The great why

As I move through my seminary coursework, I run across variations of the same question with more and more frequency: Why? Why would a loving God “do” [fill in the blank with whichever injustice is on the questioner’s mind]? Why do bad things happen to good people? Why senseless wars? Why “evil” people? Why?

First, what I can say is that it’s not as if after you’ve paid a certain amount of tuition, you get led into a secret room and are given the answer to this burning question. Nope. No handbook. No secret decoder ring. When it comes to answers to questions like these, there isn’t much that’s dispensed at seminary that we can’t all work through on our own.

So, with that in mind, my response is solely my own. It’s been processed more as an outcome of my own heartache than any textbook. The answer might sound a little flip, and my apologies to anyone who is currently in deep pain and yearns for a different answer, but my response to the “Why would God do this?” is “It’s not God’s job.”

I know there are plenty of folks, some I love greatly, who are under the impression that God is the great dispenser of tangible gifts: money, sudden reversals of incurable diseases, jobs, mates, whatever. In this theological outlook, a person asks, and God gives or doesn’t give based on criteria beyond our understanding. No offense to people who take comfort in this way of living, but if that’s the case, God is a ginormous prick. I don’t care to spend my time in such company. It’s bad for my growth and it’s a bad precedent to set for an impressionable world.

So that leads to the question, what exactly is God’s job. That gets a little trickier. I heard a professor relay a scenario once, I don’t remember the particulars, but the upshot was something along the lines of, do you want a God who is not as powerful as some would lead us to believe, but is able to be present with us in our grief and suffering, or would you prefer an all-powerful God who is responsible for that grief and suffering?

There’s no right or wrong answer to this question, but how you might respond will likely have a great impact on your relationship with God and also with humanity. Why humanity, you might wonder? Well, it’s like this: Say you’re looking to help support the Kingdom of God here on Earth. If your idea of God is one who “allows” for war and suffering, then the Kingdom you are working toward is already here. If your idea of God is one who may not be able to deliver every desire, no matter how important it is for you as an individual, but this God is one who is willing to be present with you in times of trial, to bear witness in times of injustice, to feel with you the strong emotions of love…this is a Kingdom of God that you and I are able to participate in, in partnership with God, and in partnership with humanity.

While it doesn’t make the immediate pain of a particular situation any less, I’ve come to prefer a God of solidarity and compassion in the dark and lonely moments of our lives than to face the other kind of God in the dark alleys of my life.

In the Presence of God

For the past 11 or so years, rarely has a day gone by where at some point I haven’t looked at Merlin, my huge tough dog, stuck in a little white dog’s body and said, “You’re my favorite.” I uttered that familiar phrase for the last time on Wednesday when I took him in for emergency abdominal surgery. He was expected to survive the surgery, and he did, but afterward, he developed complications and died. The hole in my heart is massive, as I knew it would be. One doesn’t lose one’s favorite without going through a fair amount of pain. That’s part of the deal we make when human and pet form a bond and one is snatched from the other.

I could tell you about the heavy grief I’m feeling today, share my guilt that I didn’t see him one last time, describe the moments where I swear I see him for a fleeting moment out of the corner of my eye. But, I think these are universal things pet owners go through when their beloved dies. For many, this is nothing new. What I did think about today is my grandmother and I think there’s something instructive there for those of us who are younger and more mobile. Or for the people I cannot understand – non-pet-lovers.

Grandma Max (yes, her name was Max – it wasn’t short for anything, and heaven help the person who tried to call her Maxine or some other nonsense) was an animal lover extraordinaire. Her last pet was a Pekingese named Trampus, but she usually called him Tramp or Trampy. Grandma named many of her pets after characters from old TV Westerns – I don’t remember most of the other names, but there was also a Festus at one point, too. She and Tramp were quite the team. She took that little dog EVERYWHERE. I can’t begin to tell you the number of people who did double-takes when they realized the “toy” in the rear window of her car was real. This was well before the day of doggie seat belts or any such devices. Had it occurred to her that Trampy being in that spot was particularly dangerous, she would have never allowed him to do so.

Tramp was an incredibly spoiled dog. Never once in all his years did a bite of kibble pass his lips. Grandma cooked for him. Every meal. Every day. She would make him chicken or serve him hamburger. Grandpa used to say “that dog eats better than we do” and it was undeniably true. Oh, and Grandma fed him every morsel of food by hand. Every meal. Every day. The two of them, Grandma Max and Tramp, shared a level of intimacy that few of us will ever reach. They relied on each other. Neither could live without the other – Tramp wouldn’t eat if Grandma didn’t feed him; Grandma couldn’t function if she didn’t have Tramp to fuss over.

So after feeling the crushing grief of losing my beloved Merlin and fighting through some bouts of spontaneous tears, I find myself this afternoon thinking about my Grandma and by extension all the other grandmas out there who are suddenly much lonelier after the passing of their pet. About what it must have been like for her in the days after her beloved Trampy died. About the quiet where there was once jingling tags as he patrolled from room to room to look out the windows (using the custom-built step stools Grandma had made specifically for this purpose). About the little dog she’d see from the corner of her eye for many months after his passing. About all the time she had on her hands, when she was accustomed to using those hands to feed and brush and pet her Tramp for hours every day. Grandma’s own health was beginning to decline. Her vision wasn’t what it used to be. She was easily winded. She didn’t get out and about as she once had. Her world was becoming a much smaller place, and now the bright light in her life was dimmed.

Grandma continued to be an animal lover, although she never again had another pet. In the times when her health was most precarious and she would have occasion to hallucinate, they were pleasant visions – small children, puppies and kitties would reside on her pillow. They were a comfort to her. At one point, an uncle or a cousin gave grandma a small stuffed poodle. She named it “Annie” and kept it with her for the rest of her life. Beyond her life, actually. It was placed in her coffin to spend eternity with her. For some people, being an animal lover is something deeply embedded in their core being. After everything else has gone, the ability to reason or recognize loved ones, mobility, bodily control, there is a spark of life that ignites when in the presence of a beloved creature.

Animals have a therapeutic effect. Clergy don’t have to be enamored with critters themselves, but they must recognize that for some in their parish, being in the presence of a beloved pet in a time of need, or bringing in a therapy dog to a care setting, is not like being in the presence of God. It is being in the presence of God. A pox upon the pastor who interrupts a truly prayerful moment for something that is a mere imitation in the animal lover’s eyes.

My Godsons and My Family Promises

I'm reading Growing in the Life of Faith: Education and Christian Practices for class today. Overall, I find the book highly offensive with a narrow definition of Christianity that I simply cannot relate to. Of marriages like mine and my spouse's that's been holding its own for nearly two decades, despite the fact that only one of us is Christian, author Craig Dykstra manages to muster a lukewarm acknowledgement that "redemptive partnerships can be formed." Um, thanks, Craig.

Dykstra's comment comes within the chapter titled "Family Promises." Other nuggets of that chapter include his expansion of another individual's argument (Ronald Green's "Abortion and Promise-Keeping") that "Sexual intercourse is, in and of itself, implicitly promissory. Just by having intercourse, we make promises to any potential offspring of that action." I had to put my highlighter down for a moment when I got to that section.

However, there were instances within the chapter that did get me to think about a couple of important touch points in my life: my godsons. I actually have two godchildren: my sister's youngest boy and my cousin's son. They're both of an age that if they knew I was blogging about them, they would feel a little squeamish. Fortunately, I can't imagine either of them would bother to check out my blog. So, here's what I can say about the promises I made to "my boys."

I cannot say I could come remotely close to recalling the baptismal date for either boy. However, I do pray about them. Often. The day they were baptized was one day of their lives. The cords of love and familial obligation will last forever. That's not to say that I don't lift up thoughts and prayers for my other nieces, nephews and cousins' children...even a couple of grand-nieces. They're all special. They all give their middle-aged, intentionally childless auntie / cousin a pang in her heart when she thinks about them, which is pretty often. Daily, actually. I do believe there are family promises that are made when we bring a young 'un into the world. However, I also take umbrage that my "heathen" spouse is somehow less obligated to love "our kids" simply because he is not a Christian.

I look to my godsons and I think of my relationship with my own godmother. It was also one where we didn't reflect on the importance of my "baptismal birthday," nor did we see each other with much frequency for long stretches of our lives. Yet, despite our sometimes divergent paths, we were blessed to strengthen our connection in the months prior to her death from cancer. I wouldn't expect "my boys" to feel any obligation to be with me in my final hours. At least they may not be physically present. But if there is a part of me that is still cognizant of such things as I am preparing to cross over to the other side, they and the other important people in my life: my spouse, parents, siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews, friends who are loved so much that they have been forged into the family chain, and the saints who have gone before me, will be streaming into my heart and my heart will be pouring out to those whom I call family. Of that I can promise.

Inviting the Spirit to the Educational Party

I heard from a few readers that my last posting was a difficult read. I suppose it was. It was a conscious decision to look in the eye some of the concerns that have been bubbling up as I've been doing the readings and soul-searching for my Christian education class.

Perhaps I take these things too seriously, but I think there hasn't been enough care and concern placed in education, Christian or otherwise. How often have our churches searched for someone, anyone, to help lead a Sunday school or confirmation class and have been satisfied to have located a person who has passed the background check. (Your church does do background checks on individuals who work with children, right?)

At any rate, Sunday school and confirmation are just one component of Christian ed. There's a whole universe of other learning outside of those narrow confines. I'm just scratching the surface in the first couple of weeks of my CE class and have a lot of catching up to do, given I've not spent any time considering CE prior to this semester. One exercise we just did was to write a definition paper in which we come up with a personal definition of CE and then spend about 6 pages explaining ourselves. This was my definition for this paper (although I suspect it will evolve some as the semester unfolds):

Christian education is a gathering of individuals seeking to grow in their knowledge of the holy. When done well, Christian education is guided by the Spirit and all participants. Whether one is the learner or the “teacher/facilitator,” all who come open to the experience are enriched by the encounter.

What kind of surprised me as I rattled off my first draft was my willingness to allow the Spirit to be part of the experience. Even a couple of years ago, this would not have been the case. However, I'm finding that The Spirit I rejected in the past was not the Spirit in my midst. The Spirit isn't necessarily the drunken party guest, a noisy thing that mucks about, causing havoc at every turn. Rather, the Spirit as I encounter it today is a more subtle thing. As I explained to my Unitarian spouse, what I see as the Spirit is probably close to what he calls the "connective force" that holds us together.

When I pray for another or for myself, it's not that I see God as a waitress standing around with an order pad, just waiting for me to say whether I want my miracle with or without fries. I see prayer (at least this iteration of my thoughts on prayer) as a way to invite the connection between myself and the world. The Spirit is the web (or energy or force or whatever metaphor works better for you) that draws "me with thee" -- it's the Spirit that has the job of keeping me human, of keeping me grounded and connected.

Looked at this way, of course the Spirit should be invited to the educational party. The Spirit is that really good friend who says, "you really need to get to know this person" (or idea) -- the Spirit can help break down the barriers. The Spirit looks to see that not only do you have a glass in your hand, but that it's filled. Being an introverted type myself, I appreciate the thought of enlisting the help of a good party planner. I can't force anyone to listen, but I can at least extend the invitation and see if the Spirit moves.

Teaching children: A cationary tale

Once upon a time there was a church. In this church were many outwardly pious people. They went to church regularly. They made a point of being seen putting something into the plate as it passed down the pews. Some of these people in this little God-fearing church had children.

One boy came from a home where order was very, very important to the father. Things had to be just so. Cleanliness is next to godliness, you know. When things aren’t done in a neat and orderly way, there are consequences. When the family pet wasn’t cleaned up after to the degree the father thought was appropriate, the pet was killed. In the living room. In the children’s presence. The older kids tried to make a joke of it. They didn’t want the younger one to think there was anything wrong with the situation. She might talk. The other children in the neighborhood went to the boy’s church. Everyone went the same church. The children knew what happened to the pet. They didn’t know what to do about it. They didn’t think there was anything they could do.

There was a girl. She had a little sister. She had a grandfather who said he loved these girls very, very much. He did things with the older sister that didn’t seem right. She went to her mother. Her mother told her it wasn’t nice to make up stories and said she shouldn’t mention it to anyone ever again. The older sister never did anything outside of school hours. No sports. No extra activities. She knew that if she wasn’t home by the time the elementary school bus arrived, her little sister would need to go to the safety of her grandparents’ house, because there are bad people out there who can’t be trusted if she were to be home alone. The other children in the neighborhood went to the girls’ church. Everyone went to the same church. The children knew what was happening at “grandpa’s house.” They didn’t know what to do about it. They didn’t think there was anything they could do.

There was a church with good people in it. The adults liked things just so. They liked it when the children came to classes and sat quietly when lessons were being taught. They liked it when the children were sweet and cooperative and cute. The adults didn’t like it when the children had too many questions. Sometimes the questions didn’t have easy answers. The adults didn’t like questions. Neither did the pastor. The children in this church learned it was better to sit quietly. To not ask too many questions, that how things looked was very, very important. The children stopped asking questions.

The parents of the boy and the girl were praised for the regular attendance of their children at church and classes, and that they always had a quarter to drop in the plate when it was passed down the pews. Except for an occasional outburst, these children were very well behaved. When the children spoke out, the people in the church knew the parents would take care of it.