eScapgegoat 9

eScapegoat is a story for those whose life experiences require a tenacious, and sometimes solitary, faith. It’s a hard read but a hopeful one. Look for a new posting daily during Holy Week (apologies for my late start this week).

May eScapegoat nourish your soul this Lenten season. Return to beginning.

 

eScapegoat

Shadow Lands, cont.

Other closed doors followed. I had long held a secret torch for Bro. Jake’s son: a tall, slim boy with curling red hair and warm brown eyes. He was named Jonathan after King David’s best friend, and he carried himself with a nonchalant confidence I couldn’t resist. He spoke to everyone, even me, and he even, occasionally, looked me in the eye.

I learned all I could of Jonathan: what music he liked, what subjects gave him trouble; even that he had a raunchy sense of humor his Father knew nothing about. I gleaned all my information by observation because, though Jonathan spoke to me, I rarely said more than two words to him. Instead, at school and at church, I placed myself where I could observe and adore him. I dreamed he would recognize me as The Special One and then we would be happy ever after. I told no one of my feelings. Still, somehow Wilda knew. She had a gift for reading people.

***

The Wednesday following the deacon vote, I stood near the door to Jonathan’s classroom, ostensibly sorting my books. As he neared his classroom door he stopped, turned, and walked toward me. I tried to meet his eyes for a moment—just that much—and succeeded only in glancing his way.

He stopped. Right in front of me.

“Hi, Wanda,” he said in a voice surprisingly deep for a high school boy.

“Hi,” I whispered, wanting him to stay, willing him to go.

“I was just wondering. The game Friday night. You want to go with me?”

Me?” Misery and ecstasy collided and I was lost to them.

Then I heard. That repressed snicker. I knew that sound; I grew up on it.

I turned my head toward another: one of golden curls bobbing with repressed expressions of glee. A covey of other heads, snorting heads and giggling heads, surrounded the golden one. Somehow I found the strength to turn my eyes toward Jonathan. He cut his eyes toward the circle of giggling girls. Color filled his cheeks and he lifted his shoulders as if to say, “What choice did I have?”

I rushed away before he could see my full devastation. At the end of the hallway, I gathered courage enough to turn for a last look. Jonathan stood with his arm around Wilda’s shoulder, talking and gesturing, drawing in the group, working his magic. Her head rested on his shoulder.

I locked myself in a bathroom stall, sat on the toilet and put my hands over my head while my body shook with shame and sorrow. I guess Father’s distant, silent approach was too indirect for Wilda’s temperament. I had embarrassed her; she needed to see me humiliated. Point to Wilda.

***

The next day, Father announced that Bro. Jake had called to say that, for the next several weeks, the Junior High students would be doing a special study during Sunday School. I could take a much-deserved break from teaching. Rummaging under my bed, I hauled out my plans for Sunday’s lesson and tucked them in the bottom of my art box. I couldn’t bear to come across them, unprepared, but I couldn’t bear to part with them, either.

Outside, I walked to the tree where I first painted Magic Land. I sat against it, feeling the harsh roughness of its bark against my back. And I wept.

***

Junior High Sunday School Lesson for Sept. 13: The Day of Atonement, Leviticus 16

1.Tell the story.

First, the High Priest stripped off his High Priestly garb—the breastplate inlaid with three rows of sparkling jewels, the ephod, the robe, and the tunic, and donned the white linen apparel worn by all the other priests. He then acknowledged his sin in full view of the people, offering a bull as a sin offering and a ram as a burnt offering. Then for the one and only time that year—and all alone—he prepared to enter the Holy of Holies. Inside the Tabernacle tent, he created a censer from the glowing coals on the altar. Bearing this before him, the High Priest, carrying the blood of animals who died that his sin might be atoned, entered through the veil into the holiest of holy spaces: a space so holy, so “other,” that it was kept in darkness. Human presence was allowed only during this one visit each year. To obscure the face of God so that the priest’s life might be spared, the priest now lit the censer. Smoke filled the space to its corners. The Holy of Holies measured ten cubits in each direction (a perfect cube), and lay behind a blue and scarlet curtain.

In utter and pressing silence, the priest seven times sprinkled the blood of the slaughtered animals onto the holiest space within the Holy of Holies: the mercy seat. The mercy seat—known also as the lid of the Ark of the Covenant—was crafted of acacia wood and overlaid in gold. On the lid sat two golden angels, stern and regal, facing one another, their wings touching. The priest cast the sacrificial blood onto angels’ wings already besmirched from past years’ atonement offerings.

The priest returned to the people; he cast lots to determine the fate of two goats that bleated forlornly, edging forward and backward against their ropes. Two goats that served one purpose: the banishment of sin from the community. The goat chosen for the LORD was taken into the community in the deepest sense: it was slaughtered, its blood taken behind the veil into the Holy of Holies and sprinkled onto the front of the mercy seat.

On the other goat’s head—the one for Azazel—the High Priest laid hands and confessed the community’s corporate and individual sins: ALL the sins. He transferred all transgressions from the past year onto the head of the goat. Then a man designated for the task led the goat far into the wilderness to a bleak, deserted, desolate place, and left it behind. The goat was to be taken so far into the wilderness that it could never return to the community. Before returning home himself, the one who led the goat for Azazel into the wilderness was required to ritually wash his clothes and bathe himself, so that he might be purged from the sin carried into the wilderness by the goat. The skin, flesh, and dung of the goat chosen for the LORD, along with the bull offered for the High Priest’s sin, was carried outside the city and consumed by fire. He who burned these animals, too, was required to wash his clothes and bathe before returning to camp. So passed the most holy day on the Hebrew calendar: the Day of Atonement.[i]

 

  1. Invite volunteers to read the story from their Bibles and the definition of ‘atonement’ from the Bible dictionary.
  2. Invite students to paint a scene from the story that particularly struck them. Ask them to describe their work and talk about why they chose the scene they selected.
  3. Ask the group to pray silently, confessing their sins and asking God’s forgiveness.

***

The next time I went to church proved to be my last. It was deacon ordination. I saw Sheila hovering in the aisle before the service, searching for someone. I couldn’t keep the smile from my face.

“Sheila!”

I made my way through the crowd toward her. She turned, registered my face, terror took her over and then, close on its heels, loathing. She ducked between pews, steered for the main aisle, and skirted out the side door. Clearly, I had been the subject of conversation in the Bower family; I had become a pariah.

I claimed my seat in our family’s pew, head bowed more to avoid the stares and questioning of other congregants than to worship, and waited for my family to take their seats. In time they perched beside me: backs rigid, doing their familial duty.

Bro. Jake invited each new deacon to speak before we did the laying on of hands. Each spoke for an eternity. I don’t recall what they said. Then the deacon chair laid out three cushions and the men knelt on them, lined up as before a firing squad.

“Let us each come by, lay hands on these, our brothers, and give them our blessing,” said Bro. Jake.

The pianist began to play softly to cover the sounds of shuffling feet. I watched John McKenzie as he joined the line. He wore an expression of infinite, almost messianic, sorrow as he made his way forward. It entered my head that it is possible to enjoy even suffering. John laid hands on one new deacon after another while the congregation stared in wonder and admiration.

Our pew stood and shuffled its way forward. My father placed a hand on the first man’s head and, leaning to whisper in his ear, placed the other on his shoulder. His gesture appeared warm and fatherly. I imagined the words were, too. He moved to the second man and mother stood before the first. Mother’s hands levitated above the man’s head. Her words sounded low and hurried. She moved on. Wilda rested her hands on the first man’s head and leaned over, careful to show just enough leg beneath her skirt. I couldn’t hear what she said, but the man smiled. Even deacons smiled at Wilda.

I stood before the man, awkward and unbelonging. Aware of probing eyes on me. I placed my hands on his head. The sanctuary vanished. Before me stood Mrs. McKenzie, her face streaked with tears; in another flash I saw John McKenzie, shoulders heaving with repressed emotion; then Bro. Jake’s Bible binding his hand in leather. My insides quailed, forcing food up my throat. I swallowed hard and tasted bitterness and bile. I lifted my hands and the visions snapped shut. I moved on, feeling the man’s surprised eyes on my feet. After that, I followed Mother’s example with the next two deacons: placing my hands just above their heads and then moving on.

Back in the pew, I stared at my palms; they felt like foreign things, as if poison had entered and altered them and was now threading its way up my wrists. I was going to be sick. Panicked, I squeezed past my Father, down the aisle and into the foyer bathroom. Kneeling at the toilet, I vomited again and again until only dry heaves racked my body. Then I wept into my hands—tears and mucus that glistened on my palms and seeped between my fingers. I washed my hands, thinking of Lady Macbeth and of Pilate, then walked across the parking lot to the car and waited for my family. The ride home this time was not silent. The three other family members chatted and laughed. Together, they had moved on from me.

[i] The Day of Atonement Story based on 1) Leviticus 16, NRSV; 2) Keck, Leander E. Ed. The New Interpreter’s Bible, Vol. 1 Abingdon Press, Nashville, 1994, pp. 999, 1109-1111; 3) Werblowsky, R. J. Geoffrey Wigoder, Ed. In Chief. The Oxford Dictionary of the Jewish Religion. Oxford University Press, New York, 1997, p. 666.

Advertisements

eScapegoat 8

eScapegoat is a story for those whose life experiences require a tenacious, and sometimes solitary, faith. It’s a hard read but a hopeful one. Look for a new posting daily during Holy Week (apologies for my late start this week).

May eScapegoat nourish your soul this Lenten season. Return to beginning.

eScapegoat

Shadow Lands, cont.

“John McKenzie is on the deacon ballet for our congregation. John certainly has served us well. He drives the bus for our children’s church and he rarely misses Tuesday night visitation. So I can understand why members of this congregation would wish to nominate him for deacon. We have a difficulty here, however, that John and I have discussed at length and prayed over many times. Let me begin by citing the biblical mandate for our concern.”

Brother Jake lifted his black leather Bible—the leather cover draped itself over Brother Jake’s hand—and flipped toward the back. “Beloved, we find the passage in the book of 1 Timothy: one of Paul’s letters to his son in the ministry. If I could have a son in the ministry, I could do no better than John McKenzie. In Chapter 3 we read: ‘Here is a trustworthy saying: If anyone sets his heart on being an overseer, he desires a noble task. Now the overseer must be above reproach, the husband of but one wife, temperate, self-controlled, respectable, hospitable, able to teach, not given to drunkenness, not violent but gentle, not quarrelsome, not a lover of money. He must manage his own family well and see that his children obey him with proper respect. (If anyone does not know how to manage his own family, how can he take care of God’s church?) He must not be a recent convert, or he may become conceited and fall under the same judgment as the devil. He must also have a good reputation with outsiders, so that he will not fall into disgrace and into the devil’s trap.’ Now the crux of our difficulty lies in verses four and five: ‘He must manage his own family well and see that his children obey him with proper respect. (If anyone does not know how to manage his own family, how can he take care of God’s church?)’

John has sought repeatedly to involve his wife in our congregation, but he has been unsuccessful. John, you asked to speak to this matter, correct?”

“Yes, pastor.” John stood and faced the congregation, his face convulsing with repressed emotion. He stood for a moment, grappling with strong feelings, trying to bring himself under control.

“Thank you to everyone who wanted to vote me in as a deacon. I am…I am honored. But a deacon is to have management of his household and I have failed in this. My wife refuses to leave her church and join us here. I cannot convince her. I don’t deserve to be a deacon, but I will continue to serve as I can, if you will allow me.” He barely got out the final words; he sat down in a rush, resting his head in his hands. His shoulders heaved—up down, up down, pushing his emotions inside.

“Thank you, John. We are honored by your continued service,” said Bro. Jake, reclaiming the front. “That took great courage. Now, I propose someone make a motion in keeping with this biblical mandate: an bylaw stating that only men whose wives join this congregation and whose children regularly attend our functions may be considered for the role of deacon. Then fine men like John won’t be put through trials such as this one. Who among us, after all, can say we live totally in keeping with biblical command?”

Heads bowed, then nodded solemnly.

A deep voice from the back pronounced, “So moved,” and another, in rapid response, “I second.”

“Thank you, brothers. Let’s put feet to our convictions. All in favor, stand!” declared the pastor.

I could not stand; my legs wouldn’t allow me. All around the sanctuary, feet slid together, books were set aside, skirts smoothed. Knees straightened. I looked across row upon row of empty pews. With chins thrust forward, eyes bright, deep breaths taken, everyone stood, proud to be counted. Everyone, everywhere in my family’s world had taken to their feet. Except me.

I felt my father do a double take at me, felt his eyes on my downcast head, felt shock reach his brain. I needed to stand for my family, with my family. That was reason enough. I needed to spare them the difficulty of me. I must stand. Wilda, standing on the other side of Mother, bent toward me, motioning me with determined hand to rise. At the movement, I lifted my eyes and caught the pastor’s gaze—he reacted a split second behind my family, having just caught sight of me.

“Everyone in favor please stand,” he declared in an effort to clarify for the slow girl. Then he looked at me, bobbed his head up as if indicating the direction my body needed to take. I think it may have been the first time he ever really saw me.

I met his gaze, held it in an unspoken apology for the inconvenience, and tried to rise.

“No!” a shout declared. Had someone spoken? No, I alone heard the voice. “No! You can’t. You know it!”

What power was this, dictating the actions of my body? What had gotten into me? Then I knew. I had spoken. My self.

***

It took an eternity of seconds for my action (or lack of action) to communicate itself around the sanctuary. Heads turned as if I were a magnet and they metal shavings. As whispers hissed, I felt the burning of my family’s shame.

“The motion carries,” the pastor was saying, “with… almost unanimous support. Thank you, everyone. Now let’s be seated and vote on the remaining deacon candidates.”

I sat in the pew between my parents just like I’d sat as far back as I could recall, but I was not in the midst of anyone. Bro. Jake called names, there were seconds and discussions and votes. I raised my hand when other people did and lowered it on cue. It didn’t matter anymore. For one instant—the moment in which I did not stand—I was seen. I mattered terribly then..

“Let’s stand and close in prayer.”

This time I managed to stand. As one of the deacons, known for his marathon praying, droned on, I searched the room for Sheila’s fair head. I caught sight of it in the center section, a few rows ahead of us. She was easy to find because, instead of bowing her head, she looked straight ahead, her gaze open and hunted. I could feel her confusion across the room. Sheila, I felt sure, wished she could have joined me, could have summoned the will, but she was young and it was too hard for her. I forgave her in an instant and felt Mrs. McKenzie would have, too.

She must have felt my gaze, because she turned toward me. Then it happened: the scene that replays on the screen of my brain and leaves me cringing. Her eyes went cold, her face hardened into a replica of her mother’s, she breathed out fiercely as if expelling me from her system, and then she took her mother’s hand and turned her back to me.

“Amen.”

Congregants surged forward pretending to stop by our pew for a visit, but actually offering my parents

their condolences.

 

“What’s going on with your youngest?”

“The teen years are such a trying time…”

“With more life experience she’ll come to realize…”

 

Next, forced smiles and warm greetings descended on my bowed head, as people did their Christian duty on me. Sitting there, I could feel Wilda’s wrath, Mother’s embarrassment, Father’s anxiety: he wanted to get me out of there, to get himself out of there.

A familiar voice sounded above me. “Just checking in to see how the Schaefer family is doing this evening. How are you, Bro. William?”

“Just fine, Bro. Jake,” I heard my father’s respond.

“You, Sister Schaefer?”

“I am well, thank you,” replied my mother.

“Wilda?” I could hear the smile in his voice as his lips formed her name.

“I am quite well, Bro. Jake. Thank you for asking.” Wilda’s voice shook with barely repressed anger.

A pause. “W…Wanda?”

Eyes on my shoes, I sat silent, my toes squirming. Then my father’s voice, stern and reproving above me, “Wanda, Bro. Jake asked you a question.”

“Fine,” I told the floor. Then almost, but not quite, involuntarily: “She gets to choose.”

“What? Excuse me?” Bro. Jake sounded startled, rattled.

I met his eyes, watched them slide from my face, then I swallowed and said in a trembling voice: “Mrs. McKenzie. She gets to choose.”

The pastor stood, digesting this. Then he turned to lay a comforting hand on Father’s shoulder: “She’s young, William. With time…” With a nod and a smile, the pastor turned away.

To the others grouped around us, Father murmured something about having work to do at home, then moved us into the aisle. Eyes turned on me; whispers pierced my back. I could feel them; I could taste them.

***

In the car, Wilda exploded: “What were you thinking, Wanda? You embarrassed all of us!”

“Be still, Wilda,” said my Mother, for once speaking successfully. All conversation ceased. I knew when we got home, there’d be an inquest; Mother and Father would demand that I explain myself, and I couldn’t be silent before them. I was so churned up I knew my response would come as a flood of tears and a rush of passionate words. I was sick with revulsion at myself and, at the same time, I knew I’d make the same choice again, if given another opportunity.

We trudged into the house; my cheeks burned with shame. Father closed the front door and said, “Wanda, go to your room.” Wilda started to join me, but he said, “Not you, Wilda. In here.” I trod up the stairs, and then stopped at our bedroom door. Quietly, I retraced my steps and looked down on my family below. Father’s head ushered Mother’s and Wilda’s heads into the den, his hand pressed the door firmly closed. I sat at the top of the stairs, gazing at the block of wood separating me from my family. I was the topic of a secret discussion. I was a problem to be solved.

 

What transpired behind that door I never knew. No one spoke to me that night—about anything. I never had to defend my choice, because no one in my family ever spoke of it before me again. I guess they decided that was the Christian thing to do. But if I felt like a burden before, I had clearly become one now.

eScapegoat 7

Like the season of Lent, the writing and the story are lean, troubling, ascetical. eScapegoat is a story for those whose life experiences require a tenacious, and sometimes solitary, faith. It’s a hard read but a hopeful one. Look for a new posting each Tuesday during Lent and one daily during Holy Week (apologies for my late start this week).

May eScapegoat nourish your soul this Lenten season. Return to beginning.

eScapegoat

Shadow Lands, cont.

I let two students present before raising my hand. I thought if I didn’t get it over with, I’d scream or vomit or maybe both. I’d planned out and practiced my first sentence: “People of Ireland take care choosing names for their children.” My hands shook as I set the posters on the chalk rail. I heard some say “Whoa!” in an awed tone. I gathered my breath and made my way through my opening sentence, then turned my attention to the poster, read through the names, and explained the illustrations I’d done for each one. The room fell silent as I spoke; I felt the other students’ attention on my work and found myself relaxing and even enjoying their regard. At last (though it was probably four minutes, max) I sat down, surrounded by applause and smiles. The teacher asked if she could keep the posters to show her other classes. I nodded yes.

“Creative,” she said, looking at the posters and nodding. “Unique and well executed.”

After that, I was able to attend to the other students’ presentations. I saw lots of white, blue-lined index cards, heard sentence after sentence initiated with “Ummmmm…” and, not surprisingly, heard the names Joshua, David, Benjamin, Rachel, Mary, and Esther defined time and time again. One name, Azazel, caught my attention, partly because I liked the sound of it (it sounded like lightning looks), and partly because it meant a demon of the desert. I imagined fiery eyes peering out from under a scorched stone, then shivered with delightful horror. I thought I would paint Azazel someday.

***

In a small-town high school, word—any word about just about anything—spreads fast. A student in my class told her little sister about my project, and it was soon known that I painted. The other students, noticing me for the first time, seemed to feel I was, myself, some kind of rare art piece: something to be placed under glass and examined from all sides, while remembering to keep your hands clasped behind your back and not to get too close. Painters were a rarity in my family’s town. No one knew quite what to do with me.

***

“You paint?”

“Yeah.” I hesitated before owning it. I didn’t know where the admission would lead.

“I want to see.”

“Oh, they’re not that good. I’m still working on them some.”

“Please. I want to see.”

I tingled with some composite emotion borne of terror and hope. “Okay. They’re in my room.”

We mounted the stairs and Sheila thumped onto my bed, grabbing the pillow and hugging it close. She kicked off her sandals and folded her legs under her. I fished the box from the back of the closet and tenderly lifted the stack of paintings, now warped with water and paint. I silently apologized to the works for any misunderstandings or hurtful words they might be forced to endure. “We’ll be all right,” I soundlessly assured them.

In neat rows, as I imagined they would hang in a gallery, I laid the paintings on the floor at the foot of the bed. Sheila flopped over onto her stomach and surveyed the process. When I finished, she lay there silent, staring. I didn’t know where to look—at the paintings? At Sheila? Out the window? I could hear blood pulsing in my ears like an ocean trapped in a seashell. Would she never speak?

“Wow! These are wonderful, Wanda. I could never do this! Where do you get your ideas?” She stared again and said quietly, “I could never think of these things.”

“I don’t know. It just comes. Thank you.”

“Yeah. I mean it. Really. These are more than just beautiful. I could never paint trees like that.”

“Sure you could. Want to learn?”

Her eyes widened. She sat up and pushed her pale hair behind her ear. “Really? You could teach me?”

“Sure! We can start now.”

I’d never had anyone want me to teach them what I so loved to do. Euphoric, I pulled my paint box from under my bed and searched out two pads of watercolor paper.

“Let’s paint outside so we can look at some trees.”

Her large blue eyes shone with anticipation. “Okay!” she bounded off the bed and grabbed the paper. “Let’s go!”

***

I loved Sheila as I’d wanted to love my sister, and Sheila responded to my love as my sister would never allow herself to do. The guarded expression Sheila wore around her mother vanished, and the brightness of her soul shone on her face. I knew her mother was ashamed of Sheila’s size, so when Sheila and I were together, I stayed far from the subject. Instead, we spent hours in the library, we flew kites that dipped and danced on the winds of March, and, in every season, we painted. With me, Sheila allowed herself to open up, and I tried to be worthy of her trust. She called me “Big Sister,” and, for the first time, I felt the word “sister” might mean something good. She knew I loved her as she was. I knew we’d always be important to one another. I didn’t know then that comfort is an all too common, if unrecognized, addiction.

***

“Do you know Mrs. McKenzie?”

“The seventh-grade English teacher?”

Sheila nodded, gazing at the ground.

“Sure. I like her. She introduced me to Sherlock Holmes. A hard grader, but fair.”

“Yeah…” Sheila separated out a strand of her almost white hair and inspected it for split ends. “I like her, too. It’s just…”

“What?”

“Well, I overheard this argument—her and her husband. It’s weird thinking about teachers having problems…”

The turn of conversation dimmed the joy of our reading time; I wished Sheila would either say what she wanted to say or just drop it. She pushed her hair behind her ear and sat up with her hands in her lap as if she were on one of those lawyer shows as a witness. “Okay. So Mr. Grosman asked me to make photocopies of this handout, ’cause we were short eight for the class. He told me to make the copies in the office—he chose me over Beverly, who had her hand up to volunteer—and come right straight back to class. So I was hurrying and the paper jammed in the copier. I got really scared I had ruined it, and I didn’t want to tell Mr. Grosman, ’cause he gets mad kind of easy and ’cause Beverly would know about it, so I went to see if someone in the office could help me. The teacher’s lounge door was open a little, so I pushed on it. It smells like cigarettes in there, did you know?”

I nodded, hoping she’d move on along with her story.

“Mrs. McKenzie was standing there, talking to her husband. I thought they’d tell me I needed to leave because I was right there, you know? But they never even saw me. I knew it was Mr. McKenzie, because I’d seen him at our basketball games with Mrs. McKenzie. He goes to our church, right?

“Who?”

“Mr. McKenzie. John McKenzie.”

“Yeah.” Strangely, I hadn’t put John McKenzie and Mrs. McKenzie together as a couple, I guess because I’d never seen them together.

“Anyway, his eyes were really…pleading, and she—she had tears in hers. She said something like, “I just can’t, John,’ and he said something about Bro. Jake. Then she just shook her head. I backed out of the lounge and I don’t think they ever saw me. When I got back to the copier, Mrs. Teague was working on it. She said it happens all the time and it wasn’t my fault. Then she helped me make copies and I ran back to class. When I saw Mrs. McKenzie the next day, she was just like usual, but I kept thinking of her with tears in her eyes. What could make her so sad? Do you think she’s getting divorced?”

In our community, divorce carried as much shame, if not more, than distributing birth-control pills. “What God has put together,” Bro. Jake proclaimed from the pulpit, “let no man put asunder.”

“I don’t know,” I replied, wanting to get back to reading. “Could be anything. Adults worry a lot about money. Maybe it’s that.”

“But Mr. McKenzie mentioned Bro. Jake.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen Mrs. McKenzie at church, so why would she care about Bro. Jake?”

Sheila shrugged and I forgot about the conversation. I didn’t think it had anything to do with me.

Taking It To the Streets–Warning: Temples on the Move

Pentecost

Warning: Extreme God Geekiness to follow.

So many specs!

  1. Prophet Ezekiel receives a full-on tour of the worship house in God, enthroned, will place the soles of God’s feet. Once the Israelites learn their lesson, Ezekiel is to provide them complete specs for the edifice (Eze. 43, 44).
  2. The book of Exodus provides specifications for building the tabernacle: a moveable worship house.
  3. Generous ink is given in 1 Kings and 2 Chronicles to the building specs for Solomon’s temple.
  4. Ezra and Nehemiah describe the raising of the Jerusalem temple.

I wonder why Scripture focuses so much attention on the layout and construction of a worship house. What difference do the measurements make (except for the perfect cube of the Holy of Holies—that’s a clear metaphor)? But the types of wood, metal, and fabric? The building’s exact length, breadth, and height?

I posed the question to my husband, who reminded me that the Ark of the Covenant, which was also made to exact specifications and which resided in the Holy of Holies, is believed to be a perfect conductor of power, which is why the priests carried it on poles and why Ussah died when he placed hands on the Ark to prevent it falling (2 Sam. 6). (I hope God greeted Ussah personally at heaven’s gate with a fruit basket and an apology.) It’s also what melted faces and made Indiana Jones famous in his first crusade.

Could it be that, like the Ark of the Covenant, houses of worship were designed to conduct God power: that these specs were blueprints for the perfect conduit? The idea’s mind blowing, because Jesus called Himself a temple (John 2:19) and Paul extends that role to each of us (1 Cor. 6:19). To recap: scripture details a temple-yet-to-be, a moveable tabernacle, Solomon’s temple, and the Jerusalem Temple, Jesus called His body a temple, and Paul described our bodies in the same fashion.

What if we are constructed to conduct God power? What if we have within us the force to transform what we touch? What if each of us is a carefully, thoughtfully, lovingly designed and constructed temple, engineered to transit God power? What if we just need to clear away some sludge to access that power(hence, spiritual practices)? What if, instead of feeling shame at our bodies’ needs and urges, namely hunger, thirst, and desire, we recognize these as temple furnishings? What if, instead of shaming ourselves for our humanness, we give thanks for our temples and their incarnated capacities. What if ours is not a religion of shame, self-abnegation, and self-denial, but one of yes, of full-hearted embodiment, of self- acceptance, of love power?

What do we do with such potency, literally, at hand? We’d each serve out of our true selves, expending our resident power in a unique, personalized fashion. And honor others in doing the same. We’d home in on those needs our particular specs address. And honor others in doing the same.

We are holy dynamos let loose on a hurting world. Let’s go out there and give ‘em heaven.

Pentecost People

Pentecost

A Pentecost People took their faith into the courtroom, into their sanctuary, and into the streets. Their unimaginable courage and compassion proved love’s power over any lesser force: including crazed evil. Nine dead: pastor, grandmother, father, brothers and sisters, friends. Yet the surviving members of Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina chose to walk in Jesus hope.

These Pentecost People believe with Paul that there is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, that, in Christ, we are one. They welcomed the shooter into their Bible study. Then, later, they faced him in the courtroom to call him on his betrayal. Their actions remind us there’s nothing milk toast about forgiveness. Forgiveness does not pretend wrong is inconsequential; forgiveness chooses not to demean ourselves with revenge.

These Pentecost People live into Jesus’ challenge to love our enemies, to do good to those who hate us. Their capacity to love stuns and inspires: their potent words and actions challenge a nation to come together.

To these Pentecost People I say: “Thank you. Thank you for your courage. Thank you for your example of forgiveness. Thank you for your authentic faith. Who you chose to be in the greatest of heartbreaks ennobles you and challenges me toward deeper, truer faith. Of you, I hear Jesus, the Murdered and the Risen, say ‘Well done, good and faithful servants.’”

And I see the nine, one by one, wrapped in a bear hug. The words “Welcome home” smiled into each set of eyes. Each one knowing at last, for sure—and wanting us to know—that love is worth it. For this is the promise of our faith.

Taking It Into the Streets: Drop & Dash?

Pentecost

At the shopping mall, one of a pair of young women appeared at my side. Pressing a paper into my surprised hands, she said, “Here. Take this.” And she peeled off. I looked down at a tract: one of the three-steps-to-salvation sort. I approached the pair, who were making off at speed.

“Excuse me,” I called to their retreating backs. The young woman turned, eyes wide. “I’m giving this back to you,” I said—I hope with empathy. She retrieved the tract, turned wordlessly, and the two continued on their way.

Why did I act as I did? Because this was not the first time a fellow Christian assaulted me with a tract, forcing it into my hands and disappearing into a crowd. And I don’t feel gifted. I feel ambushed. What is the point of sharing good news if we don’t stick around to answer questions? The act feels patronizing: like the person’s saying, “I can tell you really need this.” The age-old evangelism adage of one beggar telling another where to get bread assumes the beggar bearing good news has taken time to know the other person is, indeed, a seeking beggar. The adage also expects the good-news beggar to accompany his hungry friend to the bread source. What I experienced felt more like a drive-by.

Second, I returned the tract to give the young woman an opportunity to rethink herself. Her demeanor belied discomfort with her actions. And I’ve been there. Following the dictates of my spiritual leaders, I wore a button, put a sticker on my bumper, learned my witnessing lines, carried my tracts. And felt miserable.

I see three possible reasons for a person feeling that uncomfortable sharing good news. 1. There’s something wrong with 1. the message, 2. the messenger, or 3. the mode of message sharing. For years I labored under the conviction that I, the messenger, was at fault. I didn’t love Jesus enough; I was a coward. But I also knew in the deepest, truest part of me that forcing beliefs on another person violated that person’s selfhood. If our news is truly good, if God intends to set us free, would that same God wish us to share the news by violating another’s free choice? I trashed the tracts.

The first possibility—that the problem resides with the message? It’s tempting to force onto others what we want to believe, but aren’t quite sure of ourselves. It’s hard, after all, to stand in the truth that Jesus would live a hard life, heal persons and give them hope despite His experiences of personal betrayal, die a torturous death, and then—could it be?—rise again, fully alive. We need others to believe with us, but assaulting people with such incredible news debases the message.

Which brings us to the last possibility for my discomfort: the mode of message sharing. Drop-and-dash faith sharing is not the answer. If the news is, indeed, good, if we love another enough to want him/her to know,  we cannot pronounce judgement, then cut and run. We will look her in the eye. We will hear his story. And then we will let God and love guide our actions.

Taking It Into the Streets

Pentecost

The Church birthed in the fiery winds of Pentecost was deeply human and deeply compelled. Its feet itched to get out on the streets and do love; its tongues ached to speak love in every language imaginable. But soon the mammoth Christendom machine rolled into history and its clanging gears and noisy pistons nearly drowned out the human voice of the Church. The goal of the Christendom machine was to keep itself running and it would do anything—including violating human souls—to keep the engines buzzing. Those it wounded most deeply were the open and searching among us: the children, the artists, the prophets. Yet despite all its efforts, the Christendom machine is winding down, its weathered and rusted gears don’t make the kind of impressive noise they once churned out. And in the deepening silence we begin to hear again the sounds of the Church: its feet scurrying into the streets to do love and its tongues speaking love in every language imaginable.*

 

*With this piece I introduce my Pentecost series, “Taking It Into the Streets.” We will ponder together the meaning and mission of Church from its Pentecost birth to today.