This blog post has been fermenting in my head for quite a while now, but I've found it difficult to put what I want to express into a framework that makes it understandable. It started out as a testimony to the great diversity of interests and drives God is developing in me, then it moved to a more social statement on not putting women in a box. But then, I experienced a situation a couple days ago that threw everything into a different relief.
I was speaking with some fellow students on the steps of the library, when the conversation turned to a (female) professor I had my first semester who informed one of my classmates (to paraphrase), "In the academic world, a woman is only as worthy and respected as her highest degree. Do not give up an academic career for a husband and family." Needless to say, I highly disagree with this statement, and I expected my listeners to have a similar reaction. However, one of my friends replied simply, "Well, yes, a woman does have to make that choice [between academia and having a family]." I was taken aback by her statement and decided to steer the conversation a different direction, not knowing what my response would be if we continued down that train of thought. I found myself filled with frustration, agitation, dejection, outrage.
In examining these emotions, I had to ask myself, why? Why would her opinion produce such emotions inside me? Why do I get up in arms when such attitudes are put forth?
The easy answer is that I believe I can do anything, even be both an academic and a wife/mother. But that's a terribly wrong answer. If I put that down on God's midterm exam of life, the Great Teacher would probably flunk me. Truth be told, the easy answer is entirely selfish and wholly impossible. If it's a situation of "I can be anything I put my mind to," then I need to seriously re-examine my life decisions, because right now, my mental acuity comes desperately short of holding life together, and we don't even have kids. On my own merits, life falls apart.
Thankfully, the hard answer--the correct answer--is also the grace-full answer: I can be an academic, a wife, a mother, a musician, a liturgist, a "canner," a chef, and a theologian because God has called me. God has called me to be myself, and as the Creator, God has created and continues to create in me a complexity of desires and gifts and talents. In listening to the call and diving head first into God's plan, I am given the freedom and the strength and the joy of making the only choice that matters: to follow.
As much as I may want to roar when my moderate-feminist sensibilities are affronted, the security of resting my identity in the pinions of the Most High urges a different reaction--quiet affirmation. We live in a world--in secular and sacred venues--where women are shoved into boxes. An academic woman is only as good as her highest degree. A stay at home mom gives up the opportunity to develop her mind. To be "this" means you can't be "that." And everyone on either side of the argument employs themselves in judging the opposite contingency. In all the noise of fighting and in-fighting to figure out a woman's place in the world, we forget the power of a gentle touch, a whispered encouragement, a welcoming embrace. Even the Psalmist, in the middle of his descriptions of God as a rock and a Helper in battle remembers, "You have also given me the shield of Your salvation, and Your right hand upholds me; and Your gentleness makes me great. You enlarge my steps under me, and my feet have not slipped." [Psalm 18:35-36]
Rather than add a voice to the throng, I choose to gently listen and quietly affirm:
Women, you can be all God calls you to be. Listen and go!
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Friday, August 10, 2012
Black Coffee Memories
I've been searching for a topic to write on for a few days now. I hate having the itchy feeling of wanting to write without a clear idea of what to write. I assure you, when school starts in 10 days, this problem will be long forgotten. This morning before work, I went to the Starbucks close to campus and ordered what is becoming my summer staple--iced black coffee, no sweetener, no milk. A few days ago, I went to the Starbucks by our house where they are less familiar with my ordering tendencies and ordered the exact same thing, but instead of being met with a smile and my receipt, the cashier looked at me and said, "Really?!" Her reaction sparked a memory, a very fond memory, from about 8 years ago.
I didn't like coffee until my junior year of high school. That year, I went out for the Academic Decathlon team at MHS. I'd heard about AcaDec since junior high and would've tried for the team in 10th grade if it had been allowed. The summer before 11th grade I showed up for a preliminary meeting, my inner nerd bursting at the seams, ready to think, learn and prove myself as the academic I knew I could be. Of course, at the beginning I didn't really understand that that's why I was there. I just thought it would be a good extracurricular, look good on my college applications, open some doors for scholarships. But trust me, if those were the only reasons I did AcaDec, I wouldn't have lasted long and its influence in my life wouldn't be what it is.
Our coaches, Fort and Hill for short, pushed us hard. Learning ten subjects in-depth while taking on a full class schedule of AP courses is not easy, but I found in myself this motivation to learn and compete that had been lurking beneath the surface and was only being discovered to its fullest. I wanted to be on the team more than I had ever wanted anything before. I'm not an athletically competitive person. I played tennis for three years in junior high, and while I liked the mental aspects of it and enjoyed playing, I lacked the drive to compete. But as I should have guessed, my slightly competitive tendencies in the classroom erupted in AcaDec. By the time the 3 people from each division were chosen based on our scores in practice meets and in-house tests, I was almost 1000 points ahead of the next closest person in my division. In the AcaDec scoring system, a couple hundred points is negotiable, 1000 points is an entire event's worth of points. It would be like making a perfect score on one of the tests and everyone else making 0. I don't say this to brag, but to show how incredibly driven I was to make the team and excel. (And no, at the time, I did not think a 1000 point lead was good enough.)
That year, our team struggled through Regionals, but we made it into the State competition as the 39th team out of 40. Flying out of Lbk, I sat on one of the Emergency Exit rows, facing Fort and Hill. As I'm pulling out my botany materials (I remember studying macro- and micro-nutrients during that particular plane ride), the flight attendant walks up to me, and says, "You know you need to be 15 to ride on the Exit row?" To which I promptly reply, "Yes, I'm 17." Fort and Hill got a kick out of that one. A few minutes later, the flight attendant who didn't think I was 15 comes by with coffee and orange juice. All the adults around me order OJ, and when it gets to me, I promptly ask for coffee, black. The flight attendant's look expresses a resounding, "Really?!" I'll never forget Fort smiling at me and Hill saying, "That's a dedicated student."
Some things never change, including my love for black coffee. In a small way, my coffee order is a talisman for all the things I've carried with me from my two years on the MHS AcaDec team. Yes, I made the team a 2nd year, though not quite by 1000 points. (I know, I was such a slacker...) I have reminisced a great deal lately on all that AcaDec did and continues to do for me. When I went to college, I thought the maximum benefits I gained were from the added knowledge I had gained and learning good studying skills. Though the knowledge and ability to study have served me well, I'm coming to believe the greatest benefits are less obvious. As I contemplate my future--PhD work, family, ministry goals, etc.--I know that who I am today started with AcaDec. I am astounded at the lack of self-confidence I showed in high school, and eternally grateful for my coaches who had confidence in me anyway. I am bowled over by the friends I made at that time in my life, who walked through the tears and the trials and the stress. I am amazed that we came together in the way we did, and though I don't seem them much any more, they all hold a place in my heart. We fought together, we learned together, we laughed together, and somehow the molding that took place in the midst of that carries far greater value than all the facts we ever took in.
Fort always read us a quote from Teddy Roosevelt at the beginning of the year and throughout difficult points in the season, and it still stirs something deeply spiritual within me, despite it's lack of overt reference to the things of God:
Life is full of moments when we make a choice to do or not to do, to bravely step out or to cautiously wait at the shore. Our culture is plagued with a fear of failure that spurns us to do nothing unless success is guaranteed. But this is not the way of God. God dares us to step out, even if we do not know where our foot will land. God calls to us, "Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.” (Joshua 1:9) It is in the stepping out that blessings beyond what we can comprehend come, sometimes in the form of success but more often in the surprising results of our "failure."
A couple years ago, Fort went home to Jesus. I miss him terribly, especially in the moments when it hits me how deeply AcaDec shaped me. But, he left a legacy with his students, his family, and his friends that honors him and the work the Lord gave him to do. For me, that legacy is apparent every time I look up from my reading and in the joy of learning hear him say, "Isn't it so great to know stuff!?"
Yes, Fort, it is a blessing to learn and a blessing to share from what we've learned with others.
I didn't like coffee until my junior year of high school. That year, I went out for the Academic Decathlon team at MHS. I'd heard about AcaDec since junior high and would've tried for the team in 10th grade if it had been allowed. The summer before 11th grade I showed up for a preliminary meeting, my inner nerd bursting at the seams, ready to think, learn and prove myself as the academic I knew I could be. Of course, at the beginning I didn't really understand that that's why I was there. I just thought it would be a good extracurricular, look good on my college applications, open some doors for scholarships. But trust me, if those were the only reasons I did AcaDec, I wouldn't have lasted long and its influence in my life wouldn't be what it is.
Our coaches, Fort and Hill for short, pushed us hard. Learning ten subjects in-depth while taking on a full class schedule of AP courses is not easy, but I found in myself this motivation to learn and compete that had been lurking beneath the surface and was only being discovered to its fullest. I wanted to be on the team more than I had ever wanted anything before. I'm not an athletically competitive person. I played tennis for three years in junior high, and while I liked the mental aspects of it and enjoyed playing, I lacked the drive to compete. But as I should have guessed, my slightly competitive tendencies in the classroom erupted in AcaDec. By the time the 3 people from each division were chosen based on our scores in practice meets and in-house tests, I was almost 1000 points ahead of the next closest person in my division. In the AcaDec scoring system, a couple hundred points is negotiable, 1000 points is an entire event's worth of points. It would be like making a perfect score on one of the tests and everyone else making 0. I don't say this to brag, but to show how incredibly driven I was to make the team and excel. (And no, at the time, I did not think a 1000 point lead was good enough.)
That year, our team struggled through Regionals, but we made it into the State competition as the 39th team out of 40. Flying out of Lbk, I sat on one of the Emergency Exit rows, facing Fort and Hill. As I'm pulling out my botany materials (I remember studying macro- and micro-nutrients during that particular plane ride), the flight attendant walks up to me, and says, "You know you need to be 15 to ride on the Exit row?" To which I promptly reply, "Yes, I'm 17." Fort and Hill got a kick out of that one. A few minutes later, the flight attendant who didn't think I was 15 comes by with coffee and orange juice. All the adults around me order OJ, and when it gets to me, I promptly ask for coffee, black. The flight attendant's look expresses a resounding, "Really?!" I'll never forget Fort smiling at me and Hill saying, "That's a dedicated student."
Some things never change, including my love for black coffee. In a small way, my coffee order is a talisman for all the things I've carried with me from my two years on the MHS AcaDec team. Yes, I made the team a 2nd year, though not quite by 1000 points. (I know, I was such a slacker...) I have reminisced a great deal lately on all that AcaDec did and continues to do for me. When I went to college, I thought the maximum benefits I gained were from the added knowledge I had gained and learning good studying skills. Though the knowledge and ability to study have served me well, I'm coming to believe the greatest benefits are less obvious. As I contemplate my future--PhD work, family, ministry goals, etc.--I know that who I am today started with AcaDec. I am astounded at the lack of self-confidence I showed in high school, and eternally grateful for my coaches who had confidence in me anyway. I am bowled over by the friends I made at that time in my life, who walked through the tears and the trials and the stress. I am amazed that we came together in the way we did, and though I don't seem them much any more, they all hold a place in my heart. We fought together, we learned together, we laughed together, and somehow the molding that took place in the midst of that carries far greater value than all the facts we ever took in.
Fort always read us a quote from Teddy Roosevelt at the beginning of the year and throughout difficult points in the season, and it still stirs something deeply spiritual within me, despite it's lack of overt reference to the things of God:
"It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat."
A couple years ago, Fort went home to Jesus. I miss him terribly, especially in the moments when it hits me how deeply AcaDec shaped me. But, he left a legacy with his students, his family, and his friends that honors him and the work the Lord gave him to do. For me, that legacy is apparent every time I look up from my reading and in the joy of learning hear him say, "Isn't it so great to know stuff!?"
Yes, Fort, it is a blessing to learn and a blessing to share from what we've learned with others.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
No Apology Necessary
Working at a library is like storm watching in West Texas. You wait and wait and wait for things to happen, and suddenly a thunderstorm pops up out of nowhere and you go from relaxed to "go mode" in a split second. Well, that's exactly what happened last Friday. And, at the center of my mini-thunderstorm was my husband.
It had been a deceptively quiet day, a few patrons in and out checking out books, but nothing of great consequence. A fellow student came in to discuss planning for the Justice in Action committee. No big deal, seeing as we had no more than 5 patrons in the entire building. Then, in walks the Dean of Perkins with a group of 40 scholars and visitors on campus for some very important Dean-related event. In the midst of the Dean's tour, the buzzer goes off at the north door and there sits my husband, waiting for us to unlock the door. As I sit at the computer buzzing him in, I watch in the camera as Justin goes to open the door, an action he does for himself almost every day. But this time, Justin has an ill-timed palsy moment that, instead of leading his chair through the door, sends him crashing into the corner of a brick wall. Panicked, I run from the front desk, throw open the north door, and in the process trip the alarm. At this point, nothing can be done but hold open the door and help Justin get inside. As I help Justin get to the front desk, here's the Dean's group dealing with the blaring of the alarm, Justin holding one side of his face and me trying to navigate us through the confused crowd of 40 visitors.
Seeing as one of my goals growing up was to be very quiet and put as little attention on myself as possible, you can imagine that even at the ripe old age of 25, I was incredibly embarassed by this sudden commotion centered on none other than me and my husband. I've come a long way, but blaring alarms, bruised faces and staring from 40+ people is more than my introverted self could bear. And you know what my instinctual response was? To apologize. To apologize for myself and for my husband. But, thanks be to God, before I could grovel at the feet of my supervisor for creating such a racket, something stopped me.
You see, there was a time when I would have apologized for sneezing too loud because I saw myself as a disruption to other people. As I grew more into myself and a realization of my identity in God, I came to understand (very slowly, I might add) that this gives no credit to the worth that God places in me as a child of the King. Yet, this need to apologize whenever I might even slightly disturb someone else returned when Justin and I started dating, and fully blossomed after our wedding. Because, let's face it, a man in an electric wheelchair dating, much less marrying, an able-bodied woman disturbs a lot of people's sensibilities. Thus, the many questions I would get concerning whether I was Justin's sister/nurse/physical therapist. So, any time Justin got in someone's way or made people push in their chairs to let him get by or knocked over a display in a store (and trust me, he never runs into displays with soft, fluffy things), I would feel this need to apologize effusively. Never mind that the person was talking on a cell phone and ran into Justin because he wasn't paying attention; or that restaurants stuff so many tables in a room without every giving a thought to someone needing mobility assistance; or that middle of the walkway displays leave very little room for a wheelchair to get by. There was a feeling that because we were the different ones, our presence--much less the commotion it caused--needed to be explained and excused.
As I study disability theology and speak with others with disabilities, I have gained the courage to stop this excessive need to apologize. Justin has a palsy; things are going to happen. I will apologize and help when those mishaps make someone else work harder, but I will not apologize for Justin's physical condition. I will not apologize for being different. So, even though I wanted to melt into the floor as we passed the Dean and his visitors, I did not apologize for my husband's presence. These are the little mishaps I live with every day, and if Justin and the life we have together are ever going to be seen as anything but an anomaly, then it's time to stop apologizing for the disability. Justin is who he is in the fullness of who God created him to be, disability and all. For that, there is no apology necessary.
DISCLAIMER: There were no husbands seriously hurt in this story, only slight bruises to the face and to the ego.
It had been a deceptively quiet day, a few patrons in and out checking out books, but nothing of great consequence. A fellow student came in to discuss planning for the Justice in Action committee. No big deal, seeing as we had no more than 5 patrons in the entire building. Then, in walks the Dean of Perkins with a group of 40 scholars and visitors on campus for some very important Dean-related event. In the midst of the Dean's tour, the buzzer goes off at the north door and there sits my husband, waiting for us to unlock the door. As I sit at the computer buzzing him in, I watch in the camera as Justin goes to open the door, an action he does for himself almost every day. But this time, Justin has an ill-timed palsy moment that, instead of leading his chair through the door, sends him crashing into the corner of a brick wall. Panicked, I run from the front desk, throw open the north door, and in the process trip the alarm. At this point, nothing can be done but hold open the door and help Justin get inside. As I help Justin get to the front desk, here's the Dean's group dealing with the blaring of the alarm, Justin holding one side of his face and me trying to navigate us through the confused crowd of 40 visitors.
Seeing as one of my goals growing up was to be very quiet and put as little attention on myself as possible, you can imagine that even at the ripe old age of 25, I was incredibly embarassed by this sudden commotion centered on none other than me and my husband. I've come a long way, but blaring alarms, bruised faces and staring from 40+ people is more than my introverted self could bear. And you know what my instinctual response was? To apologize. To apologize for myself and for my husband. But, thanks be to God, before I could grovel at the feet of my supervisor for creating such a racket, something stopped me.
You see, there was a time when I would have apologized for sneezing too loud because I saw myself as a disruption to other people. As I grew more into myself and a realization of my identity in God, I came to understand (very slowly, I might add) that this gives no credit to the worth that God places in me as a child of the King. Yet, this need to apologize whenever I might even slightly disturb someone else returned when Justin and I started dating, and fully blossomed after our wedding. Because, let's face it, a man in an electric wheelchair dating, much less marrying, an able-bodied woman disturbs a lot of people's sensibilities. Thus, the many questions I would get concerning whether I was Justin's sister/nurse/physical therapist. So, any time Justin got in someone's way or made people push in their chairs to let him get by or knocked over a display in a store (and trust me, he never runs into displays with soft, fluffy things), I would feel this need to apologize effusively. Never mind that the person was talking on a cell phone and ran into Justin because he wasn't paying attention; or that restaurants stuff so many tables in a room without every giving a thought to someone needing mobility assistance; or that middle of the walkway displays leave very little room for a wheelchair to get by. There was a feeling that because we were the different ones, our presence--much less the commotion it caused--needed to be explained and excused.
As I study disability theology and speak with others with disabilities, I have gained the courage to stop this excessive need to apologize. Justin has a palsy; things are going to happen. I will apologize and help when those mishaps make someone else work harder, but I will not apologize for Justin's physical condition. I will not apologize for being different. So, even though I wanted to melt into the floor as we passed the Dean and his visitors, I did not apologize for my husband's presence. These are the little mishaps I live with every day, and if Justin and the life we have together are ever going to be seen as anything but an anomaly, then it's time to stop apologizing for the disability. Justin is who he is in the fullness of who God created him to be, disability and all. For that, there is no apology necessary.
DISCLAIMER: There were no husbands seriously hurt in this story, only slight bruises to the face and to the ego.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Blood Hymns, Part II
As promised, Part II of the debacle on blood hymns. I don't assume that my thoughts cover everything that might be said on the subject, but perhaps they will feed further thought and discussion in this and other areas. Let me begin with a story:
Once upon a time, really only a few hundred years ago, there was a man in England who suffered from a weak constitution and deep emotional pain. Having lost his mother at the age of 9, this man felt his grief keenly and, driven by his bodily weakness, remained even more removed from society. However, he had a quick mind and studied the law, eventually being offered a post as Clerk of the Journal to the House of Lords. Unfortunately, before he could take the job, he was required to sit for a public examination. The stress of a public examination proved to be too much for this man, and he suffered a mental breakdown disastrous enough to send him to an asylum. In the midst of his break, the man attempted suicide multiple times, each time being royally unsuccessful. After this first mental break, the man went to live with a clergyman and his wife, who removed with him to Olney, a small town in Buckinghamshire. Here, this man, William Cowper, met a man who would become his lifelong friend and confidant, John Newton, curate of Olney and former slave trader. Cowper struggled his whole life with his fear of God's damnation for his attempts to take his own life, a fear only compounded by his continued mental illness. Cowper also produced some of the most famous and beautiful poetry of his day, and put his skills to use in helping Newton compile a hymn book published in 1779 called Olney Hymns.
After his recovery from his first mental break, Cowper wrote the following hymn:
Once upon a time, really only a few hundred years ago, there was a man in England who suffered from a weak constitution and deep emotional pain. Having lost his mother at the age of 9, this man felt his grief keenly and, driven by his bodily weakness, remained even more removed from society. However, he had a quick mind and studied the law, eventually being offered a post as Clerk of the Journal to the House of Lords. Unfortunately, before he could take the job, he was required to sit for a public examination. The stress of a public examination proved to be too much for this man, and he suffered a mental breakdown disastrous enough to send him to an asylum. In the midst of his break, the man attempted suicide multiple times, each time being royally unsuccessful. After this first mental break, the man went to live with a clergyman and his wife, who removed with him to Olney, a small town in Buckinghamshire. Here, this man, William Cowper, met a man who would become his lifelong friend and confidant, John Newton, curate of Olney and former slave trader. Cowper struggled his whole life with his fear of God's damnation for his attempts to take his own life, a fear only compounded by his continued mental illness. Cowper also produced some of the most famous and beautiful poetry of his day, and put his skills to use in helping Newton compile a hymn book published in 1779 called Olney Hymns.
After his recovery from his first mental break, Cowper wrote the following hymn:
There is a fountain filled with blood drawn from Emmanuel’s veins;
And sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains.
Lose all their guilty stains, lose all their guilty stains;
And sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains.
The dying thief rejoiced to see that fountain in his day;
And there have I, though vile as he, washed all my sins away.
Washed all my sins away, washed all my sins away;
And there have I, though vile as he, washed all my sins away.
Dear dying Lamb, Thy precious blood shall never lose its power
Till all the ransomed church of God be saved, to sin no more.
Be saved, to sin no more, be saved, to sin no more;
Till all the ransomed church of God be saved, to sin no more.
E’er since, by faith, I saw the stream Thy flowing wounds supply,
Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die.
And shall be till I die, and shall be till I die;
Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die.
Then in a nobler, sweeter song, I’ll sing Thy power to save,
When this poor lisping, stammering tongue lies silent in the grave.
Lies silent in the grave, lies silent in the grave;
When this poor lisping, stammering tongue lies silent in the grave.
Lord, I believe Thou hast prepared, unworthy though I be,
For me a blood-bought free reward, a golden harp for me!
’Tis strung and tuned for endless years, and formed by power divine,
To sound in God the Father’s ears no other name but Thine.
In these verses, we see numerous attributions and descriptions of the Blood of Christ:
- a fountain (indicating abundance) under which sinners are plunged (not a tiptoe or a smattering, but fully enveloped) and are cleansed of all sins
- power through which the Church is won and claimed by God and under which the Church is called to sin no more
- a constant stream, a living reminder of the redeeming love that beats in the hearts and accompanies every breath of the saved sinner
- a payment, a ransom bringing full eternal communion with God, enabling and empowering God's people in unending praise
The Blood is infinitely more than all of these descriptors, and yet is simple enough to be summed up in the evidence of the life of William Cowper: the Blood of Christ is a means of grace, painfully spilt and freely offered for all eternity.
So, why would we not sing about the Blood?
At this point, I could go into a whole other blog on modern humanity's lack of attention to the frailty of the human condition, our negligence of the poor and disabled, our unwillingness to identify with the suffering of Christ because we fear suffering for ourselves. But, I won't, though those would all be pretty decent arguments. I'll let you think about those things, struggle over them, ask questions.
What stands out to me as a basic problem at this moment is this: the lack of brave honesty to hold together the suffering of Christ and His Blood freely given, to feel the guilt of human brokenness and sin along with the deep joy of true and abundant forgiveness and reconciliation. To focus on suffering alone is depressing and overwhelming, but to focus solely on grace and joy leads to a thin theology that does not hold up to the difficulties of human existence. As a foundation of our faith, the blood Christ shed and the theology we sing into people's hearts (thank you, Charles Wesley!), then the hymns we sing should reflect the [painful and paradoxical] complexity of the content of our faith.
So, sing of the Blood, of the joy,of the sorrow, of the grace! And don't stop, because love calls us to comfort and sharpen one another in the faith with eyes fixed on the Almighty God who longs for deeper and fuller communion with the Church ransomed by the Suffering Servant.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Blood Hymns, Part I
Blood hymns are a touchy subject. Whether a church culture approves of their use or not, if a church musician tries singing a "blood hymn" on any given Sunday morning, you'll know by Monday morning the popular opinion on the subject. If you perform a search of the word "blood" at hymnary.org, 2648 results appear, so obviously it has been a subject of great worth in the history of hymnody. Some of the more well-known blood hymns include "Nothing But the Blood," "There Is Power in the Blood," and "There Is a Fountain Filled with Blood."
Whether it was my church experience as a child or my Grandmother's endless supply of hymns that accompanied her daily actions, I'm not sure. But, by my teenage years, blood hymns were very familiar musical companions (at least the ones found in the Baptist and Methodist hymnals). So, it was a bit of a surprise upon entering my first church pianist position when the singing of blood hymns was met with opposition by several parishioners. In this particular church context, I came in contact with the polarizing, and even devisive, effect blood hymns can have. On the one hand, there were people who are disgusted by the thought of blood, much less gruesome depictions of Christ's crucifixion. Whether the hymn specifically speaks of the crucifixion or not, discussion of Christ's blood raises such images in this camp's head(s), images that do not seem conducive to the worship situation because of their shocking quality (more on that particular opinion later). Interestingly, the other side of the argument seemed to support the singing of blood hymns on the basis of tradition. We've sung about it before, why not sing about it again? There's nothing wrong with singing about blood, though it probably wouldn't be good to do it all the time; we don't want to get so obsessed with the blood that we forget about Jesus.
If we rewind the story of Christian history a few hundred years, the controversy (yes, I say controversy, because there are churches out there where whole worship committee meetings are spent discussing this very issue) surrounding the mention of Christ's blood in worship is virtually non-existent. In the Medieval Church, the devout longed for visions of Christ's Passion. They believed if they could in some way look upon or participate in Christ's pain, suffering, and crucifixion, they would gain a deeper faith and closer union with God. The Revelations, a seminal text from the 14th century written by the anchorite Julian of Norwich, recounts Julian's own such spiritual encounters, or showings as she calls them, of the Passion of Christ and the understandings of God and God's relation to humanity which come out of the visions. Julian spends several chapters describing her visions of the "dearworthy Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, as truly as it it is most precious, so truly it is most plentiful." For Julian, at least as I read her, the power of the blood of Christ stems from its sure connection to the Incarnation--Christ fully God and fully man, the Divine Being who bleeds and dies in the manner that all men would, but with a purpose far beyond what any human could imagine.
The imagery Julian applies to the fulfillment of this purpose is magnificent:
Whether it was my church experience as a child or my Grandmother's endless supply of hymns that accompanied her daily actions, I'm not sure. But, by my teenage years, blood hymns were very familiar musical companions (at least the ones found in the Baptist and Methodist hymnals). So, it was a bit of a surprise upon entering my first church pianist position when the singing of blood hymns was met with opposition by several parishioners. In this particular church context, I came in contact with the polarizing, and even devisive, effect blood hymns can have. On the one hand, there were people who are disgusted by the thought of blood, much less gruesome depictions of Christ's crucifixion. Whether the hymn specifically speaks of the crucifixion or not, discussion of Christ's blood raises such images in this camp's head(s), images that do not seem conducive to the worship situation because of their shocking quality (more on that particular opinion later). Interestingly, the other side of the argument seemed to support the singing of blood hymns on the basis of tradition. We've sung about it before, why not sing about it again? There's nothing wrong with singing about blood, though it probably wouldn't be good to do it all the time; we don't want to get so obsessed with the blood that we forget about Jesus.
If we rewind the story of Christian history a few hundred years, the controversy (yes, I say controversy, because there are churches out there where whole worship committee meetings are spent discussing this very issue) surrounding the mention of Christ's blood in worship is virtually non-existent. In the Medieval Church, the devout longed for visions of Christ's Passion. They believed if they could in some way look upon or participate in Christ's pain, suffering, and crucifixion, they would gain a deeper faith and closer union with God. The Revelations, a seminal text from the 14th century written by the anchorite Julian of Norwich, recounts Julian's own such spiritual encounters, or showings as she calls them, of the Passion of Christ and the understandings of God and God's relation to humanity which come out of the visions. Julian spends several chapters describing her visions of the "dearworthy Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, as truly as it it is most precious, so truly it is most plentiful." For Julian, at least as I read her, the power of the blood of Christ stems from its sure connection to the Incarnation--Christ fully God and fully man, the Divine Being who bleeds and dies in the manner that all men would, but with a purpose far beyond what any human could imagine.
The imagery Julian applies to the fulfillment of this purpose is magnificent:
The precious abundance of His dearworthy Blood descended down into hell, and burst their bonds and delivered all that were there who belonged to the court of heaven. The precious abundance of His dearworthy Blood flows over all earth and is quick to wash all creatures from sin who are of good will, have been, and shall be. The precious abundance of His dearworthy Blood ascended up into heaven to the blessed Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, and there it is within Him, bleeding and praying for us to the Father. --The Revelations, chapter 12
As beautiful as Julian's description of the Blood is, it is the understanding given to her by God that solidifies the real and true purpose of the Blood. In reference to her visions of the Passion, God "formed in [her] soul these words: 'With this the Fiend is overcome.'" (Chapter 13) The Blood of Christ is a healing agent, a cleansing fountain, a lifegiving element through the death and resurrection. But most of all, it is a weapon of grace which shatters the Fiend's (devil's) hold and frees the captives to a fuller, more abundant life in worship, service, and companionship with the Most High God.
Therefore, why would we not sing about the Blood of Christ?
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Silent Answers
I'm not the kind of person who does those cheesy, overdone blog posts like: 30 Things I Learned Before I Turned 30 or 10 Ways I Improved My Life in 10 Days. That's just not my style. Yet, as I sit in a very quiet library during a very long, low-traffic period behind the circulation desk, my mind has begun to wander into realms of contemplation I rarely have time to explore, much less put into words.
What have I learned in the last 5, 10, 20 years of my life?
Why am I where I am right now, in this very place and time and season?
What am I to do with the amount of silence I currently seem to experience, both in reality and spiritually, and why does this silence no longer scare me?
And in the midst of these thoughts, one question which has been a constant companion from the first time I ever heard until now remains:
Such questions as these are insulted by shallow platitudes or answers full of their own morality. Instead, these queries deserve to be chewed on, experienced, appreciated from all angles, and given the two-fold power to attest to change and enact change on and in the inquisitor.
In allowing this process to occur, no matter how joyful or painful, tense or relaxed it may be, I come to an answer (not the but an) for a very small portion of my questioning thoughts: why does silence no longer scare me?
As a child, silence was a fertile ground in which fear grew. I would wake up in the middle of the night when the house was dark and everyone else was asleep and be overwhelmed with the vastness of the absence of light and sound. I look back at that 7-year-old hiding under the blankets, starting at every little noise, and long to take her into my arms and tell her that the thing that brings her fear is, in the end, a place of comfort and rest before God. What my young mind and spirit could not grasp in those moments of fear is that silence and darkness are frightening places to be, because they strip us of every distraction and separation and place us vulnerable before the Most High God, the all-powerful, all-loving Sovereign Lord. Silence draws out the question: Who am I that You are mindful of me?
The answer to this question is not so important as the genuine asking of it. To ask is to open oneself to wonder, to inquire, to search deeper for what God's response might be. And in God's goodness, the answer is an ever-deepening richness of relationship with the Triune God.
What have I learned in the last 5, 10, 20 years of my life?
Why am I where I am right now, in this very place and time and season?
What am I to do with the amount of silence I currently seem to experience, both in reality and spiritually, and why does this silence no longer scare me?
And in the midst of these thoughts, one question which has been a constant companion from the first time I ever heard until now remains:
Oh Lord, our Sovereign...when I consider Your heavens, the work of Your fingers, the moon and the stars, which You have ordained; what is man that You take thought of him, and the son of man that You care for him?
Such questions as these are insulted by shallow platitudes or answers full of their own morality. Instead, these queries deserve to be chewed on, experienced, appreciated from all angles, and given the two-fold power to attest to change and enact change on and in the inquisitor.
In allowing this process to occur, no matter how joyful or painful, tense or relaxed it may be, I come to an answer (not the but an) for a very small portion of my questioning thoughts: why does silence no longer scare me?
As a child, silence was a fertile ground in which fear grew. I would wake up in the middle of the night when the house was dark and everyone else was asleep and be overwhelmed with the vastness of the absence of light and sound. I look back at that 7-year-old hiding under the blankets, starting at every little noise, and long to take her into my arms and tell her that the thing that brings her fear is, in the end, a place of comfort and rest before God. What my young mind and spirit could not grasp in those moments of fear is that silence and darkness are frightening places to be, because they strip us of every distraction and separation and place us vulnerable before the Most High God, the all-powerful, all-loving Sovereign Lord. Silence draws out the question: Who am I that You are mindful of me?
The answer to this question is not so important as the genuine asking of it. To ask is to open oneself to wonder, to inquire, to search deeper for what God's response might be. And in God's goodness, the answer is an ever-deepening richness of relationship with the Triune God.
O the deep, deep love of Jesus, vast, unmeasured, boundless, free!
Rolling as a mighty ocean in its fullness over me!
Underneath me, all around me, is the current of Thy love
Leading onward, leading homeward to Thy glorious rest above!
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Self-Insufficient
A wonderful friend of mine made an interesting comment to me this week that I have been mulling over in my head. Disheartened at not seeing her as often as is usual but understanding that sometimes life just gets in our way, I decided to step out and question the status of our relationship, really just wanting to make sure it was life "intruding" and not something else. She assured me all was well, and admitted that sometimes she could be quite self-sufficient, which could put forth an unintended vibe. This got me to thinking, what is the the value of self-sufficiency?
(Before I delve into this, whatever the outcome of my argument may be, it is in no way a personal reflection or judgment on a friend who means a great deal to me. This is intended as an unraveling of my own thoughts and feelings as to how this topic has been presented to me in the past, and what place it has in my life now and in the future.)
I must honestly and sincerely confess to being envious of my friend. Self-sufficiency is a thing which I think I have and still long for in greater measure. Various factors throughout my life have led me to believe that an independent nature--being able to take care of myself--is the ultimate sign of adulthood, the epitome of what it means to be a grown-up, respected human being. Indeed, the idea that self-sufficiency means I rely on no one but myself and my immediate family (i.e. Justin) seems to cater to my introverted personality. And let's face it, independence/self-sufficiency is a driving force behind the "American Identity." You don't see us celebrating Dependence Day, do you? I grew up believing if I could achieve self-sufficiency, I would unlock the door to the future I wanted: financial stability, congenial relationships, etc.
But, look at me now...
My marriage is both a testament to my independent nature and the depth of my necessary dependence on others. Where my independence is concerned, I think I would rather call it self-strength (although even this does not wholly express what I wish). Life with Justin has brought forth in me a strength I didn't know I had. The "me" who once feared talking to strangers and making waves now has no problem taking charge of social situations to see to Justin's comfort. The "me" who never could have dreamed I could carry the emotional and physical weight of being a caregiver, now performs those duties every day. But even in this, I do not do it alone. We have an attendant who comes and helps Justin in the mornings, we have family who help us meet needs when we are unable, we depend on government programs to help provide proper medical care for Justin. And still, in the lonely moments when there is no one else and it is all on my shoulders--I am still not alone. God is with me.
(Before I delve into this, whatever the outcome of my argument may be, it is in no way a personal reflection or judgment on a friend who means a great deal to me. This is intended as an unraveling of my own thoughts and feelings as to how this topic has been presented to me in the past, and what place it has in my life now and in the future.)
I must honestly and sincerely confess to being envious of my friend. Self-sufficiency is a thing which I think I have and still long for in greater measure. Various factors throughout my life have led me to believe that an independent nature--being able to take care of myself--is the ultimate sign of adulthood, the epitome of what it means to be a grown-up, respected human being. Indeed, the idea that self-sufficiency means I rely on no one but myself and my immediate family (i.e. Justin) seems to cater to my introverted personality. And let's face it, independence/self-sufficiency is a driving force behind the "American Identity." You don't see us celebrating Dependence Day, do you? I grew up believing if I could achieve self-sufficiency, I would unlock the door to the future I wanted: financial stability, congenial relationships, etc.
But, look at me now...
My marriage is both a testament to my independent nature and the depth of my necessary dependence on others. Where my independence is concerned, I think I would rather call it self-strength (although even this does not wholly express what I wish). Life with Justin has brought forth in me a strength I didn't know I had. The "me" who once feared talking to strangers and making waves now has no problem taking charge of social situations to see to Justin's comfort. The "me" who never could have dreamed I could carry the emotional and physical weight of being a caregiver, now performs those duties every day. But even in this, I do not do it alone. We have an attendant who comes and helps Justin in the mornings, we have family who help us meet needs when we are unable, we depend on government programs to help provide proper medical care for Justin. And still, in the lonely moments when there is no one else and it is all on my shoulders--I am still not alone. God is with me.
But [God] said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.’ So, I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me. Therefore I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities for the sake of Christ; for whenever I am weak, then I am strong. 2 Corinthians 12:9-10
Difficult as it is to admit, my longing for self-sufficiency in the way I have understood it in the past is nothing less than a slap in the face to what God has done, is doing, and will do in my life and the life of all God's children. The way I was brought up to view self-sufficiency leaves no room for the in-breaking of God's grace or God's call to community. It is a scary and trepidatious thing to be vulnerable before God and our neighbor, but vulnerability is a necessary element to loving both of them, which is the summary of the Law given by Jesus in the Gospel of Luke. Vulnerability admits weakness, revealing the cracks the plaster of my self-sufficiency and independence covers up only poorly. I was raised to believe the strength of independence would make me happy, successful, and wise. Oh, how easy it is to forget that the better way is weakness, the wiser path is vulnerability, the strongest way is dependence.
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