Letter to an Athiest

While doing an image search this morning, a blog titled "Why Missionaries are Extremely Destructive" caught my eye.  It was a rant from an atheist against Christian missionaries and the indoctrination of children by the Church.  I occasionally read what people are saying on this topic because I used to spout such things, and because it challenges me to draw deeper into my understanding of faith and service. 

Here is my reply:


Dear sir,

I am sorry that you feel so betrayed by your Christian upbringing.  For any acts of unlove or judgement or hypocrisy you saw in these tender years, I apologize.  We humans fall so achingly short of God's beautiful, compelling standard.  We are to be light and salt and end up being clouds and lemons sometimes.   


You feel that what I am doing to my children is indoctrination.  I suppose I am guilty.  This faith flows from every fiber of my being, spills from my heart, leaks out through my smile, excites me so much that I have to share a verse or a story or a song with my kids because they're my favorite people in the world. 

Do you have a passion for something?  Do you share it with your children?  Do you teach them the rules of football or an appreciation of music or how to hunt a deer?   When they come of age, they will be free to choose to love or hate football or music or hunting or God.  Just like you.  In the meantime, they are with us constantly and we are bound to rally around something.

You say missionaries fly to other countries and tell people what to believe; that they shower them with gifts and then (your favorite word) indoctrinate the poor, helpless, uneducated souls.  Have you met a missionary lately?  On the whole, they are the most humble, sacrificial people I've ever met.  Long term missionaries give up almost every conceivable comfort to live as an alien in another culture, and they are promised nothing in return.  Have you felt an irresistible urge to go and do something?  Did you do it?  What kind of sacrifice did it require?

You criticize short-term missions, highlighting the one particular day they spend on recreation.  When did you use most of your vacation to visit a poor part of the world?  I've talked to many who have...I've never heard one of them describe it as a vacation.  No, their eyes glisten and their voices crack, and they will always be haunted by the need and humbled by their blessings, and I'm pretty sure their bank accounts are heavy with fingerprints of compassion.  To me, this means a lot more than writing an occasional check to United Way, as good as their work may be.

Now let's consider the "path of destruction" left by the missionaries.  A kind, energetic person from a prosperous country comes to me, offers me clothing, food, a shoebox of gifts for my kids, a Bible in my language, teaches me a song, makes me feel special, and then leaves after a couple of weeks, I would feel quite blessed, not ransacked, by the experience.  Lovely people have breezed in and out of my life and left a sweet impression.  In fact, their fragrance drew me into a faith that has changed my life.

The first part of my own life was spent being against Christians, and I would have left some encouraging comment on your blog back then.  But do you have any idea how much joy there is in being for something so big and powerful as faith in Jesus Christ?  If you could only have a fresh taste of it, a renovation in the architecture of your philosophies, I believe you would grasp and hold this Love, which is unlike any you have known.

Admittedly, I am more mystic than theologian or scholar, and I am not here to defend my theology.  I am instead compelled to speak from the heart; a heart that is broken and spilled out for people who suffer both from physical need and from spiritual desolation. 

Thank you for challenging me to evaluate my motives for serving and to recognize that we as humans are cursed with a bent toward selfish gain. I do, however, think your anger could be directed in much more productive directions, like toward warlords who deny their people available nutrition, or toward child traffickers or slave-owners, instead of people who are trying in their small way to help, based on a Spirit within them Who abhors apathy as much as hypocrisy.

Spit and Polish Veneer

I once had a piano student write her name in the dust on my piano.  That proves how much I hate to dust.  I nearly grumble at sunny days when the light presumes to cast it's filmy glow on my furniture.  My neighbor girl said our house smells like dusty perfume.  I told her, "I'm not sure about the perfume part." 

Really, dusting is so low on my priority list that it has to jump up and down and wave wildly to get done.  Or my mother-in-law has to visit.  Or I have to host a party of not-that-close friends.   

Do not blame my mother for this.  She keeps a very tidy home and did her best to teach me how to use a dust cloth.  Blame the 1000 other things I'd rather be doing.  Like blogging...or staring out the window.

Christ said of the Pharisees in Matthew 23,

They talk a good line, but they don't live it. They don't take it into their hearts and live it out in their behavior. It's all spit-and-polish veneer. 

For some reason, reading this makes me think of dust.  More accurately, how my dusty house reperesents a change in me. 

I spent the first part of my life with a spit and polish veneer.  If I got straight As, if people could see how talented I was,  if I could get everything just right, I would feel worthy.  I was loud about my victories and quiet about my vices.  Actually, I tried to pretend my vices weren't there, or didn't matter.  "Sin" was an antiquated, religious word that just ladened people with unneccessary baggage.


When I accepted the truth of Christ in college, it wasn't because I suddenly became aware of my sin.  For me, believing in God answered deep-seated questions. I understood on a theoretical level that the gap between God and me existed because of sin, and that Christ bridged the gap, but I had not truly embraced my own contribution to that gap.


Scour the insides, and the gleaming surface will mean something. -Jesus' plea to the Pharisees, Matthew 23 


Years of God's grip on my heart has squeezed out the truth.  I am dust.  I am the "chief of sinners."  Well, Paul called himself that, and so did John Bunyan, but I beg to differ.  It is I. 


God has a beautiful, compelling standard for pure loving and righteous living, and I fall woefully short. 

Example 1:  Yesterday, one of my piano students was accompanied by her grandma, who had never been to my home, and all I could think was, "Oh no, my house is a mess.  What will she think?"  I was relieved when she didn't come inside.   


Examples 2-4:  I say nice things to people even while my mind is judging them.  Christ called those kind of words a "clashing cymbal." 


I pray that God uses me as an instrument of His love and then fret over some note I played wrong on the piano at a concert. 


I ask God for wisdom in parenting and then let the kids watch 3 hours of T.V. 

Examples 5-a million:  meet me for coffee and we'll talk.


The funny thing is...and this faith is full of strange twists...that the more I face and confess, rather than preen and polish, the more usable I am in God's kingdom; the more His power can scour. 

Thankfully, grace, that thing we call amazing, is a transparent covering over all our foibles and faults... not unlike a layer of dust.

Change of Scenery

In the course of a few hours, I traveled from curt wink and “you betcha” to slow smile and “how y'all doin'." The difference between Minnesota nice and North Carolina southern hospitality is wide as the Blue Ridge Mountains, and the comfort I find in being courteous-friendly at home suddenly feels “aloof” when compared to the “never-met-a-stranger” mentality of the south.

At home, I would never stop a stranger on the street to tell him it's my birthday and wouldn't he like to know who all is here visiting me? In North Carolina, my Great Uncle Wilburn told anyone who caught his eye that he just turned 90 and all these nice people standing here looking slightly uncomfortable on the sidewalk are here from Minnesota and Florida, and by golly, they kept the visit a surprise!

In Minnesota, our stories are fairly short, we drop details here and there, too worried we might bore our company. At least I do. After 3 days in NC, I know all about Second Cousin Linda's local friends and a lot about the ones from Texas. The stories were served with piles of wonderful food, steaming cups of coffee, good-natured teasing, and lots of drawl. No one was in a hurry, and it reminded me that the only time God was in a hurry was when He was portrayed as the prodigal's father, running to meet his long-lost son at the end of the lane.

I loved this time with my Southern kin. It wore me out and filled me up all at once. At home, there is a lot of space to go our separate directions, but here, in a little country cabin, squeezed together in the way that fosters community, we enjoyed familial love, the kind Dolly Parton used to sing about with banjo and fiddle and a side of grits.

I imagine Jesus would approve of this style of fellowship...up close, loving, interested. It was like He was there in the room with us, chewing a caramel by the fire and nodding as Cousin Linda gave him credit for healing the mass on her pancreas, and winking affirmation that yes, indeed, He made sure He answered her prayers for parking spots when we went downtown. I felt Him close as I took an early morning run through the autumn-tinted hills, and I saw His light shine through Great Aunt Betsy's eyes when she touched my arm and said, “Now, Jill, you are doin' an excellent job raisin' those children a yours.”

I'm home now. Monday morning. With new recipes and some stories to tell.  Thanks, y'all. 

Rules of Humility, Part 2

I read the sage words of Jeremy Taylor again, feeling the truth, wincing at the rub.  Why is it so hard to leave Vanity Fair?  It's walls are lined with flattering mirrors, it's halls are filled with affirmations, the furniture is comfortable and people beneath you peel grapes and drop them in your mouth.

 



And what are we trading this for?  Washing someone's dusty feet. 

I can't explain it, but when God reaches his hand through skin and bone and wraps it around your heart, He resuscitates you from the suffocating vice grip of this place.  He becomes your pulse, and when you try to look back on things you used to love, He squeezes harder and you feel the constriction.  You quit gazing longingly at Princess Whosoever's fancy house and start considering the slums and huts of starving children.  You end the coveting of another's gifts and begin using your own. 


Some people think you're a bore.  But there are others who recognize the light emanating from you, and they are drawn.   

Rules continued from yesterday's blog....


Rule Five:  Never be ashamed of your birth, or your parents, your occupation, or your present employment.  When there is an occasion to speak about the to others, do not be shy, but speak readily, with an indifference to how others will regard you. 


Rule Six:  Never say anything, directly or indirectly, that will provoke praise or elicit compliments from others.  Do not let praise be the intended end of what you say.  Do not ask others your faults with the intent to have them tell you of your good qualities.  You are merely fishing for compliments. 


Rule Seven:  Always give God thanks for making you an instrument of his glory for the benefit of others. 


Rule Eight:  Make a good name for yourself by being a person of virtue and humility...but do not let your good reputation be the object of your gaze.  Be like Moses, whose face shined brightly for others to see but did not make it a looking-glass for himself. 

-Jeremy Taylor, The Rule and Exercises of Holy Living

Rules of Humility

We've been reared in a culture where self-esteem is paramount, where egos are stroked and caressed, and where subtle fishing for compliments is an art.  Facebook and blogging feed fiercely into our addiction for affirmation.  Does this ever run through your mind..."Oh, I will have to post that to see what people will say?"  Just yesterday, I bragged on Facebook about beating the boys at cards and basked in the virtual back-slapping from a few friends. 

Today, I drew up short.  A few pages of words written by a scholar in the 17th century shook my shoulders and slapped my cheeks.  "Wake up, sleeper.  You have work to do." 

The text, taken from The Rule and Exercises of Holy Living by Jeremy Taylor (1613-1667) was so rich, I thought some of you might be hungry for such words.  I would like to share them, rule by rule, over the next few days.  If you roll your eyes and think "legalistic," that's fine.  After reading this, I definitely won't take it personally :)

Rule 1:  Do not think better of yourself because of any outward circumstance that happens to you.  Although you may, because of the gifts that have been bestowed upon you, be better at something than someone else (as one horse runs faster than another), know that it is for the benefit of others, not for yourself. 

Rule 2:  Humility does not consist in criticizing yourself.  It consists in a realistic opinion of yourself, namely, that you are an unworthy person. 

Rule 3:  When you hold this opinion of yourself, be content that others think the same of you.  If you realize that you are not wise, do not be angry if someone else should agree!  You would be a hypocrite to think lowly of yourself, but then expect others to think highly of you.

Rule 4:  Nurture a love to do good things in secret, concealed from the eyes of others.  Be content to go without praise.  Remember, no one can undervalue you if you know that you are unworthy. 

No one can undervalue you if you know that you are unworthy.

Have you read a more counter-cultural statement than that recently? 

The Limp

I am asked often about my plans for my music: have you been writing new songs?  Are you working on your next CD?  Are you trying to get on the radio?  Have you ever submitted your music to a famous singer?  Do you think you'll ever go on tour?  Do you have a lot of concerts coming up? 


Six years ago, when I began to record and perform my music, these questions confused me...and the possibilities excited me.  I have a whole journal full of entries in which I wrestled with these exact things.  But like Jacob, who literally wrestled with God and walked away with a permanent limp, I have climbed off the mat with wisdom and a certain kind of limp. 

Do you know what Jacob said before the wrestling match began? 

"I am not worthy of all the unfailing love and faithfulness you have shown to me, your servant." Gen. 32:10

This is a wise place to begin a wrestling match with God.  To know you're going to lose, but to recognize you've already won.   

I learned on the wrestling mat how to answer these curious questions.  Yes, I am always writing new songs.  God created me to receive holy stirrings and articulate them in the form of songs.  I can't think of a time since my early 20's when I haven't been crafting a song. 

Out of His storehouses, he has given me recording equipment and a talented, devoted husband/producer, so yes, I will record more CDs.  I don't worry about how many sell or take up space in my basement.  My greatest pleasure is giving them away when the Spirit moves.  I appreciate the people who are willing to pay for them so that I can put that money back into the ministry. 

When the questions turn to fame, touring, and promotion to bigger audiences, I confidently say no.  My time is better spent supporting my husband, investing in my children, and serving in my church and community.  These things produce lasting fruit.  Several times I have heard someone say, "I saw your CD for sale at someone's garage sale."  What a great reminder about things that pass away!  I always limp away from comments like that. 

Yet, I've also learned not to undervalue my contribution.  One of my songs underscored the last months of a dear child's life, as she went from hospital bed to the arms of Jesus listening repeatedly to "Would You Do This For Me."  Singing that song at her funeral was most heartwrenching.  

A two-hour concert of my music raised thousands of dollars for people in Haiti, leaving me mystified that God would use someone like me to rally a churchful of people to open their purses and share.   Again, I limp. 

I have a phrase inscribed across the wall above my piano that says, "Where words fail, music speaks."  I am thankful that God has given me opportunities to tell of His love through music, because the words alone do not come easily.  I stumble in conversations about God because they seem to fall short of His greatness without the full accompanyment.  They sound trite, like platitudes. I have friends whose anointed words flow freely, but as for me, I speak of God in "hymns and songs." 

And always the limp. 

The Morning Altar

Clean the slate, God, so I can start the day fresh.  Keep me from stupid sins, from thinking I can take over your work...Accept these words when I place them on the morning altar.  from Psalm 19, The Message

I put something on the morning altar every day.  A thanksgiving.  A plea on behalf of another.  A confession.  I need that sense of starting clean, refreshed, accepted, empowered, and full of grace and gratitude, because it doesn't take long before I'm feeling a little  

                                                dirty...guilty...defeated...negative...angry. 

Usually by noon. 

It's not like I'm completely grimy, but I feel the pureness of the morning slip away as I face life in a fallen state. 

Today I place food on the morning altar: not a spotless lamb on a stone altar, but my hour by hour choices of what goes in my mouth on the altar of prayer.  You see, this is a constant battle for me.  I am a well-informed eater and pretty much know the Weight Watchers point value of any food; I can give you a list of filling foods full of fiber and good nutrition, and I can cook up a beautiful, colorful, well-balanced, Michelle O'Bama kind of meal. 

But since I was a little girl, junk food has called to me like a harlot in the street.  It tempts me with promises like, "Just one little bite.  It won't make a difference."  But of course, one turns into many and the whole episode turns into a spiritual battle, where I say to myself, "Are you trying to feed your stomach when it's your spirit that needs a boost?"  The simple act of eating becomes a willful sin of self-indulgence. 

Forgive my hidden faults.  Keep your servant also from willful sins; may they not rule over me.  Psalm 119: 12-13 NIV

I need boundary lines in pleasant places, where I co-exist in a world of tempatations, but don't over-indulge, where I find more pleasure in eating wisely than impulsively.

Everyone has private battles, but when we believe in a Mighty God who invites us to lay whatever haunts and stalks us on the morning altar, we have hope and power and victory to claim.  Oh, that I could claim it today.  And tomorrow.  And the days to come.

Life on a Rope Swing

My children spend nearly every recess break on our rope swing. 

It propels them to dizzying heights, as they launch off deckside, skim the tired blades of grass below, and soar skyward on the far side of the yard.  If they're in the proper position, they can land squarely back on the deck, or they can choose the long pendulum ride, on which the swing finally stills to the equilibrium point.

I've swooped on it myself many times.  It provides the tummy- tickling thrill I love, but by the third pass, it reminds me I am almost 40 and no longer have tolerance for pendular motion.  Somewhere on the continuum of life, I went from joyful swinging, to gentle pusher of the swinging babe, to wild underdog-giver, to happily watching from the deck chair.

In my women's Bible study last week, we passed the baton of prayer requests around the circle, and many ladies uttered the need for balance.  One wise soul told us that balance is like a pendulum...you just kind of brush by it on occasion, but never settle there for long.  Most of life is spent on the upswing or downswing, where you can feel it in your stomach. 

Gallileo figured out the pendulum, which in Latin, means "hanging."  I like the phrase "massive bob."  Yes, that phrase well describes many scenes in our lives.  Big things.

The smallish things, too, disrupt balance.  I think of the pendulum when I pass by the vacuum cleaner, which has been patiently sitting in our 2nd floor hallway for over a week.  Instead of using it, I bend to pick up plugs of dog hair, buttons and barrettes, paper scraps and mystery objects, and tell myself I should just finish vacuuming, but I don't have time because Megan needs my help in math, and there are piano students coming at 3, and the kitchen counter is crying for clearance, and what on earth did I just climb these steps to get?  Life can feel less like a pendulum and more like a brisk game of tetherball. 

I want everything done at once, running smoothly, spilling over with contentment, all needs met, with energy to spare.  Sometimes I want to be the miniature ballerina in the music box, poised lovely on tiny toes with pleasant music underscoring the day. 


Why did God place in us this longing for balance and then create the pendulum model of life? 

Perhaps balance is not worth chasing after. Could it be that the sense of well-being we long for is found in the rope we hang on to, no matter the trajectory, no matter the amplitude; the rope that is tethered  not to a limb, but to the heart of God?