My Lonely City

Sing to the LORD, praise his name;

proclaim his salvation day after day.

Declare his glory among the nations,

his marvelous deeds among all peoples.

I’m exhausted. I just spent an extremely intense week as a camp counselor at a children’s camp for kids who have been abused or neglected. Oh. My. God. I may be able to sift my thoughts into something coherent over the next few days or weeks, but there’s no chance tonight. So I’m going to talk about something else (or rather, something only loosely connected).

I spend a lot of energy and focus on things that don’t matter. Or rather, that don’t warrant the time that I spend on them. I need to focus on the things that _do_ matter: loving God with all my heart, my soul, my mind, and my strength; and loving others as I love myself. (And perhaps I need to work on taking care of, and loving, myself, too.)

I’m rapidly falling asleep. But I’m going to SLEEP IN tomorrow, so it’s okay. ^_^

Yes, I finished Harry Potter. (Mwah hah hah hah – sounds like I kilt him, doesn’t it?) And yes, it was great. A satisfying experience and a fun ride.

But it – and the other book I read yesterday, which was also satisfying and fun – have been seriously messing up my dream life. I’ve had multiple, vivid, vaguely disturbing dreams every night since finishing The Deathly Hallows, but I don’t remember enough of them to write down.

Hm.

But speaking of writing. My ramble of the day (or at least of the morning):

To write is to create. To capture, to examine, to explore. To memorialize, to crystallize, to preserve for scrutiny or praise. To give shape or definition, to distill, to expand. To communicate, to connect, to explain. To write is to be heard, even if only by oneself. This is what I mean by my theory that the work of heaven will be to write our book of God, just as he has written his Book of us.

And there I go again, talking about religious stuff in every post. Gah.

So my Best Friend (at least since 8th grade, which seems like forever ago, so the term actually almost applies, scary as that is) has had a spot of trouble with snoopy out-laws lately. No need to go into the details (nor would I be at liberty to do so even if there was a need), but I got to thinking. I might as well be considerate and save any similar nosies some trouble, if they take a notion to snoop in my direction.

I drink, but I don’t smoke. I curse like a sailor, depending on the company. I don’t do any drugs that have not been specifically prescribed to me by a doctor, and I never have. Except for occasional speeding and an illegal u-turn or two, I have never broken the law. Unless you count jaywalking. I didn’t drink alcohol until I was twenty-one, even when I was in countries (Mexico and New Zealand) whose drinking-age laws would have permitted me to do so. The worst thing I have ever done was made out with a boy who was engaged – engaged! to someone else! what was I thinking?! – on the way back from my senior trip.

I didn’t have sex until after I got married. (Yes, really.) I have never cheated on my husband. I love him very much, and love sharing my life with him. Most of the time it’s easy to love him; sometimes I love him because I promised him I would. Marriage is harder than I thought it would be, but it’s also more rewarding.

I sometimes hate spending time with my family – immediate-ish and extended – because I feel we have very little in common. I spend time with them anyway, because it’s the right thing to do.

I love God but Christians piss me off. I’m a vegan, feminist social critic with dozens of radical, half-formed ideas and almost no-one to bounce them off of. I complain a lot about being lonely and having no-one to talk to, but I don’t seek out any new relationships because I’m a lazy fraidy-cat a lot of the time.

I volunteer. I tithe. I pray. I read the Bible semi-regularly, though not as often as I ought to. I try to understand how God wants me to apply what I read to the way I behave. What I keep coming back to is this: Treat others the way you want to be treated.

I tip. I sing loudly in the car by myself. I sometimes preach sermons to people who are not, physically, present with me. I pick up paper towels that bastards in public restrooms throw on the floor. (Sometimes.) I wear underwear when trying on swimming suits.

I have a concealed-carry permit (somewhere). I enjoy shooting bottles and targets, and I’m pretty good at it. I doubt I could shoot a person, though, because I don’t want to be shot. Even in self-defense.

Sometimes I carry insects and spiders outside when they get in; sometimes I kill them. I don’t feel guilty. My cats are both declawed – though I wouldn’t make that decision again.

I lost my first child this year – a missed miscarriage six weeks after conception, discovered around four weeks later. It tore my world apart. I’m getting used to the pieces floating around, and I’m not trying to fit them together yet.

I think too much. But I’m okay with it.

Satisfied?

I’m going to be a counselor at a summer camp for children in my county who have been abused or neglected.

Oh my gosh.

Oh my gosh! I’m so excited and nervous and scared and elated … and surely other things, too. :o) My mother-in-law was the music director last year, when a body from her then-church held the camp under the organization and leadership of a national – indeed, international – organization. She returned full of stories and emotions; I was fascinated and moved. From what I heard her say, and what I heard from the leadership in their informational meeting, the people and the organization are doing a great thing, and doing it well. What impresses me most at this time is their careful rejection of the idea of “saving” or rescuing the children, and the deliberately narrow focus of creating good memories for the kids who attend.

I think what resonates with me about this strategy is that it is a positive, rather than negative, approach to the problem of child abuse. I mean, I think it’s easier to focus on, and perhaps drown in, the overwhelming statistics, the grief and fury, the images and stories of people who rape, beat, torture, and neglect the children in their care – easier than it is to do what I can with what I have.

I can’t reach everyone who is suffering, child or adult. Even if I could, I couldn’t end all the suffering in the world; I’m not wise or resourceful enough for that. But I can listen, and learn, and work. I can go out of my way to make things better, for a little while and for a few people and animals.

Creating a society in which all children are safe from harm, respected as people, and emotionally & intellectually equipped to live lives of fulfillment and meaning is a long-term project. Not impossible – nothing is impossible – but I doubt I will live in such a society this side of heaven. But here, now, I will do what I can with what I have.

I’m both excited and apprehensive, right now; I’m excited because giving and serving are exciting to me. That’s who I am. I get to serve children who matter to God. I’m apprehensive because I’ve never done this before. I don’t have any younger (or older) siblings; I haven’t spent a lot of time around children. I’m eager and willing to learn how to be an effective counselor, but I don’t know what to do yet. And if you know me, you know that I like … knowing. But, God’s grace is sufficient for me, and his power is made perfect in weakness, eh?

I realized that I never explained why the “It’s Greek to you…” marquis made me so angry: It so perfectly illustrates the snobbery, elitism, and guilty, defensive arrogance rampant in the Christian community. “We know you don’t get why we believe in Jesus. We don’t want you to, because having a secret makes us feel better about the way we’re failing to serve him.” Grow up, people.

You know how you have random thoughts, disconnected from pretty much everything, and then one thing leads to another and the next thing you know you’re thinking about being executed by beheading?

No?

Well, anyway, I was thinking about immigration. (I can see you scowling already; calm down.) And about how trying to keep the other kids from playing with our toys may not be the best solution. Maybe we should forget about citizenship and just have … being-here-ships. Where, you know, where you are determines how you’re expected to behave. And when you’re here, no matter who or where you were before, you play nice. And if you don’t, no matter who you are, we’ll shoot ya. (DISCLAIMER This post does not express my views on capital punishment.)

And then I was thinking about (it’s early, give me a break) the environmental impact of shooting as a form of execution. The one in the head method, versus the firing squad method. It doesn’t seem to me that guns produce a lot of litter (unless you count wrongful deaths, but even for someone who believes in an afterlife, bodies aren’t just waste). But there are of course the bullets. And whatever materials are wasted and pollution is produced in making them, not to mention the guns that shoot them. And so I was wondering about recycleable (does that have an ‘e’ in it?) execution methods, and I relized that the French were the greenest when they did away with folk on their guillotine. (I saw a wrestling commercial when Jared & I went to dinner the other night, and it had a guillotine in it; maybe that’s where this came from.) And then, as my mind does, I saw myself into the situation, wrongfully accused or perhaps being persecuted for religious reasons, led quite literally to the slaughter. Ack.

And on that happy note I was wondering what I would say if I were given the chance, knowing that it was my last opportunity to say anything. So here, for your reading pleasure, are my last words:

To God be the glory for ever. And to his son, Jesus Christ, who came into the world to save and change it, and who reigns on high as the King of kings and the Lord of lords. And to his Spirit, whose divine presence gives us the assurance of our hope, that the God of love and grace, the God of wrath and mercy, the God of holiness and power will recieve us as his own, and grant us eternal life. To this God, whose grace is sufficient for our insufficiencies, whose perfect love is enough to drive out our fear, and whose might is great enough to save, be the glory for ever and ever. Amen.

I just wanted to say that I disagree with the new Pope; I think the church did force itself on the existing cultures of Latin America. And I’m not sure that the people in those cultures were “silently longing” to become Christians.

Just a thought. Perhaps we would be better evangelists if we could admit previous evangelical mistakes.

… but … still working out the details …

(Yes, Annette; I would like to talk this weekend.)

Matthew 5:4
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Revelation 21:3
I heard a loud voice shout from the throne:
God’s home is now with his people. He will live with them, and they will be his own. Yes, God will make his home among his people. He will wipe all tears from their eyes, and there will be no more death, suffering, crying, or pain. These things of the past are gone forever.

Then the one sitting on the throne said:
I am making everything new. Write down what I have said. My words are true and can be trusted.

Can anyone really comfort me? If I have to say, “Yeah, I’m … okay,” one more time. I mean, what am I supposed to say? I feel like hell, but thanks for asking. I just lost my baby, how do you think I am? The baby I was just getting used to the thought of having. The baby I thanked God for. The baby I wanted. I don’t know how to comfort Jared with his pain – or even acknowledge the pain of my or Jared’s parents, which I’m sure they’re feeling as well – because I don’t know where to start with mine. I don’t know what to do. In some ways I don’t want to feel better yet.

I’m scheduled for a D&C (d-something-with-lots-of-syllables, c-something-with-lots-of-syllables, where they open your cervix and – literally – scrape out the inside of your uterus, like a menstrual period á la Jack the Ripper). Tomorrow. At eleven. I asked yesterday, when the nurse called to tell me about the test results, if it would hurt. Her response was “It’s a surgery.” I guess that’s a yes.

I think a lot of the people around me have an idea that when people “hurt too much” it’s bad for their faith. So they try to make those who mourn … feel better. Be encouraging, like. Rather than just “mourn[ing] with those who mourn” without trying to fix anything (Romans 12:15). I would like to be mourned with, not encouraged, right now. (But how do you mourn?)

There is no Pi. I’m not pregnant anymore. Yes, I’m okay. I’m sorry too.

I’d appreciate your prayers. I’m all right, really; I know that God’s plans are better, his thoughts are higher, than ours, and I’m at peace with His decision. I cry, but I’m okay with it.

Psalm 4 seems rather disjointed to me. Of course, it’s 6:13 in the morning, and the menu at Tarahumara’s would probably confuse me as well. Anyway, it just seems like the poem/song takes several disparate themes and and places them alongside one another, but doesn’t necessarily relate them to each other. … Upon reading this again, I think I was wrong. ¶ Okay, let me back up. A few years ago, when I was studying in Wellington, New Zealand, I took a Greek Mythology class during which we had a visiting lecturer who spoke briefly about Biblical mythology. Among the many interesting things that professor said, he discussed that the structure of many Biblical, and especially Old Testament, texts use a structure somewhat different than the Western plot structures that most of us were used to: instead of being structured around conflict or tension building to a climax, and then a denouement, they are arranged like a funnel-shape, with both the beginning and the end in some sense ‘leading up to’ the center; they are arranged symetrically so that the most emphasis is placed on the middle. ¶ He used the story of Adam & Eve in the garden, and eventually out of the garden, as his example, saying that the emphasis in the text according to this structure is not on, as we assume, the Fall (a term which does not occur in the actual text) or even on the Creation, but on the period in the center, when Adam & Eve are living in the garden and walking & speaking with God. ¶ Anyway, reading Psalm 4 again with that in mind, it does indeed seem to peak at the words of instruction in the center. The beginning, where the speaker implores God to “answer [him] in [his] distress,” is indeed answered in the final verses, where the speaker’s “distress” has been replaced by “joy”, “peace” and “safety” (Psalm 4:1 & 7-8). The “men [who] love delusions and seek false Gods” in the next segment are revealed later to be “asking, ‘Who can show us any good?’” – to which the speaker now knows to respond not with fear or anger, but by seeking “the light of [God’s] face” (vs. 2 & 6). ¶ The next three verses constitute the core of the text, the wisdom the speaker has gained and that will inform the way in which he responds to his former questions: “Know that the Lord has set apart the godly for himself;/ the Lord will hear when I call to him./ In your anger do not sin; when you are on your beds, search your hearts and be silent. (Selah)/ Offer right sacrifices/ and trust in the Lord” (vs. 3-5). But see, even to discuss that interpretation, I rewrote it in the structure with which I am familiar. I can’t wait to get to Heaven and be able to view the world through the language of the one who created it. (And it’s now 6:45.)

Psalm 2 is … confusing. My first and overwhelming impression is the attempt to balance the psalmist’s utter terror of God’s wrath with his equally strong belief in and need of God’s fatherly love. In fact, this text could perhaps be seen as an exploration of the implications of considering God a father; on the one hand, he provides “refuge” in the form of his “Son,” an “inheritance” to his chosen one(s), etc., but on the other, his “wrath can flare up in a moment” (vs. 8 & 12). Is God, then, an abusive father? Or is the text perhaps suggesting that the way in which God loves, or interacts with, his creation is both so passionate and so holy that knowing him can be at times phenomenally destructive? ¶ He, that is, God, could therefore be seen as an ambiguous figure in the context of the pre-Messianic world. In that case, the position of the psalmist, with his/her ministry of singing praises to God and telling of the things he has done is more fraught with difficulty than is at first apparent. If the psalmist is in some ways making God intellectually or emotionally accessible to man, then he or she may be in a somewhat precarious position, both blessed & cursed by their own human perspectives & positions.

I’m afraid that even though this is such a terrific dénouement, and there are so many great things to say about this passage and the book as a whole, that I don’t really have a neat, cohesive, and powerful way to conclude my journey through it. So I’ll just give my scattered thoughts and call it good. First, it’s nice to have a happy ending once in a while. Especially in the Bible, eh? ¶ Isn’t there a touch of irony in Job’s relatives returning to him (once he was again prosperous) and consoling him over the trouble God had brought him? I mean, Job GOT TO SEE GOD! He got to talk with God! And God said he was pleased with Job! Wow! Not only that, but where the heck were they when he was actually going through it? ¶ I love that God specifically says that he is displeased with the way in which the Termite and his cronies represented him (God). I like the implication that God cares about the way we see and know him, and the way others see and know him through us. ¶ On the female front, this ending is fascinating. First of all, Job and his wife apparently made up (unless children really do come from a stork). But what really intrigues me is the fact that it is Job’s daughters, not his sons, who are named. And further, they are granted an inheritance along with his sons. Maybe it’s just to show how rich Job was; he could afford TEN heirs instead of seven. However, I think there’s a nice symmetry here between the way Job had earlier discussed caring for the fatherless, the widows, the lame, etc., and the way he provides for and honors his daughters against the grain of a society that perhaps considers daughters to be worth less than sons. It seems that Job’s views of his responsibility to those around him increased, rather than decreased, through his ordeal. ¶ Finally, it was only after Job had prayed for his three friends (what about Elihu?) that God blessed him. Perhaps this was also a lesson in forgiveness, and a demonstration of the way forgiveness releases God’s blessings, from financial prosperity to eternal salvation.

Job 40. So God says, “Answer me, boy!” and Job says “…um…” and God says, “Let’s try this again.” But is God actually angry? I don’t know. I don’t really think so. I mean, yes, he is being rather cutting with his words, but he is also reiterrating Job’s inability to “save” himself, to “clothe [him]self in honor and magesty” – and these are things which God promises elsewhere to do for us. I think that instead of arguing with Job, God may be explaining his desires to Job in the same heightened emotional tone and rhetorical format that Job used himself. Maybe God’s proud of Job for being honest, and He is in turn being honest with Job – God is, and will always be, superior to Job in might, in wisdom, in fact in every way, but he does not abandon Job; instead, he pursues a conversation with him. God makes his ways known to Job, and even though there are still things separating them they are nonetheless closer than they’ve ever been.

Job 41 is all about this Leviathan. The footnote says “possibly a crocodile” but God talks about his breathing fire and what-not, which I, personally, have never heard of a crocodile doing. On the other hand, maybe they just don’t make them like they used to. ¶ I think that God is comparing himself to the leviathan, but not like, “I’m so awesome, check me out!” but rather a lament of the distance created between himself and his creation by the ambiguity of “the fear of God”. (My sentences are really long and tangled, aren’t they?) The leviathan is not human but the beginning description of him is in terms of a mighty prisoner of war, (sound familiar?) and the ludicrousness of imagining him pleading for his life in exchange for lifelong servanthood. And he is not a domesticated animal, as the next section of descriptions show. Instead, he is described as a sort of Poseidon-like figure, a normal-god with extraordinary strength, ambiguous anthropomorphism, supernatural armor, and, somewhat incongruously, dominion over “all who are proud.” Perhaps his description of the Leviathan is meant to be somewhat incongruous, to demonstrate that Job’s and his friends’ discourse concerning God is not over God as he is, but rather as they imagine him to be. Perhaps the leviathan is, indeed, a mythical dragon, and God is ironically ‘describing’ something that doesn’t exist outside of folklore to confront his listeners with their tendency to lump all things they don’t understand into the same category. It might be sort of like a mall Santa Clause saying, “Give my regards to the Tooth Fairy.” Or perhaps I’m just not awake yet and I’m rambling. Oh, well; time will tell.