MSC: An Introduction

As evening dimmed the glowing sky and lights shown out of houses, I drove to the University area. My pencilled note read "1883, a block or two from Mac Court." Cars lined the curbs, but one pulled away just as I found the correct brick building. Good thing, since I was late.

Inside, to the left of bookshelves bearing academic tomes, double glass doors stood open. People filled most of the folding chairs in three rows, and a bearded man leaned over a podium speaking. Sheepishly I side-stepped to an empty spot near the front.

I recognized Ron Julian, whose talk tonight would cover a few of Jesus's parables. I'd heard him speak at a church service recently. "I want to start with a story Jesus told that sounds confusing at first," he began. "But we'll consider what makes the most sense in context."

He went on to explain the parable of the "unrighteous steward" (Luke 16:1-13) from an exceedingly reasonable perspective. Afterward, he took questions and comments, as he had Sunday morning in church.

You got that right: questions in church.

It was October, 1999. At the non-denomination evangelical church I'd been attending with my family, a conflict between board members had resulted in two of the pastors' abrupt resignations, along with the sudden severance of fellowship by several families.

My attempt to put on an optomistic countenance failed immediately, as the hurtful episode brought to life long-buried childhood anguish. My minister dad resigned from a couple different churches during my youth for reasons never explained. All I knew was painful abandonment by communities I'd thought held together by Christ's love.

During our recent church troubles, a friend had handed me pages printed from the website of McKenzie Study Center. The paper, authored by someone named Jack Crabtree, was titled Appeal for Radical Biblicism. After reading it, I gave it to my husband. He read it. We wanted to meet this guy, these radical biblicists. We'd be careful, wary of a group that might be gathering around someone's erroneous scriptural interpretations. But we were ready to take a look at a different Christian community, one where topics of conversation followed these sorts of lines:

For radical biblicists, the fundamental task is to use reason and commonsense to grasp the meaning of the biblical text that its author intended.

Many lively discussions ensued. And the fruit of the reasonings have been juicier than I ever imagined possible.

At the risk of sounding salespersonish, I recommend perusal of MSC's website to any Christian needing a dose of the radical. Along with articles by the staff (and one I authored six years ago), you'll find a PDF newsletter and a few books for sale. Ron Julian's Righteous Sinners, available here and here, is awesome.

Nearly seven years after my first MSC encounter, I still rejoice with great joy over God's gifts to me through these people (none of whom, by the way, has yet left in a huff or forced others to leave their fellowship). As human as the next group, they strive to remind themselves of just that fact. Creatureliness. Fallenness. Aspects of reality the gospel was made to speak into, if I've come anywhere close to getting my bible principles right.

What's important to me is I'm focusing with others, many who are fellow refugees from church traditions and chicaneries, on doing business daily with what's likely happening in the biblical text. Learning to think about God and know him for myself cannot be surpassed as a lifelong activistic activity. Please do take a look-see for yourself.

Most Romantic Couple, 20th and 21st Century

Excuse my slight prejudice.

My parents, married fifty years this week, did an awesome job of lovingly supporting each other and of keeping their promises. They still do.

Return to Summer Blogging

: : : lounging relaxedly : : :

Once again I have time and energy (I think) to pursue the weblog method of digital communication. And because many ideas happen inside this odd, aging, serious-thinker-type created being, I plan to do so regularly. Often.

Upcoming posts will likely include:

1. My newbie-ish theories regarding what blogging is and is not
2. Introductions (to whom? of what? check back and find out)
3. A few more theological ponderings/presentations
4. Controversial social issues (ooooh)

Then again, I may simply goof off on these pages. With my huge (cough) readership, it's likely not an issue what I do or how. The point is, I get to zip along, writing and publishing posts, experimenting.

It's more fun than a barrel of zucchini. If you knew our backyard garden, you'd get the idea.

Can It Be?

This cool evening I relax a bit. Many small tasks are finished; a huge activity awaits tomorrow. I hear my husband "eating" the border of our back lawn with his weed wacker.

Twenty-seven years ago tonight he and I stood at the front of an English-style sanctuary, facing both our fathers and the pastor of that church. Our dads, intoning ministerially, each read portions of the ceremony. The forty-member choir with which we'd often sung blended their voices from the balcony. A newly-wed couple we knew sang "Evergreen" before we lit our wedding candle.

Ah, memories. So young, so nervous. I'll always be grateful for my brother's remark before I headed up the aisle.

"You be about to jump de broom," he said, grinning, and I almost smiled back.

Now my hubby's come inside from the yard and has poured Martinelli's for us to sip. His eyes sparkle like the bubbling cider as we toast these remembrances, this union.

Our tale's been one of bumpy avenues and many days when smiles evaded us both. We came within a hair's breadth of quitting once, maybe twice. How interesting the views grow, though, as years pass beneath us long enough for wisdom to find inroads. Despite ourselves, we learn. We grow fonder. We love.

Glad I be we jumped dat broom.

Twitch

Eyestrain. I should have known I'd get it. My screen pixel size made the words too tiny for processing story-revisions. This morning I remembered I could change it, and now I see e-mails, blog posts and documents hugely. Yet my eyelid muscles still suffer a tic, like that of Inspector Clouseau's nemesis in the Pink Panther movies. Well, maybe not as bad as his.

I'm leaving computers behind, though, on Thursday. We'll head north for a family reunion. People long missed, nature's beauty, traffic and idea-triggers await.

It's time, because my eyes sure need a rest.

Friendshape

These are samples from our friend Geoff's recent foray into ceramic art.




Friends' hands often shape portions of this existence into pieces of beauty and worth.


Thanks, Laura and Geoff, for reading my latest story and giving me feedback today. I appreciate the artistic blessings brought to life by each of you.

I Love Wendell Berry

My husband is still the light of my life.

But I am thankful there is a writer out there, a crafter of humorously insightful stories, poetry and life commentary whose many works I have yet to fully explore.

Today "The Joy of Sales Resistance" from his book Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community hits all the right notes for me. Mr. Berry says:

"Of course, education is for the Future, and the Future is one of our better-packaged items and attracts many buyers. (The past, on the other hand, is hard to sell; it is, after all, the past.) The Future is where we'll all be fulfilled, happy, healthy, and perhaps we'll live and consume forever. It may have some bad things in it, like storms or floods or earthquakes or plagues or volcanic eruptions or stray meteors, but soon we will learn to predict and prevent such things before they happen. In the Future, many scientists will be employed in figuring out how to prevent the unpredictable consequences of the remaining unpreventable bad things. There will always be work for scientists."

Blessed Mourning

I am tempted to comment about this post I read a couple days ago at Mir's site. I'm somewhat afraid, however, people will think I'm odd after reading my views.

But I guess if you've nibbled at all on my previous entries, you already have a clue about that.

Please understand, my reaction to feelings Mir expressed about failing to do good Christian works for her neighbors is foremost a remembrance of my own feelings regarding my failures. I'm not setting out to critique anyone's biblical understanding more than that of myself.

Okay, yada, yada, enough disclaimer.

I think I got one thing right and a few things wrong when I dealt with neighbors in distress. Like Mir and the lady whose post she references, I experienced days when a crisis situation woke me up to the needs of real people close by. People I hadn't taken the time to get to know. Or if I had paid attention, it was in a there-I've-said-hi-to-you-now-I'm-okay manner. The point is, I saw I hadn't cared enough about them; I was lacking the love of God for them. And I wanted to love them the way it says to in the Bible, to love my neighbor as myself, to be sure I didn't pass by a mangled stranger on the road.

Recognizing my lack was right and good to do. Still is.

One of the not-so-great things was to rush, arms flailing, over to that neighbor in need and thrust my wanting to love him under his nose. I cringe to remember how many times I've done so. What good, though, did it do my neighbor?

Like the apostle Peter on the mount of transfiguration, I often shouted, "Hey, let's set up shelters!" when the moment didn't call for any certain action, it just held the need to pay attention. I was and am immature, over-eager. God was and is the creator of every microsecond in the cosmos, and he kindly uses situations where his followers evidence little faith (as in baby faith) to spell out lessons we need in the air around us.

Jesus, God's son, came to give lessons. Not, I would argue, random, disconnected homilies about doing good and making life feel better. As God in human form, he spoke and demonstrated the essence of things God wanted people to know. If this is true, every message Jesus gave was but a part of the Message he had in mind and was trying to get across. Reading the Bible today, we are thousands of years distanced from ink and papyri, language and culture of the time when Jesus spoke and his disciples were given divine remembrance. It's a difficult book. We read it all too lightly.

But the Bible can be read and the meaning the authors intended can be understood. Bible scholars work hard to give us pretty good translations. Bible teachers can delve into the original languages to keep the work of interpretation in motion. I'm acquainted with some pretty fantastic ancient-languagy people. Besides taking a few classes from them, I read the Bible more carefully than I used to, concordance and Greek/Hebrew study volumes close at hand. I'm not a Bible nerd by any means. I do see a lot more cohesion in the text than I used to.

Central to the message Jesus gave, I'm seeing, is some instruction about who the people of God are--the fortunate, or blessed ones. Basically, Jesus says they're people who recognize they aren't getting it right. They're losers. In Matthew 5, the part often called the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus describes them as poor in spirit, mourners, meek and hungering and thirsting after righteousness. They want what's most important to have as human beings but see they don't have it (or much of it) yet. I'd say it's because of this lowliness that they are also, as the sermon goes on to say, merciful, pure in heart and peacemakers.

They're individuals who recognize, at least when prompted (and more and more, I think, as they mature) their stifling limitations and the fact that often it's hard to sort out sin from ignorance and disability. They want to overcome their lack, but as they try and fail they begin to accept how bad they can look and be. Not in a way that makes excuses but in one where the operative phrase is, "Lord, God, help me! I throw myself on your mercy."

I believe God extends his loving will to their neighbors, sometimes through them, sometimes via other avenues. It never hurts to try to help someone. But maybe it's better for me to do the thing that is just in front of me today. If I'm blogging too much (it begins to look like it tonight!) I might walk outside or feed my dog or any number of things, and God may bring me a way to do an outwardly good deed. In my heart, however, I'm striving to do good if I'm acknowledging God as my creator and teacher who alone can save me from myself.

Take a Hike

"You know this isn't working, don't you?" he said last Saturday, seated beside me in the van.

"What isn't working?"

"This. You and me. We can't do this anymore."

I hated to admit it, but I knew what he meant, and it was almost a relief to hear the words. I'd been trying to figure out a way to express it, myself. Sure, I struggled with sadness, but I sensed no regret on either side. These recent years have been difficult, yet very good for us both.

My son, now a tall young man ready to learn to drive himself or find a friend to take him hiking, no longer wants my sole companionship.

I won't have to quit hiking--thank goodness, because now that he's got me hooked, I like doing 5, 10, or 12-mile treks over trails from the coast range to east of the mountains. Whenever his dad can come along or he can talk his sister into this sort of exercise, we'll enjoy discovering new adventures as a group.

We simply have reached a point where it's stressful for me when my son brings up heading out for a new trail (his love is traversing fresh ground; I could do the same great hike maybe sixty times before losing interest). Last Saturday I was torn between wanting to escape civilization, even though my husband had commitments close to home, and irritation at the details needing attention before we could leave. Plus, this place to which my son was directing (he digests Oregon hiking books and maps) would be reached by driving several miles of gravel road, uphill. It's the price you pay for finding a good spot, but I was maybe a mite cranky as I manned the steering wheel and tried not to fear what lay ahead.

After reaching one trailhead, only to step out of the car during a tremendous mosquito airstrike and realize we hadn't packed any bug spray, we decided to try a shorter hike up Hemlock Butte on the way back to pavement. My son reached the butte top, while I forewent its final hard-scrabble yards and rested my back against a jutting boulder, swatting at a smaller insect squadron patrolling here.

I pondered his words, uttered between trailheads, about our hiking days as a duo being done. For him it meant an acceptance of added responsibility in life. Until he gets his license he will have to seek out other people and not simply rely on old Mom to pursue his passion. This was good.

I liked the idea increasingly after inching the van through a small cut of road where a winter landslide had strewn giant logs and debris across the way home. My son, now barefoot, first checked the puddles ahead for depth, and then I took 'er through, repeating, "Drive, drive, God help!, drive," until I reached firmer ground.

Maybe, I thought, he'll work extra hard and buy his own Jeep for future expeditions. Sounds like a winner to me.

Fear and Journaling

I'm rereading a favorite writing book. Twelve years ago, Robin Hemley's Turning Life Into Fiction got me journaling in a more idea-making fashion. (A new, expanded paperback edition promises additional helps for budding fictionists.)

Hemley encourages us to record "triggers" that get our stories going. They're memories, associations, insights--thoughts only you can invent or retrieve from your personal inner conglomeration. I can't keep up with mine. Most aren't worth saving. But once a day or so I'll flash on something, like, Oh, I see, I never got along with Aunt Mildred, because she treated me the same condescending way as Mrs. Fawlty did in Sunday School class. And I'll think I ought to include that discovery somewhere in my writing. If I scribble it into my journal I can come back later, in the midst of a story with a character based loosely on Aunt Mildred, and draw on my earlier deposit. (I don't really have an Aunt Mildred, by the way.)

That's the idea. I haven't kept up lately with recording triggers. But I'm inspired to do so again.

I have been a fairly consistent journaler since 1989. Before that, I wrote things down in spurts periodically. It's always illuminating to read back over the pages of me. To ponder what I think I had right and what I'm sure I got wrong years ago. And to follow my attempts at marketing articles (mostly non-fiction), the failures and successes.

What I wish I'd done differently, and try to do today, is journal negatively, at least when the moment calls for it. Many, if not most, of my entries during young momhood sound like pages from Fluff Magazine, devoted to finding that silver lining, even before stormclouds loomed fully into view.
Of course, I was practicing for Christian publications. And I'm sure I wanted to leave an impression on posterity of my ability to handle this existence. And I told myself continually (in a keeping-all-the-plates-spinning sort of way) that a Christian wife and mother ought to improve steadily. But my entries often read as though detached from real, grime and confusion-tainted living.

In 2002 a writer friend asked me to take over teaching a continuing education class on journaling at our local community college. She provided her outlines, which I then used to frame lessons based on my experience and on resources, such as Hemley's book. An assorted crew of students assembled every Monday evening that summer to learn from me how to Journal to Better Writing and Personal Exploration.

Partway through, I wrote in my journal:
"This class is taking up a lot more time than I'd imagined, mainly because in between sessions I must plan for it and acclimate myself to the idea of what I'm doing. It's an emotional process, one that makes me see myself--my ego in full blossom."

I'd started to notice the way I bluff in a crowd in order to look good. The struggle began, and continues today, to strike a genuine posture with people. Not comfortable for this old gal.

Very thankfully, my class was made up of kind, outgoing (and opinionated, clashing, yet overall respectful) people. They tutored me as much as I them. They seemed to enjoy it greatly when I brought to class my rejection file and read differing examples of what it's like to not make it but to have tried in the writing arena.

At our final session they gave me a card with appreciative notes, such as:

• Thanks so much--you've gotten me started! This is my first journal and I've almost finished it now.
• You did a fantastic job with a rather challenging group!
• You have given me many interesting ideas.
  
• I've learned a lot and hope I can pursue my ambitions as a writer.

Rummaging through old files the other day I found the long-forgotten card. My students' wishes triggered a connection between the off-kilter feelings I suffered, seeing my weaknesses exposed, and the way the students managed to receive what they needed while boosting my spirit.

Perhaps character traits and situations exist there to be mined for a future story. We'll see.