The FEAR of the Lord?

What does it mean to fear God?

Many commentators tell us to read fear as reverence, but I think that’s too simple. At several times in my life, I have come face to face with situations where fear was exactly the right word.

One jumps immediately to mind. After a season where I endured intense family illness and other trials, a beloved church leader—someone whom I admired immensely—dropped dead in the prime of life. He had contributed so much to the life of the church, and by all appearances he had so much more to give. Yet there we were at his funeral, all of us in shock, and I couldn’t help but wonder, “Who is this God, anyway?”

In short, I felt fear. What would this God do next? How many more blows could I accept from his hand?

And yet, somehow, fear is not the end of the story. If it were, we would have to spend our days in neurotic appeasement of God—or simply run away from spirituality altogether. Instead, I cannot shake the thought—the reality—that God’s obvious and extravagant love ultimately trumps that fear. St. John said it himself: “Perfect love casts out fear” and, at his core, “God is love.”

This fear/love dynamic must be what the disciples experienced after Jesus’ strange discourse on “I am the bread of life.” It was so hard to hear that many followers turned away. Yet when Jesus asked his closest friends, “Will you too go away?” they answered with a semi-exasperated, semi-tender, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

Yes, this fear of God is a good thing: it is a sharp reminder of who we are and who God is. But maybe I experience that fear because I am not (by any means) perfect in love. Maybe, then, the fear of God is simply a guide on our path to perfect love, much as the law was our guide to the cross. And when we perfectly rest in the love of God—maybe only after death—fear fades away.

Radical Acceptance: How Far Can We Go?

The church should be a safe place for all people—a place where they feel embraced for who they are.

That sounds like a wonderful vision for the church. It is also one loaded statement, thanks to the little word all. Consider:

• A few years ago, a local teenage girl was implicated as an accomplice in one of our region’s most brutal murders. The press coverage was nonstop, and she became a bête noire. Some months later, she showed up at the church we then attended. The church leadership politely asked her not to return. Should they have?
• A couple in the same church went through a bitter divorce, and his inappropriate conduct played a major role. Both left the church; after a year or two, he suddenly reappeared in the back pew, obviously a broken man. Should we have welcomed him back?
• If Osama bin Laden showed up in your church next Sunday, clearly wanting to be there, would you welcome him? Should you welcome him?

I suspect the answers are no, yes, and yes, respectively. But there is nothing easy about these situations.

The Bible, on this issue, seems at odds with itself. Leviticus seems to exclude some people solely on the basis of certain disabilities. Jesus clearly shared the company of prostitutes and riffraff. God is love, to be sure, yet in many passages he appears to demand a response from us before extending his mercy.

I wonder whether C. S. Lewis’s The Last Battle holds a glimpse of the answer. (I’m working from memory, so bear with me here.) As Aslan the lion (symbolizing God) leads his followers into heaven, the direction is “farther up and further in.” Some of those followers, beset by doubts and grumblings, enter heaven but stop—permanently—right inside the door, going no farther. Only those who are willing to follow Aslan end up going “farther up and further in.”

And maybe that is the message to “all” people. Come. You are welcome here—always. You will experience God’s love here—always. And this God invites you on a journey that will consume your life in joy…that will mold you into your best self. To embark on this journey, you will need to respond. The specific response is up to God. So respond when you’re ready. Until then, welcome.

Here’s the magic part. You know what happens when they respond to God—or even want to respond to God? God responds to them. That opens up the soul to a greater response, and God responds to that. It’s a wonderful spiral that takes the soul “farther up and further in.” All the church has to do is provide a safe place for that to happen...and a light but guiding hand along the way.

On the Wrong End of Exclusion

A visit with an old college friend turned tense—and I had a small, fleeting glimpse into what it’s like to be excluded for who you are.

I had worried about this visit from the start. Quite simply, she did not approve of certain areas of our life (my wife’s and mine) and would prefer that we never talk about them—especially to people she’s trying to impress. This became an issue on Saturday night, when we dined with a good friend of hers. This good friend has a bevy of animals, as do we, so I started to talk about them. Meanwhile, College Friend tried desperately to stop me from mentioning our guinea pigs, who are a delight to my wife and me and a balm to our souls.

They are a part of who I am. She rejects that part. I feel anger for her rejection, shame that maybe our lives aren’t good enough, loathing for our small crappy house and these “rats” in our basement.

Is this what it’s like to be rejected for being you?

Look, I’m a straight white male with a good career, so I don’t get this very often. But it made me think about people who experience it a lot, on a far more substantial level: people routinely slighted for their color, their gender, their sexual orientation, their stand on abortion, you name it.

The prevailing culture is good enough at this. Why should the church follow suit? Shouldn’t the church be a safe place for all people—a place where they feel embraced for who they are?

I know how basic, and perhaps naïve, this sounds. But the next part isn’t so basic: how do we practice radical acceptance? It’s a thorny issue, and we’ll look at it in the next post.

Mindfulness and Guinea Pigs

How can a baby guinea pig teach you about Benedictine values, like mindfulness, obedience, and balance?

I love raising guinea pigs because they provide excellent training for life. Just by living, they deepen our acceptance of sex, death, and miracles. Just by needing to be fed—every single day—they force us out of ourselves every single day. They give and receive love freely.

And yes, they teach Benedictine values. One of our sows recently had a litter that I suspect was premature. After three days, the babies stopped gaining weight, and it became clear that they needed a nutritional boost. So we started hand-feeding them with kitten milk replacer through a syringe, twice a day.

That’s trickier than it sounds. It is very easy to squirt the fluid in too fast—and send it into their respiratory instead of their digestive system. At that age, such a mistake is usually fatal. To avoid this, you feed leisurely, let them lead, and focus exclusively on what you’re doing.

In other words, you feed mindfully. You obey by letting another of God’s creatures lead you—and express the will of God for you in that moment. You feed leisurely and thereby appreciate life’s balance. It doesn’t get more Benedictine than that.

The Silent, Tectonic Movement of God

Sometimes I’m awestruck by the silent, yet tectonic, way God moves in the soul.

Here’s one very small example. While extremely fruitful, the dialogue with my friend Bill, which I’ve mentioned in my last few blog entries, left me exhausted and tense. It was a familiar feeling: the recent wrangling in the Episcopal Church—and my internalizing of it over the course of the summer—had generated the same feelings. At the same time, the dearth of my writing efforts resulted in a vague malaise, as though I desperately needed exercise and hadn’t done any lately.

Not that I really knew any of this at the beginning of the week. At best, I had a vague apprehension of some of it.

And yet, without even noticing it at first, I lingered long over Morning Prayer each day this week. The Office has taken me about half again as long as it usually does. And I don’t think my neurosis about “getting it right” was the cause. Looking back, I think God was drawing me into a deeper experience of prayer, of him, to refresh my soul and get me back to writing.

Apparently it worked. Last night my ill-at-ease feeling came to a head, and I realized I needed to write. This is my third blog entry for the morning. Clearly, I needed this—but I needed the deeper prayer first, to reconnect me to the source. And the source himself led me there.

How Close IS God?

Several weeks ago, I was blessed with one of those sudden, striking insights that leaves you wondering about its source. I’m also wondering exactly what it says about the presence of God.

It came during one of my long-distance drives, which I often use to engage in centering prayer. Rather, I try to engage: my focus on God quickly wanders to my work, our animals, the farms I’ve driving past—anything but God. At some point, I usually snap out of it, chide myself, and refocus on God…only to have the whole thing happen again. If you’ve ever tried centering prayer, you know the drill.

During one of the “chide sessions” on this particular drive, the thought suddenly hit me: “Why are you worried about your focus? It’s all God. It all leads back to God.”

Yow.

Well…yeah. We do believe that the Holy Spirit is always with us, that God permeates heaven and earth. Matthew Fox, commenting on the sermons of Meister Eckhardt, calls it panentheism: the idea that God is in everything. (Contrast that with pantheism, in which God is everything.) If panentheism is true, anything that crosses our mind in prayer is permeated with God’s presence; every “distraction” has the potential to lead us back to God, if we let it.

Certainly, there’s value in clearing distractions and being present to God more intentionally. But perhaps panentheism takes the pressure off us as we seek God in centering prayer. And who knows? Maybe these “distractions” can unveil a view of God we might never have found any other way.

Dialogue in the Real World

I mentioned that I’ve been corresponding with an old, cherished friend from my days in Massachusetts. As it turns out, we hold conflicting views on some very basic matters of faith—he, for instance, believes the Bible is literally true, word for word; I see the matter differently. But we have always managed to maintain our “bonds of affection” while discussing things energetically, often vehemently.

Could we do it again? And if we could, would it mean anything for the church?

Over the last couple of weeks, we’ve e-mailed back and forth on the whole inerrancy issue and some associated hot buttons, like gay ordination. To be honest with you, it was rough. It was so easy to let the emotions take over, so tempting to fire back a heated response. Some of Bill’s words stung; others were just hard to read because they reflected a perspective so at odds with my own.

And yet…

I learned some things I didn’t know. When Bill reads the Bible, he takes into account things like cultural context, use of literary devices, etc.—just like me. Maybe he’s different from most “inerrantists,” but I didn’t think they did that sort of thinking. Maybe I was wrong; maybe I need to explore their perspective further.

More important, Bill never lost sight of the fact that we were both seeking truth, both worshiping the same God. The guy hangs out with a lot of people who don’t share his worldview—and they maintain “bonds of affection.” So did we: we closed this part of our discussion by agreeing that love gives us the freedom to disagree while holding us together. Next week we’ll move on to another topic.

Hear me correctly. We’re not some wonderful paragons of virtue. But, by the grace of God, we did manage to have a dialogue, learn some things, grow some more, and come out friends. If a couple of everyday schleps like us can do that, is there still hope for the church?