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I was asked by a young woman the other night how I reconcile being a Latin Dancer and a Christian Public Leader. “Does the sensual nature of the dance go against your religion? Don’t Christians believe that we are supposed to be pure?” I know these questions well; and I have been asked these questions accusingly as well as in the manner this woman asked—seeking truth about herself and about God. They are beautiful questions, and they demand thoughtful answers.
I have been a Christian all my life, and I have been a dancer almost as long. When I consider this question of whether or not dance is compatible with Christianity, my answer is unequivocally “yes!” Because I believe in a God who created the Heavens and the Earth, who hovered and brooded and danced above the unformed waters of the deep, who created me from the earth and breathed life into me to animate my being so that I would be capable of dancing (Genesis 1 & 2). I believe in a God of art and creatively, who paints brilliant sunrises and cares for the details of the tiniest blossoms that decorate the field (Matthew 6: 28-29). I believe that I was made in the image of a creative, artistic God, and dance is one of the deepest expressions I know of this divine creativity I am honored to reflect in the world. When I dance, I feel closer to God than perhaps at any other time. Dance transports me to the realm of the Divine where I feel the Spirit and honor that it is in God that I live and move and have my being (Acts 17:28). When I dance with another person, this feeling deepens with the reality of a joint expression of honoring another אָדָם (āḏām, earth-being) that God breathed life into as well. It is the microcosmic stage on which I practice the greatest commandment—Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind…[and] love your neighbor as yourself (Deuteronomy 6:5; Matthew 22:37-39). This commandment is the lens through which we are called to evaluate all in our life as contributing to שָׁלוֹם (shalom)—our wholeness in God—or to sin, our brokenness from God. When I dance, am I honoring the creative and loving work that God put into forming my body and mind and breathing life into it? Am I using this body to express the profound truths of moving prayer, the miracle of life I embody, and a desire to use the gift of dance God gave me as opposed to burying it deep where it cannot bless others (Matthew 25:14-30)? Am I reflecting God’s nature in this dance—the profound, beautiful, creative, expressive, and humble nature of the Divine? When I dance, am I honoring the other with whom I am dancing? Am I fully present to listen to his invitation, respect his boundaries, and care for his body and spirit in the dance the way I wish my own body and spirit to be cared for? Am I recognizing with wonder the interconnectedness of this web of life God created in and through us that allows for this beautiful synergy that is present in few places outside of dance? When I dance, am I honoring myself the same way I honor the other? Am I setting boundaries and communicating my own contributions in a way that acknowledges our equal artistry and equal worthiness in the eyes of God? Am I respecting my body, my mind, and my spirit—not from some human-made construct of purity or asceticism, but from a place of deep knowing of myself and of my relationship with God? When I answer “yes” to these questions, I answer “yes” to dance being compatible with Christianity. Still, I honor and respect that my answers to these questions may be different than yours. I honor and respect that the way these answers show up in my dance may be different from the way they would for you. I honor and respect you as I honor and respect myself because this is what it means to live out the second greatest commandment of God on and off the dance floor. But I want you to know that when this lovely young woman and I were done talking, I witnessed her release shame that had been weighing her down for years; and from this freedom I watched her dance the most beautiful, liberated dance; and in her dance I witnessed God.
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We glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.
Romans 5:3-5 Churchers, One of the greatest lessons I learned as a therapist is that anything can be therapeutic with the right intention and guidance. I worked in nonprofit agencies for most of my counseling career, and although we were provided some therapy supplies, many were very old and some were broken. For example, when I worked with children, I had several incomplete Lego sets, but they were honestly one of the most effective therapeutic tools I had. Sure, a child LEGO develop cognitive skills and hand-eye coordination with any LEGO set; but a child would learn so much more with an incomplete set. When she got to a place in the building process where she realized she did not have all the pieces, she would learn frustration tolerance, perseverance, and problem-solving. These valuable skills could then be applied to other places in her life where she felt like something was missing or getting in the way of her achieving her goals. I like to think this is how God uses suffering to refine us. I don’t think God gives us incomplete LEGO sets; I think He gave the world very complete sets, and through our brokenness, we lost some pieces here and there, and we pass these broken sets on to the next generation. God could give us new sets or replace the missing pieces, but God figured out long before I did that broken LEGO sets are the best therapeutic tools. When we are faced with challenges and setbacks in our lives, God does not rush in and save us; rather God gives us the wisdom to persevere and make meaning from these hardships. Next time you are frustrated and things do not seem to be going your way; next time you are sad and feel like there are pieces missing in your life; next time you experience a barrier that gets in the way of whatever it is you have planned; remember that God is right there with you, and God will help you find meaning amidst the brokenness. When I was in middle school, I lived through the end of the world. At least we thought it was the end of the world.
When computers were designed in the 1960s they ran off a two-digit code for the year, so instead of 1999, the computer would register this year as simply 99. So, when computers worldwide rolled over from 1999 to 2000 on New Year’s Eve, there was fear that the computers would not be able to distinguish 2000 from 1900, and this glitch would cause worldwide shutdowns of all our technological systems - computers would go down, transportation systems would go down, medical equipment would go down, power sources would go down, planes would fall from the sky, and mass panic would erupt that would end the world. We look back now and giggle a little, but at the time people were legitimately scared and preparing for the end of the world. Some people even built underground bunkers and stocked them with food and water, equipping them with heavy duty locks to protect them from the post-apocalyptic people outside. Maybe even zombies. Of course, we did end up surviving Y2K. The computers were smarter than we gave them credit for, and the world did not end. Every generation lives through an experience that feels like the end times. The world seemed to be ending in AD 79 when Mount Vesuvius erupted. The world seemed to be ending in the 14th Century when the Black Plague killed millions of people. The world seemed to be ending during WWI and WWII. And we all lived through the most recent end of the world event: The COVID-19 Pandemic. For the Israelite people, the sign of the end times occurred when their Temple was destroyed. Not once, but twice. The first time the Temple was destroyed was in 587 BCE when the Babylonians lay siege to Jerusalem and destroyed the Temple. The second time the Temple was destroyed was in 70 AD at the hands of the Roman Empire. The destruction of the Temple felt like the end of the world for God’s people because it represented the center of the Jewish faith where the Holy of Holies (God) resided and the High Priests would offer sacrifices on behalf of the people to atone for sins. As long as the temple stood, there was a means for the people of God to maintain their Covenant relationship with God. As long as the Temple stood, there was a place for God to reside in the world. If the temple was destroyed, they believed that there would no longer be a dwelling place for God and God would depart from them. Without the God that protects them, the world would surely end. Further, if God allowed His temple to be destroyed, was God even that powerful? If God could not even protect his own dwelling place or save Himself from the cross, what hope can we safely have in God? This is what is behind our fears of the end of the world. When we experience something that shakes our reality—war, pandemic, natural disaster, invasion, genocide, institutional or government corruption—we wonder, where is God? Even Jesus experienced this when he was on the cross, crying out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” It is a natural human response to question God’s presence in the midst of suffering or the end of the world. But the answer to this question was the point of the Temple's destruction. God isn’t somewhere over there or up there. God isn’t stationary and unmoving. God permeates every space we dwell. God dwells IN us. So when we ask the question, where is God in the midst of my pain? The answer is, “Right here.“ Because we have faith in a God who suffered all that we suffer by putting on flesh and dwelling among us. Not as a powerful king, not as a wealthy merchant, but as a poor immigrant, an honest worker, a betrayed friend, an innocent man who was falsely accused. God loves us so much that he willingly struggled and suffered on this earth so He could be physically with us just for a little while. Our God suffered so we would know that we are not alone in our own suffering. God suffered so that our suffering would be transformed. We have faith in a God who foretold the temple’s destruction not as the end of the world but as the beginning of a new life more intimately connected to the divine. A life where we no longer have to beat ourselves up and make offerings and sacrifices every time we make a mistake because Jesus gifted us a new Covenant of grace by his death. We have faith in a God who no longer dwells in some unreachable space but a God who now dwells in the hearts of all of us. We have faith in a God who knows that often our suffering is the birthing pains of our own transformation into someone with more courage, more wisdom, more resilience. We have faith in a God who knows that our death is a rebirth into eternal life. We have faith in a God who prophesied that the end of the world is simply the last groans of labor that will usher in the Kingdom of God on Earth, where we dwell in God’s shalom, the new creation—the wholeness and perfection that God desired for us from the beginning. And we have faith in a God who invites us into the shalom-making. We aren’t meant to wait around for the Kingdom to suddenly appear on earth. We aren’t meant to live in order to experience the Kingdom after we die. We are called to be part of it every day of our lives. Every time we care for the oppressed, every time we welcome the stranger, every time we comfort a friend, every time we recycle or garden to care for creation, we are joining with God in this Divine work. This is shalom work. This is what we are called to do in the midst of a world that feels chaotic. We are called to be part of the Divine transformation. Because in God, there are no endings, only transformations. And when we are in the midst of the labor of transition, and we feel like it is all over and we are surely going to die, God promises us new life in shalom. The Psalms hold a special place in my heart, as they do for many people. The Psalms are a collection of 150 poems and songs of prayer that served as the ancient hymnal for the Israelite people. These songs gave voice to the full breadth of human emotion, from celebratory joy to the depths of despair; from the songs of Thanksgiving to raging tirades against God; from praise hymns to laments. Anything you may be feeling or experiencing can be found penned in this special book tucked into the Hebrew Scriptures. Jesus was also a lover of the psalms and quoted them throughout His ministry, perhaps most notably in the last moments of His life when he quoted Psalm 22, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
As I perused the Psalms this week for a class I am taking, I couldn’t help but notice that many of the Psalms were pretty unfamiliar to me. Apparently, there are a whole host of Psalms that never made it into our lectionary, the document that provides guidance for the scriptures we read during Sunday worship. Religious commentators have noted that some of the Psalms may be a bit difficult to stomach during a family-friendly church service (Check out the end of Psalm 137 if you need an example). Others argue for their inclusion as an important aspect of our public worship. I tend to lean a bit more towards the latter, perhaps because my work as a therapist taught me the importance of providing space for people to share their innermost experiences, even when—and sometimes especially when—they are gut-wrenching and hard to hear. In light of everything going on in our world and our nation, I decided to use Psalm 13 for our Wednesday Unplugged Scripture this week. This short, three stanza Psalm packs a punch as David cries out to God in fear and despair while being pursued by Saul. Like all Psalms, Psalm 13 meant something particular to its author. David cried out to God, “How long must I bear pain in my soul and have sorrow in my heart all day long? How long shall my enemy be exalted over me?” David was forcibly exiled to avoid the murderous Saul when he wrote this Psalm. He felt abandoned by God and wondered how long Saul would have the upper hand. This is most likely not what we are going through when we turn to this Psalm for words and comfort. Perhaps, instead, you read this Psalm when a friend betrays you. Perhaps you read this Psalm when you are fighting against an addiction that you just cannot shake. Perhaps you read this Psalm from a hospital bed when you’ve just lost a baby or you’re battling cancer. Perhaps you read this Psalm when you’re in an abusive relationship that is dangerous to leave. Perhaps you read this Psalm when you listen to the News and you feel hopeless. These Psalms were canonized for a reason, and they are a blessing to us in so many situations. They provide us words when we have none and permission to feel and express the big feelings to a world that often tells us we should not. Our God is big enough to handle these big feelings. Our God is big enough to take it when we are angry with God and express that anger in our prayers. God created us with the capacity to feel anger, and this is part of our image-bearing of God, who also expresses anger. Being in authentic relationship means allowing each other to share deeply, even when the sharing is painful and uncomfortable, even when sharing means expressing anger or grief towards each other. God wants that from us, and the Psalms are a gift to help us learn to do that better. Psalm 13 ends on a hopeful note, as many of the laments do. This ending is also a lesson in authentic relationship. We can hold in tension anger and hope, and in fully experiencing the emotions we often try to hide, we process them better so we can get to that full expression of hope and faith. In the last stanza of Psalm 13, David reaffirms his relationship to his God. “But I trusted in your steadfast love; my heart shall rejoice in your salvation.” May we also allow ourselves this depth and breadth of relationship with the Divine. When my grandmother passed in 2020, I was devastated. She was everything I look up to in a woman. She was a true lady, through and through—beautiful and gentle, kind and self-possessed, humble and radiant. Most of all, she was brave.
She lived through the Great Depression and the death of her son, Dale. Along with my grandfather, she created a home for my mom and aunt and uncle along with countless foster children, foreign exchange students, and teen mothers who had been cast out by their families. She loved all people and all cultures, but especially the poor, neglected, and oppressed. She worked as a school nurse when it wasn’t the norm for women to work outside the home. She served a school in a small mill town, and she doubled as the town’s only unofficial social worker. She identified the impoverished and struggling families of the schoolchildren she served, making baskets of food and other essentials to bring with her on house calls. My grandmother had a rare gift for doing charity without causing shame. She was an avid artist and lover of books. She knew the importance of literacy and education, and she was instrumental in building the first public library in her small town. She heralded from a long line of strong women who traveled, held careers, and led overall inspiring lives. What I remember most was her kindness and gentleness; the way she smiled with her eyes and surprised us with her quick wit. Her love of Scotch and a good book, sitting in front of the fireplace. The selfless way she took care of all those around her, but always found time to care for herself and find peace. She is who I am remembering today, on the Feast of All Saints, when we are called to hold in our hearts the memory of those we loved who have departed from this world. This beautiful holiday is sometimes overshadowed by its eve, which has been secularized and celebrated as Halloween—All Hallow’s (Saint’s) Eve—but as Christians, we can enjoy the spooky parties and trick-or-treating while still honoring the day we are mindful of those who have gone before us. As our siblings (and some of you) are wading through the waters and waste left behind by Helene and Milton, I am drawn to a poem of lament of another city laid to waste 2500 years ago. In 597 BCE, the great empire of Babylon invaded Jerusalem, destroying the temple and taking into captivity a large portion of its population. The remnant left behind are said to have chanted their lament as they tore down the vestiges of their great city and grieved the people and places lost to them forever. This song of sorrow is recorded in the Old Testament as the book of Lamentations.
How lonely sits the city that once was full of people! … She weeps bitterly in the night, with tears on her cheeks .…. The roads to Zion mourn, for no one comes to the festivals; all her gates are desolate; her priests groan; her young girls grieve, and her lot is bitter. ~Excerpts from Lamentations 1 This book has captured the imaginations of readers throughout the centuries for its vivid imagery and poetic form. The first four chapters of Lamentations are written as acrostic poems, each stanza beginning with a letter of the Hebrew alphabet, in order from א to ת. Scholars have speculated about why the author of Lamentations (probably Jeremiah) would choose such a structured format when writing about something as unstructured and chaotic as grief. But is there not something powerful in creating order from chaos, beauty from pain, art from experience? Some scholars believe that this acrostic form was meant to speak to the all-encompassing (A to Z) nature of grief that the Israelite people experienced. Others point to the sentiment that grief should be fully felt and then laid to rest. I believe there is healing in putting form to grief. For as long as human beings have been on this earth, we have found solace in song and rhythm. Warriors march to a drumbeat, workers chant their labor rhythms, and we sing our loved ones into death. Our Scriptures are filled with this music, encompassing the breadth of the human experience. Its words and rhythms help us process our deepest sorrows and despairs, especially when we join our voices with others. Legend has it that the Israelites sang Lamentations as they tore down their city, embodying their grief in their voices and through their labor. Often, we must fully embrace the grief in order to make space for what’s to come. The people of Jerusalem had to tear down the remnants of their city in order to lay new foundations for a new city. The cries of the people in Lamentations are not so different from our own as we face the devastating destruction of natural disasters. May we find solace in fully immersing ourselves in the grief shared across generations and experiences, looking to our God who has seen humanity through our worst days, always offering us the hope of a new day as we join together and rebuild. For the past four months, a small group of us have been meeting for the God After Deconstructionsmall group study. The purpose of this study is to take a deeper look into our embedded faith — the faith that we adopted early in our lives that has become ingrained in who we are and what we believe about God. Like everything in our lives, our faith evolves as we gain new experiences, and sometimes this evolution is not a smooth one. Sometimes we have experiences that challenge our faith to the point of crisis. When this happens, we are forced to reevaluate what we believe in the face of a new reality. This is deconstruction.
Our group has been bravely tackling some of the most common reasons for deconstruction: contradictions or violence in Scripture, how a good God could allow suffering, church or political abuse in the (false) name of God, when science contradicts religion, among others. However, before we began tackling these topics, we acknowledged the existential danger in the deconstruction process, and we created a safety plan. In my experience, individuals often dive headlong into deconstruction alone and without a safety plan. The lucky ones successfully deconstruct their faith and reconstruct a healthier faith grounded in a mature understanding of God. Unfortunately, many instead lose their faith in the process of deconstruction and never reconstruct. So how do we deconstruct safely in order to reconstruct a healthy faith? First and foremost, we cannot do this work alone. We are called to live out our faith as community, and I believe a big reason for this is because challenges to our faith take many forms, and we often need the support and assurance of other believers to help us through our questions and doubts. We are never in this alone, even when it feels like we are. Secondly, we need an axiom to ground us. An axiom is something I learned from one of the participants of the deconstruction crew, and it has shaped the way we have done this work together. An axiom in mathematics is an unprovable rule that is accepted as true because it is self-evident. Unlike a theorem, which requires rigorous proof, an axiom stands on its own. For example, a geometric axiom may be that a line extends to infinity. We do not need proof, and we would not be able to find proof for this, but we know it to be true because it is self-evident. When beginning deconstruction work, it is important to pause and establish one’s faith axiom that will provide a foundation to come back to when deconstruction invariably becomes overwhelming. Everyone’s axiom is unique to their understanding of God, their faith, and their life journey. My axiom is that God is a loving God. I have no scientific proof for this, but I know God to be love. To me, it is self-evident. So whenever I have an experience that brings God or my faith into question, I look at the experience through my trust that God is a loving God. For example, when faced with suffering or grief, I may question whether or not God truly is all-powerful if God won’t make the pain go away. However, when I stand on my axiom that God is a loving God, I see the way God loves me through the pain, always abiding, and always present. This is enough to keep the walls of my faith from tumbling down. Other faith axioms that have been shared in our community are “God is vaster than our understanding,” “God is Truth,” and “God is all-good.” These axioms stand when everything else crumbles. And we share these axioms with each other so that if our axiom itself begins to shake, our fellow sojourners can help remind us. What is your axiom for God or faith? What foundation do you stand on to weather the inevitable storm of doubt? I’d love to hear from you about it sometime. This week, the BBC covered a story about the inevitable decay of the Titanic, which has been resting on the ocean floor for the past 112 years since it sank on its maiden voyage. This iconic ship has captured the imaginations of so many throughout the world, making a resurgence after the blockbuster film starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet hit theaters in 1997. Though this ship is alive and well in the minds of its admirers, the reality is slowly being reclaimed by nature, eroded by salt water and eaten away by microbes.
As nature does what nature does scientists, historians, and enthusiasts are grappling with the question of what to salvage and what to lay to rest. Like Diana of Versailles, the bronze statue centerpiece of the first-class lounge, now lying on her back in the darkness of the ship’s debris field. Should she be exhumed and put on display in a museum or should she be left to the whims of the sea? Regardless of where they stand on this particular piece, most of the individuals with a vested interest in the Titanic are saddened by the reality that the entirety of the ship may completely deteriorate as early as 2030. We have a hard time letting go, which is why the philosophy of nonattachment is so prevalent in many religions, including Christianity. This philosophy centers on overcoming our emotional attachment to things, people, and worldly concerns in order to focus on what is important to God. We see this teaching when Jesus challenged the wealthy man to “sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me” (Mark 10:21, NRSVUE). The man was unable to do this because he was still too attached to his possessions, as most of us are. And if not our own possessions, perhaps aspects of our being (our hair, our muscle mass, etc.) or even a symbolic attachment like to a childhood home. For some, it is the tragic mythology of an “unsinkable ship,” which makes it difficult to let go of a decomposing, twisted metal shipwreck at the bottom of the ocean. We often attempt to hold on to physical, ephemeral things. We fear forgetting. Will the history of this great ship be lost once it is no longer discoverable? Will we be forgotten once our body decays? In grasping for physical permanence, what we are really grasping for is eternal life; but we are grasping at all the wrong things. Most of us will be forgotten by the world. In a few generations, our great-great grandchildren may not know our names or what we looked like. But our God’s knowledge of us is eternal. God knew us before we held substance (Psalm 139:16), and God will continue to hold us close into eternity (John 10:28). God invites us into this nonattached, eternal refocus by stripping away all of the impermanent things of this world and fixing our eyes instead on the permanence of Jesus (Hebrews 12:2). We are shown this in the way God’s creation reclaims the old and ushers in the new, as Paul reminds us in his second letter to the Corinthians, “Everything old has passed away; look, new things have come into being!” (2 Corinthians 5:17). Accepting the passing of worldly things we hold dear is part of giving our eternal lives over to God. So as we watch the broken remains of the Titanic deteriorate into the oblivion of humanity’s memory, we know that those who were on board that great ship are remembered by God. And as our own bodies age and the things of this world pass away, we too may take solace in the deep knowing that we are never forgotten by God. Over the past few weeks, my girlfriends and I have gotten into our yearly debate: when is too early for Pumpkin Spice? Yes, I know, first-world girl problems. Regardless, this debate is important to me. I am firmly of the mindset that Pumpkin Spice season should align with the Fall, allowing the summer flavors their time at least through the end of August. Several of my girlfriends disagree, asserting no harm in adding pumpkin spice creamer to their morning coffee as soon as said creamer hits the grocery shelves…sometime in the beginning of August (while it is still strawberry lemonade season, I might add).
Although entirely playful, this debate does have some deeper connotations, as most do. I don’t really care when people start obsessing over the Fall flavors. In all honesty, they are my favorite, and I am absolutely guilty of drinking a pumpkin beer “off-season.” However, there is something to be said for honoring and dwelling deeply in each season. Often life can take on a rote habitualness that lulls us into complacency, each day blending into the next with little hope of change or excitement. It is precisely the change of season that naturally jolts us out of this state of melancholy. It is the anticipation of an upcoming change that deepens our appreciation for the current season and provides us something to look forward to when it ends. If Pumpkin spice was available all year round, it would lose its hype very quickly, and Starbucks’ Autumn sales would plummet. King Solomon, in his contemplative poem in the Old Testament, asserts “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven…[God] has made everything suitable for its time” (Ecclesiastes 3:1, 11a). There is a wisdom in honoring the passage of time and marking it in seasons. It encourages us to be in the moment and have gratitude for that which will not be forever. Interestingly, psychological research often supports claims made by the Wisdom teachings of our ancient Scripture, and this little Wisdom nugget about seasons is no exception. Yale’s wildly popular course, Science of Wellbeing, taught by Dr. Laurie Santos, cites research supporting the claim that “savoring” an experience—a moment, a day, a season—contributes to our happiness. This savoring, defined as the act of mindfully enjoying an experience, allows us to live into and embrace the season or appointed time of whatever it is we are going through. Interestingly it may apply, as Solomon discusses, to subjectively “positive” and “negative” experiences: “a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance” (Ecclesiastes 3:4). By allowing ourselves to indwell deeply into these appointed times, we allow ourselves to truly feel the breadth of the human experience. Dr. Santos also discusses the importance of gratitude in cultivating joy. Backed up by Brené Brown’s research, which reports a strong correlation between gratitude and joy, she theorizes that the act of intentional gratitude contributes to our sense of joy and wellbeing. Being grateful for a season and savoring all it has to offer instead of looking forward to the next season, is key to finding joy in the present moment. So if you’re not ready for summer to end yet, you have until the Autumnal equinox on September 22 to enjoy the pool with a margarita in hand. If you’re anxious to start your savoring of Fall, September 1 is the beginning of the meteorological Fall, and Labor Day, fashion’s official switch from summer whites to Fall rusts, is right after. Whatever you’re sipping on this weekend, a Summer Shandy or a Pumpkin Ale, savor it this season. You have my permission to let anyone know who asks that you’re just following the Bible’s teachings with your beverage of choice. Choose this day whom you will serve…as for me and my household, we will serve the LORD.
Joshua 24:15 Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life. John 6:68 This week, I ventured to ask a dangerous question: “Why do I choose to believe in God?” This question is dangerous because it opened up a whole can of worms that I was not quite ready for when the question popped into my head after reading the texts for this coming Sunday. My first response to this unbidden question was similar to Simon Peter’s: “To whom else would I go?” This Triune God is the God I grew up knowing. This is the God we prayed to when my mother tucked us in to bed each night. This is the God I learned about on felt boards in Sunday School. This is the God to whom I credit with every beautiful splash of nature I encounter. But did I choose the Christian, Triune God simply because I was born into a family that honors this God? Would it be different if I was born into a family who worshiped Buddha? Throughout this week, I’ve wrestled with this question of “Why God?” And, as I am wont to do when I don’t want to go through an existential crisis alone, I invited others into the wrestling. Come to find out, there is good company to be found among people who take this question seriously. Themes of wrestling revolved around the belief that God is bigger than religion, language, or culture; that our concepts of God have evolved from our two-dimensional childhood God to one that perhaps transcends our ability to understand; that maybe we just don’t know or haven’t chosen at all. And the reality is, what is Faith if not the continued seeking for that which we do not fully comprehend? Where I’ve landed on the other side of this midnight wrestling in the wilderness is not into calm intellectual discourse or logical apologetics, but rather into the breathless, murky depths of relationship. My personal experience of the Divine is with the God who chose to become one with Their created, not to enslave us or use us for Their own benefit, but simply because God wanted to be close to us, wanted a relationship with us. My personal experience with the Divine is of a God who continues to choose humanity over and over again, not because They need us but because They want us. My personal experience with the Divine is in the harrowing moments of my life when I am seeking not a God that transcends my pain but one who intimately knows it because He chose it on a cross over 2000 years ago, and chooses continually to sit in it with me again. At the end of the day, my choice to serve this God is because this God first chose to serve me. I have not found this depth of relationship, desire, humility, and oneness from any other face of God. As for me, I choose God in the wrestling, not in spite of the wrestling. I choose God, unapologetically illogically. I choose God because in God there is a promise of eternal life in relationship with the Divine. To whom else would I want to go? |
Kaylee Vance LMFT, LMHC
Worship Leader |
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