A Short Thought on Denominations

"And when the men of that place recognized Him, they sent around to all that region and brought to Him all who were sick and implored Him that they might only touch the fringe of His garment. And as many as touched it were made well" -Matthew 14:35-36

Does this not show God's loving acceptance of, and condescension to, His creatures? One person says (and believes in her heart) that to be healed she must be touched by Jesus while He speaks some audible words. We might trace this belief back to her mother's womb, where God carefully, uniquely knit her to be more inclined toward touch.

Another person says (and believes in his heart) that he only need touch Jesus' garment to be saved. And yet another has faith enough to believe that Jesus simply need speak a word, and his relative 100 miles away can be healed.

In Gennesaret, Jesus never said to the throngs, “No, but you must follow these such and such procedures in order to be healed,” or, “I need to place my hand on you, or it cannot happen.” It was their faith that mattered. He wanted them to see that. I doubt that any two healings were ever the same.

I wonder how this attitude of Jesus' might apply to the different veins in biblical Christianity today, and their varying approaches to worshiping and understanding God. Doesn't He condescend to our broken selves, and in unspeakable grace and love meet our every need?

Imagine a Presbyterian who has a vivid, powerful, moving thought about God after some time in the word. That's what he might call it: a thought. Imagine a Charismatic having the exact same experience. He might call it a “vision.” Perhaps God is okay to let each believe his belief in his incomplete understanding, and to meet them at the lower level of their thinking without judgment or displeasure. After all, both attribute the source of the thought/vision as God, and glorify Him who is able to do both of those things and far more!

I'm sure this can be applied in many, many more areas, but this will do for now to get the thoughts stirring.

Ephesians 1:18

All the riches of experience are found in God. I can praise a stunning film like Inception, but not with the same zeal and “this-is-where-it’s-at” with which I used to praise such things. Dwell in God. It’s simple. There you’ll find everything. This quenches covetousness and mad ambition.

$cripture

To speak of finding “gems” in scripture implies that the preceding and succeeding words surrounding those treasures are (indeed not dirt, but) less than gems. But here is a mystery that highlights the beauty of God’s word: all of it is a treasure—every single word—AND some of it is treasure. Both are the case—all and some—and this is possible because humans are not immutable, but rather, always changing and growing. This is why we often feel like we’re reading a particular portion of scripture “for the first time” even though it’s been hundreds of times. As scripture miners, our spiritual sight grows less and less dim (though our physical eyes may head in the opposite direction), enabling us to see more gems than on previous journeys through the word (and through life), until one day we stand face to face with Christ our great Treasure—the very Word of God—and see that the entire scripture mine is indeed one magnificent gem, and that the “common” stuff that surrounded the gems we’d discovered before death consisted completely and only of gems as well.

Considered from every angle, and every combination and permutation, each individual thought, verse, portion of scripture is a treasure, just as much as is the whole taken together.

Judgment Day

Harold Camping is wrong, but it makes me wonder how many of us, in some hidden shadow of our soul, have nonetheless uttered a “just-in-case” prayer. It might have sounded something like this, “Jesus, if you are real, and coming soon, please show me how to be right with you.”

Like all false prophets, Camping is still God’s pawn. How many teachable hearts might God be pointing toward repentance through this man’s unwitting PR?

Relationship or Religion?

Feelings and emotions aren’t “womanly weakness.” And they aren’t “human weakness” either. They indicate something. They have meaning. They are important. God created man in His image. Does not God also have feelings, then? Chapter one of Joseph Carroll’s book How to Worship Jesus Christ ends with this sentence: “(Mary) knew what it was to have intimate fellowship with her Lord; therefore, she received a great reward: the unspeakable honor of sharing the deep feelings of His heart.”

From now on, when I pray to God, I want to be more aware of His reactiveness—I want to treat our conversation as I would a conversation with any emotional, deep person, as if I’m talking to any friend whose feelings I care about. He will never be unreasonable or overreact, but is it out of my ability to grieve Him? Of course not. Then is it too lofty to think that I might please Him, cause Him to smile?

What I never want to do is, in effect, pray to the statue guy across the echoing marble hall. That god is somewhat disinterested, and above being hurt by insignificant humans. Our God—daddy—bears eternal holes in His body, not to mention the memory of infinite anguish.

He also cracks a hearty grin.

No Better Fantasy than Realism

A Christian is free to be sober about life because he knows there is real magic out there, better than any vain embellishment he could concoct on his own. This kind of honest engagement with the world helps him step out of the way so as not to block the beautiful truth of reality. He’s not a naysayer or party-pooper; rather, in a room full of mostly mirrors he is a window to the greatest Party.

Shark Story

I’m a newly minted SCUBA diver, so you can imagine how eager I am to explore this underwater world that until now had limited me to a minute or less at a time. You can also imagine how a newbie diver could get himself hurt. Well, don’t imagine, because I wasn’t diving when it happened. I was snorkeling.

Last Thursday my friend Dave and I HAD been diving, but had to abort 5 minutes in because air started to leak from his tank, and we couldn’t fix it. We swam to shore, removed our gear, and grabbed some lunch on the beach where his wife, my brother, sister-in-law and nephew were.

I was disappointed, of course, and bent on getting some enjoyment from the water, even though the visibility was about 6 feet. Still in my wetsuit (but no longer in my booties or gloves), I put on my mask and snorkel and went back into the water.

Yes, I had forgotten that the buddy system applies to snorkeling too.

I no longer had my weights, and now had to fight the buoyancy of my wetsuit to swim down. Still it was better than the super short and shallow dive from an hour earlier: I saw a large bat ray buried in the sand flapping his wings. He saw me and gracefully swam away. Among the scattered rock reefs I spotted rockfish and a sheep crab. Near one rock I was delighted to find a sand dollar. I picked it up and surfaced for air. With excitement I brought my prize to my mask for a look, but somehow the sand dollar had turned into a boring little stone.

One thing about the underwater world is that human eyes don’t belong there—not even when looking through a mask. Light refracts in a funny way, and your brain gets tricked.

I chucked the stone and immediately went down to look for the actual sand dollar, but the current must have moved me a few feet, and the visibility was too poor for me to find the old location.

How disappointing. I had found a pure, white piece of sea-symmetry and lost it! Sure, you can find them on the shore too but those ones are always dirty and broken. So in my stubbornness, I decided to keep searching for little rock reefs along the sea floor where I might find another sand dollar. Looking down from the surface through 8 to 12 feet of murky water meant that these reefs below only appeared as shadowy forms. I would take a deep breath, force myself down to inspect, and often come up empty-handed. But on my last plunge below, I was simply glad to come up TWO-handed.

Just like the other times, I swam down to check out a rock and hopefully find that elusive sand dollar. My approach meant better visibility with every foot, but the rock was still very much a rock, until in one split second it came alive and snapped my left hand in its mouth. I wish I could say that I took the opportunity to push farther and rip out the creature’s spine, but the truth is that I could do nothing but let out a quick underwater scream into my snorkel. And before I had time to pull my hand back, the thing had let go, apparently deciding I was too skinny for its caloric needs (my Shark Week savvy friends have eaten up the chance to share such interesting facts with me. Sharks can apparently detect in a 10th of a second whether or not their prey is worth eating; I thank God for making them that way). Anyway, I surfaced quickly, and then prayed before inspecting my hand. All digits remained! Plus many new features, like lacerations and punctures. The blood flowed freely and when I saw it my pulse beat to the rhythm of Jaws. Swim to shore and stop the bleeding! After a gasp or two, my medically trained sister-in-law wrapped my hand with her infant son’s little blanky (which is now in a landfill somewhere). I then had the lifeguards doctor it a little more with their kit.

My first theory blamed that bat ray I had seen. The dark head that had flashed at me looked about the same as the ray’s head. But there was a problem: rays don’t have teeth! So my next guess was “eel,” but I had never heard of a sand-dwelling eel with a head the size and shape of football—and the head was about all I could make out clearly in that water. That night, after getting cleaned up and stitched at Urgent Care in Hollywood, I used my 10 functioning fingers to surf Google for answers. The best bet is that it was an Angel Shark. They bury themselves in the sand and wait for prey, snapping at it in a tenth of a second. They will also bite a human hand or foot that gets too close.

I also thank God for making shark teeth razor sharp, since, like a scalpel, the wounds they inflict heal quickly (amputations excepted). My hand is looking and feeling much better, just one week later. I admit I’ve enjoyed the hype and press this foolish wound has earned (earned?) me. My students return on Tuesday, and I’m almost afraid my scars won’t be big enough to match the macho mystique of the story. Funny how vanity can be both harmed and served by a blemish.