And maybe to experience more of God’s grace in my life, I need to seek out stillness and rest from trying to do everything on my own initiative.  Maybe I need to trust.  Maybe I need to be willing to be hurt. 

Love is a common thread between spiritual gifts, biblical womanhood, and leadership.  A lot of people these days say to get out of a relationship that causes you too much pain.  Don’t love someone unless you can get something out of it.  Keep your heart safe.  Take things slowly and cautiously so that you can try not to get hurt.  Don’t get used.  Thank God He didn’t treat us that way when He sent His Son.  Tremble at the example given: deny yourself; take up your cross; lose your life for His sake.  Love suffers long and is kind.  Paul was ready to be spent for the congregations he loved – even though the more he gave, the less they responded with love (2 Corinthians 12:15). 

Christian love is not prudent, is not safe, is not painless.  Submission is radical trust that God will be glorified even when the authorities we’re following make bad decisions.  Giving should be without expecting any repayment and without fear for what we will eat, drink, or wear tomorrow.  When we are weak, we can boast about it because it magnifies God’s strength.  Thanks should be unexpected when we serve.  Instead of pursuing justice to the bitter end, we should allow ourselves to be wronged by our brothers.  The needs, sorrows, and joys of others belong to us. 

To God be all glory. 

Bell Etymologies

This Christmas I’ve been thinking of bells.  Wearing jingle bells reminds me quickly of the season.  Hearing “sleigh bells” conjures nostalgic stories.  The Polar Express is memorable to me for the beautiful silver bell and its mystical note.  Most of our words for the sound a bell makes are imitative, but what other associations do common bell-words have? 

“Bell” comes from the Old English, belle, a word not found in Germanic languages outside of the North Sea family of dialects.   Happily, the phonology traces from Proto-Indo-European base *bhel- "to sound, roar."

One of the most common words used to describe what we do with bells is “ring”, descended straight from the Old English hringan, supposed to come from Proto Germanic *khrenganan (similar words are found in Old Norse, Swedish, and Middle Dutch).  Etymologists believe the word was originally imitative, but isn’t it interesting then that we find it in the Germanic and Norse languages, but it isn’t a root attested in languages all over the world?  Didn’t other people have bells?  What sound did theirs make?

Perhaps their bells “jingled” – a word existing in English since the late 14th century at least: gingeln.  We’re familiar with the famous winter tune, “Jingle Bells.” 

“Tinkle”, "to make a gentle ringing sound," may be more likely to bring to mind the bell-voice of the fairy in Peter Pan, but ever since the late 1300’s, we have used it to express what we hear from a bell. 

“Chime” can be a word for the instrument (which better suits the history of the word’s meaning) or the event of its sounding.  Circa 1300 either Latin or Old French bestowed “chime” on our English tongues, and we most likely misinterpreted it as chymbe bellen "chime bells," a sense attested from the mid-15^th century.

Bells also “peal” – a word generally considered a shortened form of appeal, with the notion of a bell that "summons" people to church. This, according to the scholars behind www.EtymOnline.com, is not entirely convincing, but no better theory has been put forth. Extended sense of "loud ringing of bells" is first recorded 1510s. The verb is 1630s, from the noun.

I’m rather intrigued that such a delightful thought as “trolling bells” is the same word as a legendary sort of ogre or monster.  The verb sense comes from the Old French, troller, which was a hunting term meaning “wander, to go in quest of game without purpose” and in this unusual case, the French received this word from the German peoples.  Old High German has trollen “to walk with short steps,” and the root goes back to Proto Germanic *truzlanan.  Ever since its arrival to English in the late 1300’s, troll has meant “to go about, stroll” or “roll from side to side, trundle.”  In modern usage, its association with bells comes through the sense of “singing in a full, rolling voice” first attested in the 1570’s.  

“Toll” is even more common than troll.  Meaning “to sound with single strokes," it was probably a special use of tollen "to draw, lure," a Middle English variant of Old English  -tyllan in betyllan "to lure, decoy," and fortyllan "draw away, seduce," of obscure origin. The notion is perhaps of "luring" people to church with the sound of the bells, or of "drawing" on the bell rope.

Who knew that “clock” would show up here?  However, since the word has to do with time, and so does the Christmas season (think Advent), here goes.  Originally "clock with bells," probably from Middle Dutch, from Old North French cloque, from Middle Latin (7th century) clocca, probably from Celtic! In Welsh and Old Irish the word only meant “bell.”  It is thought that it was spread by Irish missionaries (unless the Celtic words are from Latin); ultimately of imitative origin. “Clock” replaced Old English’s dægmæl, from dæg "day" + mæl "measure, mark." The Latin word for timekeeping was horologium; the Greeks used a water-clock (klepsydra, literally "water thief"). 

Finally, what would be bells without a tower in which to ring?  “Belfry” was originally, circa1400, a "siege tower" but early (1200’s) in Anglo-Latin already had a sense "bell tower.”  In Old North French it meant "movable siege tower.”  Compare to Modern French beffroi, from Middle High Germanic bercfrit "protecting shelter.  Literally this oldest known ancestor meant "that which watches over peace," from bergen "to protect" (see bury?!) + frid "peace." The first sense, a wooden siege tower on wheels ("free" to move), came to be used for chime towers (mid-15th century), which at first often were detached from church buildings (as the Campanile on Plaza San Marco in Venice). Etymologists suspect the spelling to have been thence altered by dissimilation or by association with bell.

Thanks entirely to www.EtymOnline.com for the word histories. 

To God be all glory.

Irony Soup (Made with Celeriac)

I first heard of celeriac because Harriet Smith mentions it in Gwyneth Paltrow’s film version of Emma.  To be honest I only looked up the vegetable because the scene was running in my head like a parallel to my feelings.  You can’t really find it in grocery stores, and even the farmer’s market, sell grains in bulk, entire sections devoted to vitamins and organic produce stores didn’t have it.  But when I happened to be at Whole Foods with a friend this week, I checked and sure enough, there was the knobby root with the cropped remnant of celery stalks on the top.  “Knobby” is actually an understatement.  Celery root (celeriac) looks like dirty brains.  Anyway, I chose one – a smaller one that was still heavy; denser is better. 

After showing off my find to everyone in the house – my 81 year old grandmother has never even seen one – I sat down to find a recipe for what I’m impudently renaming “Irony Soup.”  Every recipe I could find had onions and leeks.  I don’t have either on hand.  Onions I usually leave out anyway.  Leeks I have never used and for that reason I was hesitant, besides knowing they’re in the onion family.  Ginger I had – for the first time I was going to try grating my own straight from the root, into some recipe or other.  So at the last minute, before heading to the grocery store to pick up leeks, I did a Google search for a soup with celeriac and ginger.  What I found, here: http://straightfromthefarm.net/2009/03/07/celeriac-and-ginger-soup/ is Irony Soup. 

No onions even to be crossed off of the recipe.  An entire head of garlic.  Carrots and cream and potato and herbs, some of my favorite soup ingredients (you know – for the two or three soups I’ve ever made or eaten). 

Chopping the vegetables and peeling the garlic took way longer than I expected, but this is just what one would expect from Irony Soup.  I chopped away.  I forgot the salt when I first started simmering the mixture, so maybe that’s why the vegetables took so long to soften.  I also improvised on measurements a bit and added celery just to enhance that edge of the flavor.  Making it up as you go following general guidelines is also apropos for Irony Soup. 

The celeriac and ginger smells wafted through the house while the soup simmered.  Because I started late and the softening process took longer than expected, I had to interrupt the soup and go to a party.  I resumed this afternoon. 

I paired my serving with buttered wheat toast, because you want to make sure you have something you like at your side when you’re trying something new.  The soup came out ideally creamy and thicker than most soups I’ve had. 

And just like irony whose poignancy lingers, the ginger is strong, with a bite still felt after you swallow.  It’s full of healthy things, low in calories, so it won’t boost your energy all that much, and low in fat so you won’t end up regretting the experience. 

In this house, where we like to share things, the batch will probably serve more than four. 

To God be all glory.