Asking Myself: "What is written in the law?"

This is the 17th post in my series "Asking Myself," in which I weekly ponder one question posed in Teresa Blythe's rich book, 50 Ways to Pray. You can find the start of the series here and last week's post here. The first nine posts focused on theological musings, while posts 10 to the present prayerfully consider the specific questions Jesus posed in the New Testament.

Q: What is written in the law?

I'm going to come at this one in a round-about way. My reflections on this question stem from reading my journals from 20+ years ago.

As a newly "serious" believer, somewhere during my sophomore year in high school, it seemed there were so many laws in the bible and in my church group, both spoken and unspoken, written and unwritten. For one, I felt certain God wanted me to share my faith by inviting everyone I knew to my church. Another biggie: I thought I needed to excise all worldliness from my habits, hobbies, disposition, career pursuits and thought life. Worldliness, I thought at the time, included most TV, movies and music, as well as many academic disciplines that delved too deeply into the soul, most of the fine arts (classical music was OK). Worldliness was even lurking in too much thinking... something I was guilty of 99 percent of my waking hours, but couldn't seem to shake, because trying typically required thinking.

The result of my interpretation of "what was written"? I judged myself harshly. I judged those around me even more harshly. I don't think of myself as a judgmental person, but a 180-page Mead notebook crammed full of crazy thoughts fresh baked from the brain of teenaged Emily proves otherwise. 

Jesus Asks: Who do you say that I am?

This is the 16th post in my series "Asking Myself," in which I weekly ponder one question posed in Teresa Blythe's rich book, 50 Ways to Pray. You can find the start of the series here and last week's post here. The first nine posts focused on theological musings, while posts 10 to the present prayerfully consider the specific questions Jesus posed in the New Testament.

Q: Who do you say that I am? (Luke 9:20)

Like last week, I've approached this question prayerfully, exploring it philosophically, reflectively, rather than trying to figure out the verse in context. I need only to know that Jesus asked this because some had been telling a jittery Herod Antipas (who had beheaded John the Baptist)

that John the Baptist had been raised from the dead. Others thought Jesus was Elijah or one of the other prophets risen from the dead. (Luke 9:7-8)

Thinking about why various people claimed Jesus was a resurrected prophet leads me to a rabbit hole that I don't want to fall down this morning. Let's just say, people then (as they do now) had some odd ideas about who Jesus was, and many of the ideas fed their worse fears and guilt. Peter, who knew Jesus up close and personal, had a moment of clarity in which he proclaimed:

You are the Messiah, sent from God. (Luke 9:20)

Asking Myself: Where is your faith? (Luke 8:25)

This is the 15th post in my series "Asking Myself," in which I weekly ponder one question posed in Teresa Blythe's rich book, 50 Ways to Pray. You can find the start of the series here and last week's post here. The first nine posts focused on theological musings, while posts 10 to the present prayerfully consider the specific questions Jesus posed in the New Testament.

Q: Where is your faith? (Luke 8:25)

I covered this in detail in a previous post about Matthew's version of Jesus sleeping in the boat. So to avoid rehashing it, I thought I would pull out this question as it speaks to me now, somewhat detached from its original, stormy context.

While this question could be interpreted as Jesus saying we have no faith, and why don't we go get ourselves some, I hear it a little differently. Let's assume a philosophical posture that everyone has faith, but we all put faith in different places. For instance, most of us have faith that earth's gravity will keep our feet on the ground, the sun will not forbear to shine, the oceans will obey their boundaries, time will continue to advance, etc. We daily choose to assume our loved ones will still be here tomorrow and that our own heart will continue beating. It isn't always the case, but why live in morbid fear of what could be?

We make this choice to believe often enough that it becomes habit, second nature, faith.

Of course, as Christians, we'd affirm nothing should be taken for granted, and life should be savored moment by moment or seized with wild exuberance, depending on our personalities. It really could end and we do not know the day nor hour. Yet I think it's good and right that we trust our basic assumptions about our worlds continuing on as they should. For without this modest set of beliefs about our own existence, we would be paralyzed with fear. It struck me as I wrote that, for some people, those whose paradigms are ravaged by war or sickness or natural disaster or crime, do find their basic safety at risk. They do become victims of a faith misplaced, jostled about and never fully resettled.

And there's Jesus, asking all of us —the rattled and the serene — where our faith is. Interpreted thus, he is really asking where are we putting our faith, and ultimately, he's inviting us to pin it fully on him. To trust the sun will rise tomorrow, yes, but even more to trust that if it didn't, God is still in control. To notice the Son in the sun's rise, to breathe deeply of the Spirit with each sigh, to see and point out Jesus in our loved ones. Faith is a choice at first before it becomes a way of being.

Surprise! I think I'm going to end here to give you a reprieve from my usual novel-length posts.

Next week: "Who do you say that I am?" (Luke 9:20)

Review of "The Life Giving Home: Creating a Place of Belonging & Becoming"

I finished reading mother-daughter duo's The Life Giving Home some weeks ago, but I had to process the ideas and emotions it provoked before I could write up a review. You must know by now, if you read me, that I spend waaaay more time thinking (daydreaming) than I do housekeeping. Likewise, as a capital "I" introvert, the vast majority of conversations that occur in my house also occur in my head, with myself. So, hospitality and remembering to ask you if you'd like a hot drink are not my specialty. But, how I wish I was that person. How I wish I was an honorary member of Sally and Sarah Clarkson's idyllic family, with their tea time and their family dramas (I'm not talking reality TV drama, I'm talking Little Women "let's put a play on in our study to brighten this dreary winter" drama). How I long to be a better homemaker and how easily I embrace the idea that you can be a feminist and a wonderful host(ess) at the same time. Just look at that subtitle: "Creating a place of belonging & becoming." How glorious that sounds! I could do it without the tea time sugar cubes and fancy china... but who doesn't want to have a place where they feel unreservedly loved and supported as they discover who they are becoming? Who wouldn't want to make their home such a place?

Jesus Asks: "Why do you call me 'Lord, Lord," and do not do what I tell you?"

This is the 14th post in my series "Asking Myself," in which I weekly ponder one question posed in Teresa Blythe's rich book, 50 Ways to Pray. You can find the start of the series here and last week's post here. The first nine posts focused on theological musings, while posts 10 to the present prayerfully consider the specific questions Jesus posed in the New Testament.

Q: So, why do you call me "Lord, Lord," and do not do what I tell you? (Luke 6:46)

I struggle again to answer this next question, which Jesus asked toward the end of a message that included some of His major themes like the Beatitudes and the admonition to love our enemies. The message and the question were posed to his disciples and crowds of followers in a field. And, for me, reading through the lens of my language, time and culture, the question seems rather pointy. Rather accusatory. Mocking almost? I don't want to be offended by Jesus... but when I imagine Him asking me this question, I feel defensiveness rising up. 

Well, then, what else should I call you? Shouldn't I call you? Didn't you know ahead of time how bad we humans were at following through on what you tell us to do? 

At the same time, I know He's right. And before I get too far ahead with my personal reaction to the question, let's have a look at the context. I didn't really know what Jesus was asking without the context. (Confession: I still don't know exactly what he's asking even with the benefit of the context!)

Jesus Asks: Why were you searching for Me?

This is the 13th post in my series "Asking Myself," in which I weekly ponder one question posed in Teresa Blythe's rich book, 50 Ways to Pray. You can find the start of the series here and last week's post here. The first nine posts focused on theological musings, while posts 10 to the present prayerfully consider the specific questions Jesus posed in the New Testament.

Q: "Why were you searching for Me?" Luke 2:49

This week's question was posed to Jesus' parents in what reads a little like an ancient-day version of my boys' current favorite movie. This film would be titled: "Home Alone 3: Left in Jerusalem." Picture the scene: a big trip, a huge entourage of aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, friends and camels. Luke 2:43 (NLT) says:

After the celebration was over, they started home to Nazareth, but Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem. His parents didn't miss him at first...

When the time comes to head home after their week-long Passover stay, Mary and Joseph assume their eldest, Jesus, is with other members of the group. At 12, he's on the brink of manhood, having "grown wise and strong in stature," and he's experienced, having accompanied his family on this annual trip for more than a decade. I can see how his parents assume he's gotten with the program as the caravan heads back to Nazareth. And I get why they don't discover their oversight until a full day into the return trip, and why they reprimand him, "Son, why have you done this to us?," and blame him for getting himself left behind. But I don't think I fully get their son's response in v. 50, (and neither did Mary and Joseph):

"But why did you need to search?" he asked. "Didn't you know that I must be in my Father's house?" But they didn't understand what he meant.

What Jesus doesn't say gives me pause. By not refuting their question, it seems he's admitting that he purposely stayed behind, as v. 43 also seems to establish. Did Jesus deliberately disobey the implied directions of his parents? If they didn't explicitly tell him it was time to leave, did he take advantage of a loophole in the parental law? Did he stay on a technicality, and if so, is this an example of honoring his parents? Is it not sin?