Do You Hear What I Hear?

“Father God, may the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in Thy sight.”

Look at these two pictures and I’ll tell you a story.

The first picture was one of the thirty-one trees in the home of Terry and Sandy Deforge-MacKean in Lively, Ontario.  If you click on their names, you’ll see childhood and love in motion.

And yes -- that IS a pride tree.

The second picture was from the house next to the one that had the second party I attended tonight -- and that was Mike and Kim's in Copper Cliff, Ontario.

At Mike and Kim’s house – we ate good food, sang hymns and carols, discussed repentance, deliverance and speaking in tongues at the grocery store.  We laughed, we cried… we were fed physically and spiritually and all of it – all of it – in, under, over and around the name of Jesus Christ.

Why is it, do you suppose that both of these pictures, both of these “signs” cannot co-exist in the same house of worship?  Let me correct that, because there are congregations now where they do exist in the same house of worship.  Why can’t they co-exist in all houses of worship? 

I’m having great difficulty returning to the church; I really am.  It’s either that my foot has grown too big for the shoe, or the shoe has grown too small for my foot.  I miss hymns.  I miss the fellowship of song and praise.  And yes – I admit it in my steely little heart – I miss Jesus.  That being said, every single time I darken the door of a church lately, I feel like I don’t belong there anymore. Why?  For several reasons, actually… the first one being that I do not believe and can’t believe that Jesus is the only way to God.  I cannot believe that God would have a selected list of people who have prayed the sinner’s prayer in a pique point of emotionalism (and then lived the rest of their lives tripping over their brethren in the street) trump an atheist ladling out mashed potatoes in a soup kitchen.  That makes no logical sense whatsoever.  I cannot believe in a God that does not celebrate the love of two married men or women who have the world of children and wonder lit up throughout their home – as much as He would the celebrate the live Nativity Scene at Science North.  Now there’s a dichotomy.

I want to be a minister in a church where everyone is welcome.  I want to be a chaplain of a faith that excludes no one.  Please God, show me that church and I will fall at the altar weeping tears of joy and I will serve You until I cease to draw breath (and for however many lifetimes after that).  Well, actually, I’ll serve You regardless – payback, you know… but it sure would be nice to have someplace where my belief system actually fit in with, oh… I don’t know… 10 other people.  I want just a dash of reincarnation, a sprinkling of the love of trees and nature.  Perhaps a dollop of do no harm – that would be nice.  I want people to be married in the church because of how they commit their lives and love to the people they love.  I want a place where we can lift our voices in song and praise to a God that loves us back.  And if the Old Testament really was You at some point in history, I really like the theology that You knocked up a virgin, had a kid and got a grip on your anger issues.  Everyone – every – one… is redeemable.  I mean, You saved me.

My prayer this Christmas, Sir… is that these two pictures – with 10,000 more to follow in varying light and color displays of the EXACT SAME STORY – could become one. 

Amen.

(Sing it Bing... click to here to hear the musical conclusion to your Sunday morning SueAnnie sermon.)

How do you know a Christian?

Now, I know a lot of people who talk about being a “Christian.” They belong to the most attended church in town. They are active in the adult Sunday school; they even serve on the church council. Some of them are leaders in their communities, publicly recognized for their efforts. None of this is a put down. I congratulate them on their efforts. They might even give money to a homeless person if they knew he or she wouldn’t drink it or shoot it in their veins. Those are what I call christians.

One lady, I’ll never forget her. She worked at the food bank here in Sudbury. I really liked her, a writer. We bumped shopping carts at the local Food Basic and she asked me what I was doing since I wasn’t volunteering at the food bank anymore. At that time, I was working with the volunteers at the Elgin Street mission on Saturday mornings, serving breakfast. She commented, “Oh, I see. Well, you know, the school that I come from says that we don’t help people giving them food for free.” Yeah – to quote Bill Engvall – there’s your sign. She’s a christian.

On the opposite side of the aspen tree is Kate. Kate is one of those fiery Scots – probably from a long line of Presbyterians. She used to work the Highland games slinging cans of haggis for recreation. Since I’ve known her, she’s worked in a couple of different jobs and been part of at least two 12-step programs, maybe three. She’s got a cat that’s skirting the edge of mortality. She was one of the first people to recognize my ire at God because it was something we shared. All this mumbo-jumbo about God being nice; what’s up with that? God is the entity that brought us more misery than anything. Because all this time we thought we were doing good -- bad things were happening. Children turned away from us. Money dogged us at every turn and we spent years in financial insecurity. And here we were, praying like mad – to the maddest of Matter. Ok, ok… anti-matter.

Kate and I have had more than one discussion that ended with, “I don’t know why God doesn’t like me.” The thing I find so odd about her is that she’s the one who gives me books about Father Tim, the Episcopal priest in Jan Karon’s Mitford series. Kate was the one who held my hand via email, telephone and any way she could when my son died. Every single time she showed up was when I was in the midst of a wrestling match with the Almighty – carrying messages full of “keep breathing, Scarlett, tomorrow is another day.” She doesn’t shy away from saying, “Yeah, your God… you know what the hell He did to me this time?” And I laugh and ask her to tell me all about what He did. If doubt were a religion – both of us would be elders in the church by now.

So, here’s a quandary. “Religious Tolerance says the most common definition of a Christian is one who is ‘a follower of Christ and his teachings.’”

I don’t know if Kate is a follower of Christ. If it’s the same guy I’m thinking of, she’s more of a bar stool mate. His teachings? Well, let’s give some examples:

“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.” – Matthew 5:7

I know that every single time I’ve stuck my foot in my mouth to the point of swallowing my ankle, Kate didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.

“When you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by men. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full. But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.” – Matthew 6:5-6

The story of Father Tim arrived on my doorstep when I was angrier with God than I had ever been in my life. I was so angry with Him that I wasn’t yelling anymore. I was silent in my rage because I didn’t have the energy or the will left to fight. A card and a book arrived in the mail. The card said, “When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on.” On the inside, written in the prettiest cursive I know, it said, “I really do believe in you – you’re one of the toughest, most resilient people I’ve ever had the privilege to know…and remember the promises – it will get better!”

Recently, Kate was telling me that Charlie requires medication that she can barely afford, her physical pain is tearing at her and she doesn’t really know how much longer she can hold on to – well, anything. She’s tired.

Today, I came home from work and I’m tired. I think I’ve got a touch of the flu combined with a dose of the “I miss my children being in my house-itis.” Most of all, I think I miss my eldest daughter because she’s growing up and away from me. Hell, she was growing up and away from me at 12, but I didn’t mind it as long as I had charge over her laundry. I had some measure of control then, anyway, right? No clean underwear for you!

In the mail today was a package from K8’s Books and I knew, immediately, that Christmas had arrived on my doorstep. It was a copy of Fannie Flagg’s book, “A Redbird Christmas.” And Kate – I know that redbirds and cardinals are different, but my sponsor believes that when a cardinal shows up at your door, someone who has passed to Heaven is thinking about you. I believe that when a redbird from California shows up on my door, I’ve been blessed by a Scottish angel.

I’ve got something for you, my friend. God isn’t angry with you. God isn’t punishing you. God isn’t about that – and you already know all of these things. I think you shout them to me because you know that we are clanging… symbols. We are channels of His peace, teachers and students of the capital “C” Christianity. And no, silly, I don’t believe that Christ is, was or ever will be the only way to God. I believe he was a carpenter’s son – a fisherman’s and a whore’s best friend. Being a capital “C” Christian is not about spouting your beliefs – it’s about sitting, holding hands in the darkest days of doubt and waiting patiently for good things to return. You know, they always – in all ways -- do.

Here’s my Christmas certainty for you – my friend.

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.” - Matthew 6:25-26ish

Amen. <~~~ click, please….