Other Answers

Oh Lord, hear my prayer.
Oh Lord, hear my prayer.
When I call, answer me.


Oh Lord, hear my prayer.
Oh Lord, hear my prayer.
Come and listen to me.

It's a reflective and quiet melody. (Here's a link to listen to it.) I prayed it this morning.

What troubles me is two-fold. First off, when I pray it, I feel a bit (or a little more than a bit) like a hypocrite. My heart cries out as if God has not been answering me. But when I take my blinders of self-pity off, it's patently obvious that God has blessed me in literally uncountable ways. My life is a litany of blessings. It's just that my personality focuses on the disappointments.

So that's the first problem. When God answers me, and he does, do I even notice?

The second one is even more challenging than the first. I recently finished Night by Elie Wiesel. Shaken to the core, I have to ask, "Did Elie see any answer to his prayer?" The answer was No. Not from Elie's perspective, at the time. And who could blame him? Upon his entry into a Nazi death camp, he walked past a pile of burning human flesh. Men. Women. Children. Babies.

That is my second problem. Whoever answered Elie's prayers is the one who answered mine. In light of Elie's experience, that's not a comforting thought.

And between these two problems I struggled mightily as I pondered the God who answers all prayers. It's a package deal. The same God answers them all.

But then a very encouraging thought ran through my mind. The package includes Jesus. God the father answered the prayer of Jesus Christ. Jesus despaired too. Jesus knew the answer was not what he wanted to hear. And Jesus went to Calvary, for me, because that was God's answer to my unspoken prayer. My unspoken need.

The God who answered my prayer answered Elie's prayer. And Jesus' prayer. All three of us experienced the sense of abandonment. My experience pales before that which Elie endured. And Elie was not Jesus. But across the wide spectrum of experience it's the sense of abandonment that haunts us worst. When we pray, and the world seems silent, we inevitably feel abandoned. Does God care?

So it may not be the answer I want – but it's the answer a loving God gives to both me, Elie, and Jesus.

"Take up your cross. I'm not going to tell you otherwise."

If we're not in the mood for a cross, we'll certainly feel abandoned.

But this is what God's son experienced. If Jesus is to be formed in me, I will need to make my peace with the occasional feeling of abandonment.

Take up your cross.

What comfort is there in that? It is in the knowledge that beyond the cross lies life. Eternal life. Life with God. Beyond my petty day-to-day grind. Beyond the death camps of Germany. Beyond the cross where God himself died alone.

Beyond. Just a bit beyond that which is gruesome and just beyond that which wearies a human man.

God himself awaits me.

And he loves me.

On the other side of the cross, I will never be alone again.

Oh Lord, hear my prayer.
Oh Lord, hear my prayer.
When I call, answer me.


Oh Lord, hear my prayer.
Oh Lord, hear my prayer.
Come and listen to me.

Reminder From A Hamster Bottle

No, I didn't dream about a hamster last night, (as noted in a prior blog), though I have had that dream again since I last blogged about it.

This time it was an image. Sometimes images form in my head, and I find myself a bemused spectator. "I wonder what I was picturing?" I find myself asking, a second or two after the image took shape. I query my own brain for an answer to my own question. It's weird. We really do have subconscious minds. Sometimes I think it says a lot simply about what primordial thoughts are percolating below my conscious thoughts. Sometimes I think it's a nudge from God. Most of the time I cannot tell, and probably the true answer is that I never know.

Too much prologue. So there I was this morning, reflecting on some long, long, painful struggles I have been dealing with. And yet I am alive. Healthy. In a warm home. And yet... And yet... it's so human to turn to God for a solution to every problem – even when we have so much else to be thankful.

While I struggled with a few "Why" questions this image formed. Took shape. And I asked myself what I was looking at. It was the stopper on a hamster bottle. It's been 30 years now, but I'm pretty sure it was the way the bottle worked when I was a kid and had my own hamster. Rubber, with a tube running through it. Nowadays they screw on, but I digress.

So there it was. A hamster bottle stopper.

Why on earth? What brought that ancient artifact to my mind?

But as I reflected a bit, I had to smile. The hamster has to really work at it to get the water. There's a little ball at the end of the tube. That's what keeps the water from flowing out all at once. So the little feller has to push the ball bearing up to get each sip. It takes a little while. But it works.

If the hamster had a brain (a dubious proposition) he might wish for a faster delivery system. Why, oh God, he might ask, do I have to go through all this hassle. There's tons of water up there. I can see it.

But of course if it all came down at once, it would flood the cage and make it unsanitary. And I know from experience that an open dish of water likewise soon gets soiled with hamster poop, cage fluff and soggy hamster treats.

There is an upside to that delayed and slow delivery system. The water that comes is good, pure... and it sustains.

So maybe there is a lesson here for me. I am alive. The trials I have been through have not taken me out. God has provided. Drip-feed survival is not to be mocked. It may be a blessing. One day I will die anyway, but in the meantime perhaps a lesson from the hamster bottle. Someone who loves me has provided for me.

Even when it comes out slowly.

Catholics, Church and the Constitution

I woke up this morning and found myself musing over the recent revelations involving the Missouri bishop charged with failing to report to authorities what he knew: that one of the priests in his Diocese had, over a long period of time, engaged in habitual acts of child-abuse of a sexual nature.

Several things struck me as I lay there in the dark. First, it struck me with a sudden force that I was really, really angry. Angry at the bishop. Angry at the church. How strange. What about the priest? One might wonder why my ire was not directed in greater measure toward the wicked man who actually abused the innocent children. And so indeed I did begin to wonder.

What I came to realize is that I expect there to be wicked people in the world, and even in lower levels of church leadership. That certain men will, given the opportunity, use children for sexual pleasure surprises me none. It's part of the mix here on broken planet Earth.

What sets my blood boiling is the thought of people in higher (sometimes much higher) levels of church leadership failing to call others in the church to account -- or, in this case, even complying with good and just civil laws designed to protect children from dangerous sexual predators.

So I lay there in a sudden seizure of mental paralysis. Which is worse? And more fundamentally, is either deed really any worse than the other? To sexually abuse a child is an awful thing. To lay children down before the pagan altar of "protecting" the reputation of the church (I guess that one didn't work out so well) is no less awful.

I should hate both sins. And I need to love both sinners. And I should expect failures in church leadership to also be part of the mix here on broken planet Earth.

But I have not been feeling much love or compassion for the Missouri bishop. And I still cling to silly notions that here on broken planet Earth failures such as seen in this Missouri bishop should not happen.

Why?

Perhaps it's because of the abuse I have received at the hands of self-protecting church leaders that I have such a visceral (dare I say?) hatred for the church leaders. I've never been sexually abused by anyone in the church before. My gut reacts to sins I know well enough from the victim's perspective. I am a victim several times over of abuse by turf-protecting, reputation-protecting and self-protecting church leaders. An area of unforgiveness in me is revealed.

But then my thoughts moved on to the next puzzling thing. Yes, both sorts of sins are to be expected in the church. Sexual predators and organizational Machiavellis.

What happens when they collide?

I was struck by the thought that the writers of the Constitution knew something about this. They split the executive branch from the legislative branch. And they further split law-writers from the law enforcers. What have we, in the church, done to address this need? The writers of the constitution understood human nature well enough. Should not the church understand it even better?

Clearly the Missouri bishop had more than a little too much of the executive branch and the judicial branch wrapped into one under his hat. If in the church the executive and judicial branches were more distinct, we'd not (one would hope) have been so likely to see someone in the "executive wing" of the church so blatantly and awfully protected by such utter moral failure on the part of the "judicial wing" of the church.

But we don't. Not in the Catholic church. I see that in the news. And not in the Protestant church. I experienced that in person. In my Protestant church the break-down seems not to be in the ideal set-up, nor even in the legal set-up. In my experience the local executive branch (pastor/priest) was beholden in some way to the judicial branch (vestry/leadership committee). But only on paper. In practice I found, to my great distress and personal pain, that the priest rules and the vestry obeys. I guess some sort of similar process fails in the Catholic church too.

Lord Jesus, have mercy on us, your church. And have mercy on me. I am part of it, and I am obliged to remain in it. I am reminded of an old quote which seems sometimes to be attributed to Augustine and other times not...

"The church is a whore. But she is my mother."

Lessons From A Hamster

At least twice in recent months I dreamed I was holding a struggling hamster in my hands. In both dreams I struggled to accomplish two rather incompatible goals. One the one hand, I didn't want to hurt the tiny creature I had in my strong hands. On the other, I didn't want the hamster to escape my grasp and fall to the floor.

Injury and/or death awaited the hamster if it fell from my hands, but the very same fate lay in store for the hamster if I held it too tightly. And the problem was this: the hamster, in both dreams, was in full panic mode.

We have two hamsters in our home, so I can attest to the fact that hamsters do panic – and when they do, the floor is the next stop if you're not watching them closely. They'll jump to their death, given the opportunity. When they've decided to panic, that is.

So... why the dream? I'm not sure, but I have some guesses. I tell guests in our home regularly that I love to think of the hamsters as reminders for humans of how God thinks about us. We're dumb as a box of rocks (with all the smart ones taken out) and yet he absolutely adores us. We cannot do one blasted useful thing for him, but he's just tickled pink to watch us just to see what we'll do next. He even delights in watching us sleep. Obviously the illustration should not be taken too far, but I still find it helpful.

But what does God do with us when we're panicking? Here I may be reaching too far to interact with a dream that has more to do with last night's pizza than with instruction from on high. But I had the dream twice, so it must have significance in my own thoughts, if not God's.

In the dream I found myself both times coming to the same conclusion. The safest place for the struggling hamster was a cage. I wanted to hold and caress the hamster, but it was squirming like a banshee and to keep it from escaping my hand (and falling to the floor) I had to squeeze it too hard. In the cage I would not have to hold the hamster. It'd be a restricted world for the hamster, but it'd be a safe one.

When in life I find myself feeling caged in, perhaps the time has come to reflect on whether I would be willing to rest (without struggling) in my Father's hands. The sense of imprisonment might just recede if I could.

99.9999999999999%

I was struck by something yesterday morning as I sat in church. The universe is huge. (Stop the presses!) But seriously. Huge. Beyond our comprehension, huge. And largely lifeless. Which means that some 99.999999999999% of it is doing exactly what God designed it to do. Give or take a hundred 9's...

What struck me in that moment, as a programmer by trade, is that it makes all the sense in the world (pardon the pun) that God takes a keen interest in getting that last 0.0000000000000001% working right. We're the sticking point to an otherwise perfectly running program, as it were. My goodness, the lengths I will go to when I know that my program is perfect — except for one thing.

Of course I am usually wrong. I fix the one thing and later find out something else isn't perfect either. But God knows. He's not misinformed on the matter. He's got 99.99999999999999999999% of the universe working like a clock. It's just us.

And here is where love comes into play. Because as a programmer I might be inclined to kill the bugs that plague my otherwise perfectly running program. Most customers won't mind losing 0.00000000000001% functionality if the rest of the product works great. But God didn't take the easy way out. Not like that. He wants to restore what was lost. Not annihilate it and release a product with slightly fewer features.

But so many souls! Six billion? Seven? So many problems, and all bound up in the tiniest corner of his project. But then I remember that for every human soul on earth there are dozens of galaxies (if not more) and that in each galaxy there are a hundred billion stars... and God's got them all working just fine. It's suddenly not so amazing that God is able to pay attention to me. He's running the universe. And most of it is running just fine. It's just that last 0.00000000000000000% that needs help. A few billion souls in a tiny corner. No, for God the daunting part is not the count of the souls but rather the price to redeem them.

Infinite power, infinite wisdom, and infinitely tender love... and perhaps a touch of a programmer's perfectionism. He wants to get that last bit right. How wondrous to see the lengths God will go to in order to get our universe right. To give up himself, to become like us, to die for us... in order to perfect that last 0.0000000000001%

What a mighty God we serve!
What a mighty God we serve!
Angels bow before Him.
Heaven and Earth adore Him.
What a mighty God we serve!

Revenge Fantasies

I just watched The Help with my wife. It was enjoyable. But that does not mean it was good.

Entertaining? Yes. Heart-warming? Frequently. The movie also shone a spotlight on hatred — mostly of the racial sort. To the extent it reminds us all of our common humanity, and of our need to steer our hearts clear of hating others (especially others who gain that distinction by means of skin color or such), so much the better. But when all is said and done, I left the movie feeling that I had been watching a female revenge fantasy.

Many years ago (whenever it was that Air Force One came out...) I made a mental commitment to avoid male revenge fantasies at the movie theater. Male revenge fantasies are typically violent. Extremely. The simple formula is, "You took something good from me. Now I will rip your limbs off, one by one. But I won't move too fast because I don't want you to die too quickly."

Needless to say, this is not the life God calls us to, and it scares me that so many of us have allowed ourselves the secret pleasure of watching someone else engage in violent revenge, and to ourselves vicariously savor the agony inflicted upon the original offender.

I'm reading a great book right now, titled What's So Amazing About Grace. Perhaps that has made me momentarily more sensitive on the topic. Perhaps it'd be best if my sensitivity became permanently. Grace is underrated. Grace is the forgotten word. To the point that many people in common society would struggle to define the word with any clarity.

But I digress. To our movie. The Help. It's a female revenge fantasy. By and large, the good characters are good. The bad characters are bad. Really bad. And the worst character of all? Well, by the end of the movie she gets what she deserves. A female revenge fantasy. Like sugar, it tastes sweet. And when consumed in a theater, it doesn't turn sour in your stomach. You leave the theater feeling great.

But it rots your soul.

I mean that. If we savor revenge fantasies, we'll live them out too — to the extent we can. For we, to greater or lesser extent, become what we worship. If we worship revenge in the theater, we'll appreciate it well enough in the home. And at work. And at church.

Most of what Hollywood produces includes a slice of revenge fantasy, which is to justice what pornography is to sex. But Hollywood does sometimes get it right. To see what revenge does in real life, I'd recommend Mystic River.

Most movies don't tell the true story of revenge. Revenge destroys the souls of those who engage in it. Its destructive power is guaranteed to backfire. Mystic River captures this subtle truth, though perhaps too subtly. I suspect many never see how revenge backfires so tragically in that story's telling.

It's because revenge destroys those who pursue it that God calls us to love our enemies. Ironically, this commandment from God is noted, word for word, in the movie The Help. Several times. The words are celebrated.

I was reminded of Gladiator, a horribly violent movie which,  near the end of the movie, offered up Russell Crowe (with bloody hands) ask his own amphitheater audience when they would stop taking pleasure in violence. Wait! Isn't that what we Americans just did in this theater? Have we come so far since the Romans?

The Help engaged in this same sort of hypocrisy. Love your enemies. Wait! The high point of the movie was when pie (laced with fecal matter) got served up to the unsuspecting enemy! Her just desserts? Fine. But call it what it is. The bad woman ate shit in a pie that tasted great? How fitting, since anybody who left The Help with no misgivings probably did the same.

When Clean Words Don't Do Justice

Occasionally my thoughts grow dark, and what I want to say to others or to God seems to lack communicative power... that is, unless I permit myself to salt my comments with a few choice words that wouldn't pass the family-friendly filter test. Add that extra word or two, and suddenly I feel like I have really said how I feel. Suddenly I feel I have been more truthful about how I am feeling.

At times like these, and I had one a day or two ago, I found myself reflecting on the usefulness of coarse words. Occasionally they seem almost the right word — le mot juste. Without them, I have failed to communicate what I am feeling.

But this morning as I returned to this reflection (yes, after having shared rather bluntly with the Lord how I felt about an injustice I am being subjected to) I realized (I think) that there is a better way to approach the matter.

When clean words don't suffice, I think it's wiser to conclude not that I need to salt up the language a bit, but rather to conclude that I have discovered a place in my heart where I desperately need healing.

In short, coarse words are not part of a healthy diet, but rather a thermometer. My sense of need for them provides an indicator of my spiritual condition. I'll know healing has occurred (in part or in full) when I can speak, and do justice to my thoughts, without feeling a need to use coarse language.

To stretch the analogy a bit further, my use of course language is going to be about as helpful to God and to others as a coughing fit in the presence of the healthy. They'll know how I feel... and if they are wise, they'll take a step or two back from the stuff coming out of my mouth.

Armed with this new insight... I now return to prayer. I obviously need some pretty serious healing in a few spots....