Asking Myself: When has God intervened in your life?

This is the 32nd post in my series "Asking Myself," in which I weekly ponder one question posed in Teresa Blythe's excellent book, 50 Ways to Pray. You can find the start of the series here and my previous post here. The first nine posts focused on theological musings, while posts 10 to 25 prayerfully consider the specific questions Jesus posed in the New Testament. Posts 26 to present focus on Questions on Spirituality.

Q: Can you think of a time when God intervened in your life?

First off, what do I think about the term "intervene"? Is this some kind of saving grace at a time when I didn't deserve it or couldn't muster it myself? Is it something I didn't even know or think to ask for? Or is it a clear answer to a desperate prayer? Intervention of old (and new testament) seems to entail the supernatural: shipwreck survivals, gospel-preaching teleportation, earthquake prison releases and the like. 

I do not have any clear-cut, undeniably hand-of-God moments in my history. But, as usual, I buck against this obvious interpretation of the idea of intervention. And I wonder, might God be intervening momently... keeping the earth in motion and the sun burning and us tiny humans from blowing each other to smithereens? And doesn't he work specifically in my own life-- intervening in matters of the heart? But to answer what I think the question is actually asking, yes, I do have a handful of incidents that I attribute to God's intervening hand. And I will tell them to you:

Asking Myself: Have you ever felt resentful, angry, or afraid of God?

This is the 31st post in my series "Asking Myself," in which I weekly ponder one question posed in Teresa Blythe's excellent 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 25 prayerfully consider the specific questions Jesus posed in the New Testament. Posts 26 to present focus on Questions on Spirituality.

Q: Have you ever felt resentful, angry or afraid of God?

I wanted to write about anger and resentment because I have a ready wellspring of life episodes that fit this category of my dynamic relationship with God. But, I realized, all of them were deeply personal; writing about them on the internet just didn't seem safe or fair to the other people intertwined in these moments.

So, I moved on to my third choice-- a time when I feared God. I touched on the topic of fear a couple of posts ago. But this time I want to tell a story of fearing God--- or maybe, more precisely, of fearing because I didn't trust God's goodness. I feared that God's will would not be for my own good. 

Winter in Taiwan, 2002.

Taipei winters are wet and breezy. Sometimes typhoony. Sometimes with earthquakes. Clouds and pollution settle on the city's mountain-rimmed basin. Fist-sized snails suction themselves to the palm trunks, and the geckos come inside. (I add these latter details not to creep you out, but because I'm actually very fond of both geckos and giant snails. I digress.) The main trouble with Taipei's winter and the 24-year-old version of me was that I was damp and bone-chilled and tense and allergic and asthmatic and covered in eczema, and having diarrhea 8 times a day. I was also prone to nightly anxiety attacks. 

Asking Myself: Who was God for you when you were a child?

This is the 30th 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 25 prayerfully consider the specific questions Jesus posed in the New Testament. Posts 26 to present focus on Questions on Spirituality.

Q: Who was God for you when you were a child?

Try as I might, I don't have a cogent essay to answer this one. Instead, I present here a hodge podge of memories and impressions.

God as Protector

You know, as a child, I think I always felt pretty safe. I was secure in God's protection. This is surely in part a product of my loving and secure upbringing and the fact that my country was not war-torn or in a state of unrest. But even on a spiritual level, I didn't worry about losing or being lost.

There is a dream I had that seems to speak to this question. I might have been about eight years old. It was realistic in that it seemed ordinary- my house was my house, I was me, the lighting and quiet were all very much they way they were. (I point this out because usually my dreams merge people and places into new composites that are as much fiction as they are nonfiction.) The one strikingly abnormal thing about the dream was that there was a an evil presence against me in some way, perhaps Satan himself. He'd slipped into the normalcy of my house and his intentions were for ill. And in my dream I went to the top of my staircase and belted out a song from Sunday school; it echoed against the vaulted ceiling of the stairwell.

Asking Myself: In what activities do you feel blocked from God's presence in your life?

This is the 29th 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 25 prayerfully consider the specific questions Jesus posed in the New Testament. Posts 26 to present focus on Questions on Spirituality.

Q: In what activities do you feel blocked from God's presence?

Well. I hate to say it, but I often feel blocked from God's presence. Perhaps this isn't as bad a thing as it seems at first religious glance. After all, it's better to feel blocked, than to be completely unaware of it. Hopefully that dry, dismal feeling is the impetus I need to seek him out or to assess how actions and frame of mind might be contributing to the distance.

Yet it's hard for me to single out specific activities that unilaterally hide his face. I supposed the safe answer would be: I'm blocked when I'm sinning. Yet, sometimes sin triggers the conscience alarm that makes me most aware of of the Almighty. So what actually blocks me from God?

My off-the-cuff answer produced these three activities that I find to be fairly sure-fire ways (for me) to be blocked from the joy, peace, love and creative energy that come from God's presence.

1. Spending any more than 5 consecutive minutes on social media.
Especially in our polarized political and cultural climate, any amount of time spent skimming through or clicking within my various feeds makes me prone to the habit of outrage so many articles and posts seem crafted to inflame. These days, I find that doing anything more than "liking" a few of my friends' kid pics leads to being sucked into the world of injustice and idiocy. More than feeling my blood boil, I feel the urge to retaliate, to set the record straight. The impulse is checked only by the observation that most of the opinions expressed on social media are fixed. Facebook is not (for me) a place of humble reflection nor an open marketplace of ideas where people feel safe enough to consider another perspective. Jesus did act on his righteous anger over the money changers in the Temple, but I don't think he purposely fed his indignation by returning over and over again to turn tables. 

Asking Myself: In what activities do you experience God's presence?

This is the 28th 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 25 prayerfully consider the specific questions Jesus posed in the New Testament. Posts 26 to present focus on Questions on Spirituality.

Q: In what life activities do you experience God's presence on a regular basis?

Some of these questions are starting to sound a little bit similar, eh? But I think we need a lot of questions about God's presence in order to mine the depths of our experience. The emphasis here is on what routine, mundane or daily activities are spiritually charged. When do I commonly feel God is with me? 

My younger self would have answered when I'm praying with others or when I'm in corporate worship or when I'm studying the Bible. I think these still hold true. But I also really treasure the "regular" or even "secular" moments in life when I sense he's Emmanuel. My top three activities in the vein of ordinary-sacred would be:

1. Journaling in my green chair. 
This is something I do almost daily, and can really get absorbed in if I don't watch the clock or am not interrupted by some small person or other. A friend commented recently that I'm not very handy with words in person, as in speaking what's on my mind. This is true. However, something about the pace of writing by hand allows my thoughts to flow naturally-- even articulately-- compared to my speaking pace. I feel as if I'm able to express my truest self-- and something even beyond myself--- when I write in my journal. It feels like a conversation with my Maker and dearest Friend. Or perhaps conversation isn't the best metaphor, because I don't mean to say that I hear a back and forth repartee. Maybe it's more like a convergence of thoughts, my mind with the mind of Christ. Sometimes my entry begins as an unloading of anxieties or ideas or wishful thinking, but once that's emptied out, I feel a clearer connection, a brighter sky between me and God. However the entry goes, journalling is for me about the surest way to find His presence.  

2. "Working" in my garden.
Perhaps because I so highly relate to God as a Creator, I really feel alive in His presence when I'm immersed in his Creation. I have, for most of my adult life, attempted to keep some kind of garden... be it dying potted plants on my Taipei balcony 15 years ago, or the tangled and sloppy little garden I have now, wedged up in an exterior corner of my house and entwined with netting to keep deer at bay. When I "garden" I actually spend a lot of time just looking at the plants and the microcosm they create. There's no conversation during this time. I'm just in awe. It doesn't matter how many times I've looked at the furry blueish leaves of sage or the hairy stems of my heirloom tomatoes or the smooth bud of a pepper just emerged from where a white flower once was... When I'm in cahoots with this menagerie, seeing things with my worm's eye, macro lense mind, it seems like the whole universe, for that moment, is at peace. Perfect peace.

3. Chatting with my kids in the car or at the table.
My kids are so smart. No really, I'm not just saying this. I've got three future theologians and philosophers under my roof. "Mom. I wanna read God." "Mom, does God hate Satan?" "Mom, is Jesus Jesus's Father?" "Can there only be good if there is bad?" "After we die and we wake up in the fourth dimension will it seem like this life in the third dimension was just a dream?" I get all this and more while driving them home through rush hour traffic or trying to get dinner(s) for three very picky eaters on the table. My love for them and my sheer delight at the zany and sage things they say make me feel a kind of grateful simpatico with my mysterious Father, who must find us equally lovable and amazing, as only a parent can. 

And you? What are some of the everyday, repeated moments that make up your life in God's presence? Do you find these moments are part of the daily rhythm, or do you make an intentional choice to find Him in tried-and-true places?

Next Week: In what activities do you feel blocked from God's presence?

Asking Myself: How do you know when God is communicating with you?

This is the 27th 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 25 prayerfully consider the specific questions Jesus posed in the New Testament. Posts 26 to present focus on Questions on Spirituality.

Q: How do you know when God is communicating with you?

The short answer is I don't know. I mean, I often have a hunch, but I never really, truly know when what seems to be the universe conspiring to get my attention is actually God or a combination of coincidence and my own wishful or fretful thinking.

The long answer is that, while I can never say with certainty (anymore) that God is communicating something particular to me, I do believe that the Holy Spirit speaks to my spirit. And for that reason, I tend to take note of certain nagging thoughts, ideas, urgings or understandings of myself or situation.
There's a quote by A.W. Tozer taped to the inside of my wardrobe:

To expose our hearts to truth and consistently refuse or neglect to obey the impulses it arouses is to stymie the motions of life within us and, if persisted in, to grieve the Holy Spirit into silence.

On my best days, this quote gets me to pick up my phone and call a person whose face keeps popping into my head. It gets me doing, praying, connecting, creating, tending and caring. On the bad days, this quote guilts me into pleading for God's mercy, and patience. Asking him to "come again?" perhaps using another mode of communication so I might truly know it's Him.

Asking Myself: When have you felt God's presence most acutely in your life?

This is the 26th 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 25 prayerfully consider the specific questions Jesus posed in the New Testament. This post begins a new theme: Questions on Spirituality.

Q: When have you felt God's presence most acutely in your life?

First off, I have to get something off my chest. The wording of Blythe's question made me feel "less-than." Specifically, the terms "felt" and "most acutely" trigger a bit of sadness for me because despite my love of the "still, small voice" in 1 Kings 19:13,  I start thinking of and comparing myself to those more awe-inspiring moments of God's presence recorded throughout scripture. There's Moses and the burning bush, Samuel and his audible midnight commission, Jacob's ladder, Mary's angelic visit, Elizabeth's womb acrobatics, the upper room and its rushing wind, Stephen's near-to-death heavenly vision and Paul's blind-struck road to Damascus. 

I definitely think stories like these more than qualify as genuine experiences of God's undeniable presence, but they aren't like my experience. I've never had a burning bush or bright light or dislocated hip socket, or dancing fetus ... well... at least not as a result of a heavenly encounter. 

I'm not sure why I feel compelled to compare my own experience or set my expectations on these sorts of "acute" experiences of the felt-presence of God. I don't know whether it's purely the pages of scripture filtered through my mind's eye that cause me to covet a similarly supernatural experience, or if somewhere along the line my "presence theology" was formed by well-intentioned pastors and leaders who had their own checklists for what qualifies as "feeling" "God's presence" "acutely"... but there's a tension in this question for me.

Jesus Asks: Do you love Me? (John 21:17)

This is the 25th 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: Do you love Me? (John 21:17)

I love the way Jesus loves his fishermen disciples in this story: Appearing to them after the long haul of their work night with good company and good smells of toasty bread and fish and campfire. They didn't even talk until they'd eaten their beach breakfast. 

The metaphor latent in the scene was doing all the talking-- the simple meal sustaining them like it had the five thousand, the net of 153 fish overflowing beyond their imaginations. Jesus was still with them preforming practical miracles that open gates to otherworldly miracles.

After breakfast, Jesus addresses Peter, using his birth name, "Simon Son of John," perhaps a gentle jab at him for returning to swiftly to his old place and old ways. 

"Do you love me more than these?" (John 21:15)

Peter had been so sure he was all in the night before the crucifixion. He loved Jesus the most, more than any of the disciples, more than that pesky "other disciple" who had dubbed himself the "one Jesus loved." Peter loved Jesus enough to chop off ears and perhaps to go to a cross himself before he'd let the Romans lay a hand on the Christ, the Son of the Living God. Well, he had said as much. And he believed what he said, he believed that wild passion he felt for Jesus. 

But in the end, he just roostered out. He denied loving, following and even knowing Jesus before the day dawned. 

Jesus Asks: Have you believed because you have seen Me?

This is the 24th 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: Have you believed because you have seen me? (John 20:29)

Did Thomas (and the other locked-room disciples) eventually believe in the resurrection because Jesus appeared in the flesh? I'm gonna say the answer is yes.  Jesus asks this of his doubtful disciple rhetorically, probably with the same heart-piercing expression he gave Peter when thrice asking if he loved Him. 

In your average church sermon, the preacher frowns upon"Doubting Thomas," the anti-example of what faith should look like. The disheartened disciple even gets a little nasty about it-- he wants to stick his fingers into the flesh wounds and see dripping blood before he'll believe. Yet I can hardly blame Thomas for wanting to see some proof that his teacher had in fact reappeared after being dead and buried for three days. 

In the version I commonly read, the New Living Translation, this verse, is not a question at all, but a statement. Here's the story in John 20:24-29:

One of the twelve disciples, Thomas (nicknamed the Twin), was not with the others when Jesus came. They told him, "We have seen the Lord!" But he replied, "I won't believe it unless I see the nail wounds in his hands, put my fingers into them, and place my hand into the wound in his side."
Eight days later the disciples were together again, and this time Thomas was with them. The doors were locked; but suddenly, as before, Jesus was standing among them. "Peace be with you," he said. Then he said to Thomas, "Put your finger here, and look at my hands. Put your hand into the wound in my side. Don't be faithless any longer. Believe!"
"My Lord and my God!" Thomas exclaimed.
Then Jesus told him, "You believe because you have seen me. Blessed are those who believe without seeing me."

For me, the question (or statement) is essentially about acceptance of the mysterious, otherworldly, death-defying nature of God, and it brings to mind memories of times in my Christian life when I was confronted with the "miraculous."

Jesus Asks: Does this offend you?

This is the 23rd post in my series "Asking Myself," in which I weekly ponder one question posed in Teresa Blythe's rich book, 50 Ways to Pray. This week, I diverge slightly in that I'm choosing a question Jesus asked that is not in Blythe's list, though I'm still following the spirit of the exercise as I ponder the question. 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: Does this offend you? (John 6:61)

Jesus asks his disciples this question after they complain that talk of eating his flesh and drinking his blood are, to put it nicely, difficult to understand.

Does that offend you? How would I answer the question? In short, yes. Things Jesus says often offend me. Perhaps I'm not truly offended by the ideas in John 6, since my church upbringing has normalized the idea that we should joyfully "Taste and see that the Lord is Good!" We used the words "partake" of Jesus as our "divine portion." He's the "Bread of Life," the "true wine." He is satisfying and sweet. Wholesome and fortifying. All of these rewordings make poetic the very gruesome task of eating someone's flesh and drinking their blood. 

But I'm offended by what seems an intentional test or trap. Jesus knew his disciples were mostly unlearned. They weren't schooled to make big metaphoric leaps of logic. (And, let's face it, even the learned Nicodemus couldn't stomach the idea of being born again.) So eating flesh and drinking blood would be quite shocking. It would cause even the most ardent disciple to pause and say, "Come again?"

It bothers me that Jesus seems to use this language almost precisely because it has shock value, because the seeming vulgarity will catch people off guard. 

So I wonder, is Jesus really asking, "Does it offend you that I can be so crass, so unconventional, and shocking? Do you think it offensive that I am not predictable and tame and man-pleasing? Does it offend you that you encounter entirely unheard of ideas when you're under my teaching? Does it bother you that I defy defining? That I don't fit the mold of your day's notions of a good Messiah?"

Jesus Asks: Do you want to be made well?

This is the 22nd 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: Do you want to be made well?

Jesus asks this question as a prelude to his third recorded miracle in the gospel of John. It's a story that doesn't appear in the synoptic gospels, and one that I've always taken to be more symbolic than historical because of the strange details. Here's the basics:

The setting: Not far from the the city Sheep Gate, the air filled with baaas and bits of wool and dust, a ring of covered porches surrounds a special pool. Perhaps it's a natural hot spring? But it's not like a resort so much as a makeshift hospital or the front of the auditorium at the end of a Pentecostal service. There are hoards of people; they are sick, blind, lame, paralyzed. They are waiting...

for a certain movement of the water, for an angel of the Lord came from time to time and stirred up the water. And the first person to step in after the water was stirred was healed of whatever disease he had. (John 5:4)

Jesus Asks: What are you looking for?

This is the 21st 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 are you looking for?

After John the Baptist sees the miraculous vision of the Spirit fluttering down to nest upon Jesus' head, he declares, "Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world." The next day when John repeats the declaration, two of John's disciples, Andrew and, presumably, the apostle John, abandon their teacher and follow Jesus. Hearing the footsteps or maybe getting that weird sensation that he's being watched, Jesus looked over his shoulder and said to them in John 1:38, "What are you after?" (MSG) or "What do you want?" (NLT) or "What are you looking for?" (NRSV) 

I wonder about Jesus' reaction. Fully man, and never having had disciples before this, was it odd for him to suddenly have people following him? Also notable, Andrew and John's first response to Jesus was not an answer, but a question, like they were made to be Jesus' followers. They didn't ask anything about his theology or his messianic game plan. Instead, they got down to the practical details of their unspoken commitment.

"Rabbi, where are you staying?"

In other words, they were already set on being his students. They were going to follow Jesus wherever he was going and to stay with Jesus wherever He was staying. They just needed the address. 

Jesus Asks: Why Do You Call Me Good?

This is the 20th 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 do you call me good?

I let this question rattle around in my head for several days before looking more closely at the context. I remembered that someone came to Jesus and called Him "Good Teacher," to which Jesus shot back, "Why do you call me good? Only God is good." Rather than remembering the entire story, I mostly remembered the unpleasant feeling that Jesus seems to be a little snarky here. I mean, should we not consider Him good? And is He not God Himself? Is He trying to show his deference to the Father? Or is He trying to see if His inquirer is aware that His goodness is actually God-ness? 

Because of Jesus' track record for loving people through words and actions that are radical, counter-cultural, profound yet accessible, I'm going against the seeming dissonance in this question. I'm giving Jesus the benefit of the doubt that he's not being rude and obnoxious to someone who seems to be approaching him with humility and good manners. 

Jesus Asks: When the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth? (Luke 18:8)

This is the 19th 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: When the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth? (Luke 18:8)

I fell of the blogging train a couple weeks ago, but I'm back :)

First, let me just think about what Jesus is asking here. Will he find faith on earth? My knee-jerk reaction, habituated from years of defining faith as holding to certain truths/doctrines, is to do a quick self-assessment: Do I believe that Jesus is the Son of God, God himself incarnated, born of a virgin, tempted in every way humanly possible yet without sin, having been put to death on a cross where he served as propitiation for the sins of humankind, having resurrected on the third day, walking out of the tomb and appearing to his disciples before ascending to the Father, now sitting at the right hand of God's throne while simultaneously moving on earth and in humans as another Comforter, the Holy Spirit, indwelling the human spirit and supernaturally empowering those who believe and receive him to walk worthily of their calling? Check. Check. Check-check-check-check-check. Check. Ok. I'm good. Am I good? 

Asking Myself: What is the kingdom of God like?

This is the 18th 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 the kingdom of God like? (Luke 13:18)

Before reading this question in the context of Luke 13:18, I experienced a flash of emotions when I saw it: Confusion. Anxiety. Hopefulness?

The confusion came from trying to remember the difference between the kingdom of God and the kingdom of the heavens. The various kingdoms always confused me... despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that my church had an elaborate Venn Diagram addressing them smack in the middle of the gospel of Matthew. 
The anxiety also stemmed from the crispness, intricacy and technicality of the aforementioned Venn diagram. It's a puzzle to be figured out. It's who's in and who's out. It makes me think about overcoming and not overcoming. It makes me think about 1000 years of reward or the alternative. It brings to mind words like rule, command, authority, dominion and battle. It gives me a feeling like I'm out of my element, and out of touch with the King.

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)

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?