The Lesson of the Oak

         A few blocks from where I live is a stately old oak tree, the quintessential symbol of the East Bay area. Such trees dot the hillsides here east of San Francisco. They remind me of the oaks back in Texas. This particular oak is magnificent. I’m not good at guessing the age of anything, but this one must be at least several hundred years old. It stands in the front yard of a typical suburban mid-twentieth century ranch style home, just beside the street. High in its branches is a hollow where not long ago lived a large bee colony. Every time my dog and I walk past that oak, I am filled with a sense of wonder and gratitude for the One who created it.

          When I see that oak, I think of my ancient pre-Christian era ancestors in the British Isles and Western Europe. Like many ancient peoples, their faith was anchored in the things of nature. They revered trees, hills, mountains, rivers, the sea, and other pieces of natural evidence that there was something—or Someone—bigger, higher, more powerful and wiser than they. Of course they couldn’t explain the mystery of what they experienced with their senses and felt in their hearts, so their human minds began constructing stories, myths and legends to attach meaning to the unexplainable. These gave birth to religion, thus anthropomorphic and zoomorphic deities were created, gods and goddesses that handed down laws and rules and decrees for their human subjects to follow. The original sense of awe and wonder and love ignited by creation was lost to a system of rewards and punishments that empowered some and subjugated others. Religion became a way for the powerful minority to control the weaker majority. How many wars have been fought throughout human history in the name of religious ideology when really the masses doing the fighting were merely the puppets of the power-mongers struggling to accumulate wealth for themselves?

          Whether or not one takes the story of the Garden of Eden and the fall of mankind literally, we can all probably agree on this: humanity lost its innocence when it got greedy. The lust for power is what wrecked our pure, original relationship with the Creator. And the lust for power is rooted in fear. Those with high status fear losing their status quo, their wealth and possessions. Those with low status fear being stuck in that state, never having the sense of security (albeit a false sense) that wealth and possessions create. Some would say that the opposite of love is hate. I say that hate is merely the dark side of love. Fear is the opposite of love, otherwise why would the Bible say that perfect love casts out fear (1 John 4:18)? Love and fear cannot coexist.

          Yet throughout human history, fear seems to be the most widely wielded tool in religion: the fear of hellfire and brimstone; the fear of punishment; the fear of not being worthy; the fear of being exiled for all eternity; and for some, even today, the fear of being killed for not adopting a set of beliefs held by those more powerful. The number of times that the Bible states “Fear not” or “Do not be afraid” depends on the translation one is reading. However, it is mentioned a significant number of times. God is not a god of fear, but a god of love. God created everything and said it was good (Genesis 1:31). When we see creation—stately old oaks, magnificent mountain vistas, gorgeous sunsets, spectacular beaches, anything in nature that moves your spirit—let us pause and remember the One who made it, who placed it there as a message of love, saying, “Here I am. Remember me? I have loved you since the beginning of time, and I love you now, and I will love you forever after.” Let our religion, then, be a religion of love, and not of fear.

The Paradox of Love

English writer and lay theologian G. K. Chesterton once said that “a paradox is often a truth standing on its head to get our attention.” The human brain has difficulty wrapping itself around paradoxes because they don’t seem to make sense to us. In fact, one definition of the word paradox is “a statement contrary to received opinion” (freedictionary.com) and accurately reflects the word’s Greek origins (para meaning “beyond” plus doxa or “opinion”).

Father Richard Rohr of the Center for Action and Contemplation in New Mexico says that the contemporary mind has almost no training in dialectical thought processes or how to think paradoxically. Without getting too esoteric, think of dialectical thinking as seeing all sides of a concept and forming your own opinion after seeing the concept in its entirety. For example, I believe X and you believe Y, but after we discuss our viewpoints rationally and logically, a third viewpoint, Z, emerges. Here’s a lighthearted example: I have the opinion that Star Trek is the best science fiction franchise ever. My friend believes that Star Wars is. We discuss our differences of opinion logically, amicably, yet passionately. But the end result of our discussion is that I have new perspectives on Star Wars and he has new perspectives on Star Trek that enlighten and inform our mutual love for the science fiction genre.

Sadly, when it comes to differences of opinion in matters of faith, conversations are not usually so lighthearted. In fact, millions have died over the centuries because of human beings’ inability to embrace paradox and apply dialectical thinking to concepts to which many people have a very strong emotional attachment. In the past, Catholics believed X, and Protestants believed Y, so unscrupulous political and religious leaders capitalized on that conflict so that power and wealth would remain in certain hands while innocent people on both sides perished. At this very moment in Iraq, one sect of Muslims wars against another and forces non-Muslims in the way to choose sides, leave their homes, or die. We all know that the real motivators of such conflicts are not theological; they are political and economic.

I hold a distinction between faith and religion. To me, faith is a relationship or personal connection with that Eternal Something that is bigger/better/more powerful/kinder/more loving than I. I call that Eternal Something God because I come from a Judeo-Christian tradition. Yet my concept of God has grown from a patriarchal rule-enforcer to a more comprehensive, expansive concept based primarily on my mature understanding of the person of Jesus who, in my opinion, was the most complete personification of God. Religion, on the other hand and in my opinion, is the construct that grew from the human mind’s need to explain things and create order and control. It is easier to enforce rituals and rules and pass down traditions than to model for others what being in good relationship with the Creator entails. Human beings are naturally lazy, I think, and we like to be told what to think and do rather than think for ourselves. It’s also safer, because in the end, if what we thought or did was wrong, we have someone else to blame. If we think for ourselves, we have no one to blame but ourselves. That’s a very scary prospect for some who think of their God more as a punisher of sins than a lover of humankind.

Yet, therein lies the paradox, right? The God that gave all the laws and the “thou shalt nots” also said that the rules don’t matter as long as you love me [God] and each other, because that love will logically motivate you to do what is right by me [God] and each other. Wow, even my master-degreed brain has trouble with that one!

So, the meaning of the universe is love, but love makes absolutely no sense. As Mr. Spock in my beloved Star Trek universe would say, “Love is not logical.” It motivates us to take care of the weak and frail when obviously they are not strong enough to survive on their own. It causes us to strive for peace and mutual understanding when we all know that there will just be some people who never see eye-to-eye. It drives us to think of the health, safety, and welfare of all human beings at the expense of being labeled “socialist” and compels us to share our resources, giving of our time and money, and in some extreme cases, even our lives (a huge shout out of gratitude to men and women who work in public safety, be it the military, the police, first responders, or others who risk their lives for the safety of people they don’t even know).

Faith in God is full of paradoxes: a 99-year-old man having a baby with his 90-year-old wife; a man with a stammer acting as God's spokesperson; a teenaged virgin birthing the Savior of all people in all times in a stable. All of these are contrary to received opinion: elderly men and women do not procreate; people with speech impediments do not serve as spokespersons; virgins do not get pregnant; and certainly the King of kings would not be born in a stable.

On paradox and faith, Father Richard writes: "Each of us must learn to live with paradox, or we cannot live peacefully or happily even a single day of our lives. In fact, we must even learn to love paradox, or we will never be wise, forgiving, or possess the patience of good relationships. 'Untarnished mirrors,' as Wisdom says, receive the whole picture, which is always the darkness, the light, and the subtle shadings of light that make shape, form, color, and texture beautiful. You cannot see in total light or total darkness. You must have variances of light to see." Think about that: the space between black and white is not gray; it is all colors of the spectrum. It is a beautiful space where a Technicolor God waits to meet us, to reason with us (Isaiah 1:18). It is the place where the rainbow of the truth of God and all of God’s truths are to be found.

          What paradoxes has God brought into your life to move you into that space between black and white to reveal God's colorful truth to you?

The Evil of Nationalism

          I’m usually the one to offer words of encouragement and hope in distressing situations. Today I have none. My soul is sickened by the pain and suffering inflicted by nationalism.

          Yesterday we saw nationalism take the lives of almost 300 innocent civilians who had nothing to do with the conflict raging 33,000 feet beneath them, a conflict born of nationalistic pride, arrogance, and greed.

          At the same time, a few thousand miles away, a centuries-old conflict over territory and national identity took more innocent lives. Religious arrogance plays a huge role in the ongoing evil there that struggles against peace and mutual understanding.

          And right here in our very own country, fear and ignorance rooted in nationalistic pride and greed compel angry people to confront children—many of them orphans—to wave U.S. flags while shouting “Go away!” Many of the instigators of this hateful display are themselves the descendants of immigrants, none of whom were invited by the original inhabitants of this land. What hypocrisy!

          Throughout human history, evil leaders around the world have used nationalism to manipulate the minds and hearts of the masses to cause war, genocide, terrorism, rape, and the destruction of the land. Our own politicians use nationalism to get votes (and subsequently dollars in their bank accounts) from simple-minded citizens who think they’re being patriotic by voting for those money-mongers. Bullshit!

          I’m sick of seeing flag-waving “patriots.” I’m disgusted by displays of “ethnic pride.” Religious zealots, even those who claim to be “Christian,” infuriate me. Passports couldn’t save those innocent people aboard Malaysian Airlines flight 17 yesterday. Citizenship is meaningless to the peace-loving Israelis and Palestinians fearing for their lives in the so-called “Holy Land.” And all those Central American children in detention facilities near our southern border? All they want is a place to grow up without fear and with basic needs fulfilled. Shouldn’t every child on this planet have that?

Is God ashamed to be called my God?

          The writer of the New Testament book of Hebrews begins chapter eleven with words that have become very familiar to most people who identify as Christian: “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” (NRSV). The writer then proceeds to describe the faith of four notable characters from the Hebrew scriptures (which we Christians commonly call the Old Testament): Abel, who offered a sacrifice to God that was more acceptable than his brother Cain’s sacrifice and thus fell victim to fratricide; Enoch, who was rewarded for pleasing God by being taken directly into God’s presence without experiencing death; Noah, whose faith in God resulted in the almost universally known story of the ark and the flood; and Abraham, who followed God’s direction to leave his homeland and move himself and all he owned to an unfamiliar land and re-establish himself as the progenitor of a vast number of descendants.

          In verse sixteen, the writer continues: “But as it is, they [Abel, Enoch, Noah, Abraham, and others who act by faith] desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God; indeed, he has prepared a city for them.”

          At this point, I have to re-emphasize that I do not adhere to a literalistic interpretation of scriptures. When I read verse sixteen, I do not assume that a heavenly country refers to a place somewhere in the distant cosmos to which dead souls ascend, nor do I envision a literal city with buildings and walls and streets and such. Actually, I’ve always thought of God as more of a nature-lover myself, but I digress. The intended audience of the writer of Hebrews would have understood “country” and “city” differently from me, not so much as geographic entities and feats of civil engineering, but perhaps instead as places of identity and refuge, of safety and provision—places to which they could relate in their here and now.

          Rather, I believe verse sixteen refers to a state of being—more in this life than the next, really—that results from a life of faith. And in my experience, faith often contradicts belief. Consider this: Do we know what belief system Abel, Enoch, Noah, or even Abraham adhered to? It certainly wasn’t Christianity or Judaism. Neither one of those existed in the time of the aforementioned individuals. Did they follow other religions? Were these men even monotheistic? I don’t know if monotheism even existed in the places and times of those men (ask a historian of ancient religions). It’s unclear to us how they understood God, if they even understood that the one with whom they were dealing was God. However, they must have been known in the time of the writer of Hebrews as icons of faith, otherwise why would the writer have chosen to use them as examples? Isn’t it interesting that the examples chosen were not notable contemporary Jewish or Christian leaders of the writer’s time? Hmmm…

          In my viewpoint, faith is not based on fast, hard evidence gathered through the senses, but rather it is discerned from within. Indeed, I experience the world with my senses—either directly with my own, or indirectly through the stories of others whom I trust as credible—but I process my experiences on an intellectual, emotional, and spiritual level. And then I act on my faith. It drives what I do and how I interact with the world in which I live. My actions are the evidence of my faith (James 2:14-26). Faith motivates from within, even perhaps when the one being motivated—the enactor of actions that result from faith—may not fully understand the source of that motivation. Consider Abram (whose name was later changed to Abraham). We’ve already discussed how we’re not sure what religion or belief system he adhered to, if any. All we know is God spoke to him, he listened, and responded. And thus began his epic relationship with God.

          Faith is not to be confused with beliefs. Beliefs are based on what one has experienced with the senses, either directly or indirectly: I believe XYZ because I have seen/heard/smelled/tasted/felt XYZ, or someone I trust has—or that someone knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who… You get the picture. There’s not much internal processing that goes on with beliefs.

          While faith expresses itself in actions, belief expresses itself in doctrine, which leads to sets of rules—usually more don’ts than do’s—and demands conformity and obedience. This legalism tends to close minds and harden hearts, which doesn’t leave much room for faith to inhabit. It motivates from without because the rules are written by people and published in books, both of which can become objects of worship rather than tools for building faith.

Doctrine builds walls, creating an “us” vs “them” mentality, and throws up barriers, dividing and restricting and excluding people. Its goal becomes to correct what is wrong in people, setting them right, putting them on “the straight and narrow” and making sure they follow all the rules. The icons of faith described by the writer of Hebrews apparently had no doctrine that we know of. Only faith in a mysterious monotheistic deity who related to them all on a very personal level.

The writer of 1 John stated “Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love.” (4:8) If our faith is in God, and if God is love, and if our actions are driven by our faith, then shouldn’t our actions manifest in those things that are evidence of love? Compassion, mercy, tolerance, inclusivity, protection, acceptance—all those things that make us feel loved and wanted? But what if our actions do not demonstrate our faith? Are we not responsible to each other, as members of a community of faith, to hold each other accountable for such inconsistencies? Aren’t we, as Christians, to emulate the one whose name we adopt, who demonstrated for us what faith in God is really all about?

Yet how far we fall short of that emulation. Our words proclaim our faith, yet so often our actions don’t show it. We lionize politicians who advocate policies of violence, oppression, exclusion, and environmental destruction. We glorify the rich and vilify the poor. We most certainly do not treat the aliens among us as our own. We complain about sharing the burden to heal the sick, calling it socialism. We capitalize off of war and weapons when Jesus clearly said “Those who live by the sword will die by the sword.” (Matthew 26:52) We neglect children because they do not look or speak like us, or because their families do not make as much money as we do, when Jesus commanded “Let the little children come to me, and do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs.” Jesus identified his family as his disciples and those who do the will of God (Matthew 12:49-50), yet so many Christians want to legislate how individuals build their own families, even when those individuals feel that God has built that family through love.

Which brings us now to the title of this blog: Is God ashamed to be called my God? Are my actions congruent with my faith? Will others know God through what I do? Or am I obsessed with doctrine, with having the right set of beliefs? Am I motivated from within—by my own, personal experience of God—or from without, by rules and regulations and peer pressure and intellectual interpretations of words written on a page thousands of years ago in languages I do not understand and in places foreign to me?

The Christian belief system holds that one day I will stand before God—as if I don’t already every day?—and give an account of my life, and thereafter receive God’s judgment. If in the end it all comes down to that literal scenario, more than anything I can imagine, I would want to hear God say, “Mark, you may not have had the belief system worked out quite correctly, but you sure did your best to act nice and loving toward me, and toward others, and toward my creation. Welcome!” I don’t want God to be ashamed to be called my God. How about you?

Is God laughing at me?

          An old Yiddish proverb states “Man plans, God laughs.” While I don’t think this aphorism should be taken literally—I doubt if God takes our hopes and dreams that lightly—I do think there’s some truth to be found in its humor. One of the spiritual lessons I’ve learned time and time again throughout my life is that the timeline I create for myself isn’t always in sync with God’s timeline for me. And despite consistent evidence that God’s timeline for me is better than my own, I still have trouble resting in faith, knowing and believing that God will provide.

          As a child I learned in Sunday school about the manna from heaven, described in the Hebrew book of Exodus, chapter 16. The Israelites were only a couple of months free from their bondage in ancient Egypt, wandering the vast wasteland of the Sinai (I’ve been there, about twenty-six years ago; it’s not the kind of place one wants to be lost in). They were hungry, tired, and discouraged, and as most humans are inclined to do, they complained to the human in charge, Moses. Moses took their complaints to his boss, who told Moses he would provide sustenance for the people, with some conditions: first, he would provide only as much as they needed—no more, no less; and second, if they took more than they were allotted, it would spoil. So in the evenings, flocks of quail descended on their camps so they could have meat, and in the mornings, a flaky bread-like substance covered the ground. On the day before the Sabbath they were allowed to gather enough for two days, so that they could rest on the Sabbath. Still lost, yes, but hungry no more, the Israelites spent the next forty years forming their identity as a distinct ethnicity and culture in the ancient world.

          Later in the Hebrew Scriptures, in 1 Kings 17, we read the story of Elijah, a prophet of God visiting a town where a widow lived with her son during a time of intense drought. Elijah asked her for a cup of water and some bread, and the widow replied that she had only enough flour and oil to make one more loaf of bread for her and her son to have their last meal before they starved (there was no social welfare system in that age; widows and orphans were left to fend for themselves, and in a culture that treated women and children as chattel, the fending often wasn’t so good). Elijah assured her that her food would not run out before the drought ended, then he instructed her to make two loaves of bread, a small one for him and the rest for her and her son. The widow complied, and sure enough, there was enough oil and flour to last them until the rains came again.

          In both of these stories, God provided to the people in need just what they needed, and just when they needed it. Can you imagine, though, the anxiety the Israelites in the wilderness and the widow must have felt before they realized that God would, indeed, provide for them? I’ve never been on the verge of death by starvation, but I can imagine it’s not a good place to be. And I can also imagine that, being humans, the Israelites and the widow still experienced some anxiety after their needs were met, thinking to themselves, “OK, when will this run out? What will I do then?” It’s natural to feel anxious about our physical needs; that anxiety is one thing that helps us survive.

          In both stories, a little work was involved after God’s promise was made clear. The Israelites had to go out and gather the manna, and the widow had to go home and cook. Neither got breakfast in bed served by the angels.

          In another story, though, the people experiencing the anxiety were reprimanded for their lack of faith and pretty much told to just be still and quiet (I wanted to write “sit down and shut up,” but that’s not God’s way of communicating). Both the Gospels of Matthew and Mark give an account of Jesus on a boat with several of his disciples. A storm brews, and the boat is rocked violently enough to make the disciples fear for their lives. Jesus, however, was sound asleep. His panicked followers wake him and demand that he do something about the situation, at which point Jesus rouses himself, lectures his disciples on their lack of faith, then calms the storm. The disciples are amazed that even the winds and the sea obey this man they call Teacher.

          I feel sort of sorry for the disciples. I’ve never experienced stormy seas, but I’ve flown through storms that I thought might be the end of me at 35,000 feet. To feel anxiety is human; to feel calm in a storm is Divine. So being reprimanded for feeling anxious seems a little harsh to me. Then again, Jesus didn’t really reprimand them for what they felt, but rather for what they didn’t feel. And therein lies the lesson: It’s OK for us to feel anxious during stressful times—undesired change, natural disasters, economic downturns, whatever—but we can’t let our anxiety cloud our faith that God is in control and will provide for us. Our faith, no matter how small, has to be just a little bigger than our fear. Even if that difference is miniscule, faith will triumph, because faith even as small as a mustard seed can move mountains (Matthew 17:20).

          I am experiencing a time of big change in my life right now. It is a desired, welcomed change: I resigned a full-time, tenured position at a community college to pursue a new career. I’m giving myself the rest of this year to acquire new skills and knowledge, and half of next year to secure gainful employment—either working for myself or for someone else—before I look at my “fallbacks” (academic advising/counseling and teaching English as a second language). But as I wrote in the first paragraph, “Man [I] plans, God laughs.” I wonder sometimes if God is laughing at me for making such a definite timeline. Or, is God proud of me for listening to my heart and not my head, for seeking his words of wisdom for me and not the world’s (which would tell me I’m foolish to leave a tenured position to go independent)?

          While I’m enjoying my new path, learning things that engage parts of me that haven’t been engaged in a very long time, and feeling assurance that my decision was right for me, I do feel afraid from time to time. Today was my first day to not have health insurance, so I signed up on the California health care exchange. I’ve heard both good stories and bad about people’s experiences with that, so I’m nervous. And while I’m financially on solid ground for the time being, I wonder what will happen if an unexpected expense occurs that drains my savings.

          Then I remember the Israelites in the wilderness, gathering only as much manna as they needed every day. And the widow, who went from the verge of death by starvation to having just enough to eat until the drought ended. And the disciples on the boat, who got afraid when the storm came but ended up feeling amazed by the power of their rabbi. And all the times in the past fifty years (what I can remember of them, anyway) when God provided for me. I have never been hungry, never been destitute, never been homeless, never been without enough income—not an abundance, usually, but always enough—and never so sick or injured that I incurred outrageous medical expenses. I am blessed by overall good health right now; by access to learning opportunities to change my career; by a domestic arrangement that includes a loving, supportive, and nurturing partner; by a church family that accepts me just as I am; and by a four-legged psychologist who provides some of the best therapy ever in return for belly rubs, ear scratches, and long walks in the park.

          God might laugh at my plans, indeed. But the curious thing is, when God’s plan for me unfolds, I laugh, too. Not out of derision, but out of relief. For God’s plans have always—ALWAYS—been better than my plans for myself. To borrow a bumper sticker cliché: I don’t know what the future holds, but I know who holds the future.  So bring it on, God. Make me laugh.