6/18/2011

my rules

Step into my theological corner, if you will, but no worries if you don't wish to...

A while ago I blogged about being nudged, in a sense, to go to church with Tim at one of the places I would least have expected to attend regularly. St. John's (SJ, if you like) has been and continues to be quite an experience. The other place we attend most weeks to hear Bible teaching and socialize is Reformation Fellowship (or RF).

We're doing East and West. Sort of. I come to see myself "facing east" more and more. Yet I'm still interacting with our dear Protestant friends. And while I can't speak for anyone else, I'm recognizing a benefit to this shift in practice and thought: it's giving me a perspective on RF that I otherwise couldn't achieve.

I tried to. From the first day we attended RF, 11+ years ago, I recognized the need to be alert to every word spoken. This group gathers (assembles; churches) around a wonderful methodology for biblical exegesis and interpretation. Yet it is pretty much based on one man's ideas. A brilliant, brilliant man, yes. And a humble one, whom I have no reservation considering a believer in Jesus and the gospel. This man repeatedly reminds his listeners not to simply take his word for things, but to read the Bible and do the hard work of wrestling with texts and history for themselves.

I recognize any problems I've developed over the years at RF are my own; no one gets the blame but me. Though I love to think about and process the messages in the scriptures, and I've spent long hours reading them, I've gained a clearer picture while at RF of the ways I build my mental structures. I've wished I didn't. You know, always be objective and open to truth -- that's such a great goal. But I remain a human being. I make rules. And boy, those rules have shown up big time in the months I've spent tasting the ways of the SJ congregation.

At RF, people are exceedingly active. You just don't see them being so, because the work, the search for truth, is in the mind. Not that the emotions don't respond, not that you don't go home some weeks and need a long jog on your treadmill to unwind. It's not a lazy person's church.

I suppose any church can be a lazy experience, same as anything. Depends on what I bring to it. The value rests on my inner topography.

To SJ, I brought 11+ years worth of inner rules. They had formed in my thoughts from following the thoughts of the RF man who is brilliant and who stands against what at SJ they call heresy. The RF teachers all work hard to sort truth from error, the real from the false, and they do a good job, but they do build a structure, of the mind, to do it.

I've framed the experience at RF as becoming an accidental intellectual. It's how they lean.

Now, at SJ, I'm leaning toward the ascetic style. Uh, no, no, did I just say that? That's breaking a RF rule. At least in my mind, it is.

This morning I decided "traumatic" might describe what I'm going through. It fits the activity amongst the rules in my head. Not because anyone's bludgeoning me with new ideas; because I am considering new (i.e., foreign) ideas. I'm considering them because they may match quite well the contexts of many writings from the Bible. My mind has remained exceedingly active. I don't think I've left the path of searching for truth.

In fact, it's possible that my mind-work at RF has been a resting time, a pause that refreshed and invigorated me in my belief, but it may have been meant as a stepping stone to the fullness, perhaps, of engaging with the ancient church.

There remain a lot of ifs. I think about them constantly. For instance, if the spark of gospel truth remained with people 20 centuries ago and got handed down -- by means and via statements that contained peripheral flaws -- yet, by the work of the Spirit, in an organic fashion, throughout the ages in the messiness of existence and the humility of lowly folk, well. Then that would mean there is a real life in a real Church. If that is so, I kind of have to be there.

A few months ago, I both feared and dismissed SJ. Since then, I have waded through trauma in my mind, as I've considered changing my rules. But along the way, at each point of trembling, I have discovered joy. This SJ stuff, while foreign, continues upon reflection to fit with the RF stuff, while continuing to be given in a broader context, in a more humble manner than I have ever seen.

That is a rather powerful exchange rate for some of my rules.

6/06/2011

an unintended vehicle

Saturday morning I drove over Willamette Pass in my birthday present.
So, it was a rental. I used birthday money to rent it. The Enterprise car guy didn't have my one-up-from-compact size in stock and gave me a free upgrade.

At 8:00 we headed south. My music played, and Kimi in the back seat said she liked it. That's something an old gal loves to hear, even while navigating a road nearly dis-graded by winter's length and breadth. Not to be run down by pickups of insatiable power-lust, that was my prime directive. Steer in the clear around those curves, past the barriers. Catch glimpses of shining water, in Odell Lake, on faces of rock rising. Sense the solemness of trees.

Snow Zone signs abounded. Larger ones appeared regarding fines for unintended vehicles. At least, my eye first caught those words, and I grinned. Of course the signs actually warned against leaving unattended vehicles.

I drove an Escape I hadn't intended. The car and the trip matched my recent notions of life as an unexpected avenue. No safety guaranteed. But surprises. Those always approaching, just the other side of a bumpity curve.

6/02/2011

oh, susannah

James Taylor strums his guitar. Those dusty lyrics, he deals them across the nonsensical stereo still proud in our living room three decades after Tim bought tall, Radio Shack speakers. Quad sound.

Don't you cry for me...

Life is changing. Always it's true, but today I feel it. I don't come from Alabama, but I do love a banjo on someone's knee. And I still weep inside when a young family disintegrates.

Well, it rained all night, the day I left, the weather was bone dry...

So cold inside. Two funerals this past month. Now a divorce. The little children.

We fail. My promises unfurl like old cassettes -- the shiny brown tape within, we used to tighten it twirling a ball point pen, when the music got wavy.

Susannah, don't you go on and cry...

Tears hide like balled dust in my stomach. I hum. The swiped furniture looks better. Because I'm limited, I don't go to Louisiana. Perhaps I should have. Could have made a difference...?

Well, I had myself a dream the other night, when everything was still...

I ache for those who took the risk. I followed them online. Loving their image, I failed to know them. Because they shattered, I mouth the words, a ragged voice. Then whispering, a prayer.

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