Heaven Is A Place On Earth, Part 3

Somehow, remarkably, we all have the image of God but don’t.

Maybe there is some sort of ratio for how much of God’s image remains within us. Perhaps that “image” is only a resemblance as in a human family’s lineage, like the way I resemble my father; I retain features and characteristics while possessing my own unique drives and sociological imperatives

Interestingly, on page 71, Wittmer declares that the planet we currently reside upon will be “restored to its original goodness.” Does that mean that in the new Jerusalem there will be a reformation of earth to its pre-flood state, or will there be a complete transformation to a state that can withstand the presence of God himself that is altogether different from anything we have ever known?

Now then, we are created in God’s image; in the image of God are we created. The deep ramifications of this statement may never truly be understood. I am comfortable at this stage in my faith journey with the idea that the same God who sovereignly governs the heavens also chose to use as a proxy something that could simultaneously govern this planet and innately identify with it. Analogously (and imperfectly) it would serve only a utilitarian function (at best) to have a ruler govern a city but care nothing for the needs of the people. Likewise, said city would engage in hedonistic utilitarianism before dissolving into anarchistic nihilism if not for the intervention of responsible leadership (i.e., an outside source) capable of identifying with the people on a servant-level, loving them, reflecting greater ethical values that support the common good, and possessing the dominion (presence of nonviolent force; charisma) necessary to fulfil its political aims. To bring this back to our discussion, unfortunately, our present humanness struggles with all its might against the things that are best for it. We seem to naturally gravitate towards the things we should not do rather than do the things we are told to do (for our own good) but do not understand. As such, the “image of God” becomes all the more important to us as we endeavour to evolve as a species into a greater idyllic state, which for the Christian is one that, in addition to many other considerations, allows for an unbroken relationship with God on all levels. Since we cannot reflect an “ultimate goodness” in soma and are therefore incapable of fulfilling our vocation (to govern) on our own, it is necessary that we not only derive our values from a source outside of ourselves, but endeavour to reflect said source. We need God to give us order so that order may exist; we need God to govern our lives so that we may govern this planet. Our species, created though it may be, can best reflect the image of God by interacting with this present reality in the way that God originally intended.

Wittmer goes out of his way to remind us of our humble beginnings. We are “mud”. The connection he draws between humans and planet Earth is blatant; “...we are earthlings. We were made to live here. This world is our home.” In the greater context, he seems to be setting up a contrast between the biblical account of humanity’s creation and the Gnostic views of the secularized Evangelical Movement. Perhaps he intends to convey the intrinsic value and importance of maintaining biblical ethics regarding issues of global stewardship. We were never meant to “fly away”. Rather, we are meant to deal with real issues right before us in an effort to make this present generation of human beings look more like the image of God within them, and in so doing, transform this present world into something more resembling the Kingdom of Heaven. Though I am likely engaging in isogesis.

Practically, Wittmer states that our obligation one to another as image bearers of the living God is to “do everything in our power to protect the value and dignity of human life, from the cradle to the grave.” Such a worldview presents great exclusivity in a variety of fields including medicine and politics. Should we pursue stem cell research? Should we permit adult euthanasia as a form of elderly “death with dignity”? Should we permit capital punishment for multiple-offense murderers? Our ethical obligations to protecting the “value and dignity of human life” should cause us to greatly consider any actions before we take them.

Lastly, Wittmer lays out a three-point summary of who we are, why we are here and what we are intended to do: "First. . .God created us in his image so that we might enjoy personal fellowship with him. . .Second. . .so that we might enjoy fellowship with others. . .Third. . .so that we might enjoy right relationship with the rest of creation." And there it is. Only one question left: Where do we go from here?

Heaven Is A Place On Earth, Part 2

God is God and I am not. . .

Having declared that God necessarily exists, remains entirely perfect, is absolutely transcendent, created all things and is predisposed to loving said created things, Wittmer draws our attention to creation itself proclaiming in no uncertain terms that everything God created was and remains good. The last paragraph on page sixty-five is Wittmer’s thesis, complete with objective correlative. However, this is in diametric opposition to everything I have been taught about the “afterlife” and what I am living on earth for. Is earth a “training ground” for our heavenly “assignment”? What use is there in having “pearly gates” if they exist in front of an ethereal Disneyland? Why even have a heavenly vacation spot if the goal is to redeem our home? What is God waiting for?

So if creation is good, and material things are not intrinsically evil, then why does God curse the earth? What possible good is there in something cursed by God in the first-person?

Wittmer begins and ends the chapter with references to some of the more profane attempts at Christian marketing -- profane, not because the purveyors are capitalists, but because they are contributing to the gnostic-izing of the Western Church. In response to this, Wittmer writes on page sixty-seven, and a revelation occurs to me: “Our first responsibility is to find pleasure in our Father’s world.” And said pleasure is derived from our indwelling and groundedness within the material context of the created world, not apart from it. I am glad that someone with credentials in the field of Christian thought believes exactly as I do on the matter. My goal is not to deny myself all that is enjoyable on this planet for the sake of “sharing in Christ’s sufferings” but rather to look more like the picture painted in Genesis 3:8 where humans enjoy unbroken fellowship with God on all perceptible levels “in the cool of the day” when all other work is completed. I can simply marvel at the beauty of the things that God has given to humanity and remain content in the knowledge that it is all “very good” indeed.

Wittmer’s distinction between ethical and ontological (material) meanings of Scripture are refreshing. He calls to attention that our sins are at the root of our problem, and it is our sin that we should retreat from, not the material world. This gives Scripture consistency and prevents the reader from assuming that the Bible is contradictory. I am slowly evolving away from bibliolatry. . .

Heaven Is A Place On Earth, Part 1

There goes the evangelical movement. . .

I have been assigned a reading for Religion 201: Creation and the New Creation. It remains a fascinating class, though frightfully early in the morning. And in an effort to keep a fresh induction of theological blood pumping on this blog, I've decided to incorporate my thoughts concerning the book Heaven is a Place on Earth by Michael E Wittmer.

Wittmer begins this chapter with the assumption that God is the very image of perfection and is therefore “wholly other than” all else in existence. To do this, Wittmer employs Anslem’s theorem, which itself is a rational catch-twenty-two that is easily dismissed by rudimentary logic. To say that humans are capable of imagining a perfect “form” of anything is absurd (i.e., after the introduction of sin) and is Platonic in origin. If God truly is wholly other than me, and if the biblical account of the fall prerequisites that all humanity at present to be “fractured” or “lesser than”, then I shall be wholly incapable of conceiving even a shred of his perfect state. Even if I should I somehow become capable of imagining a perfect form of anything, then that thing I have imagined is no more real than anything else I can imagine. What in Scripture supports an absolutely perfect Creator? Anslem’s argument looks like this: I can imagine something perfect; The most perfect thing I can imagine is God; God therefore necessarily exists. If that were truly the case, then the following atheistic argument can be made: I can imagine something perfect; The most perfect thing I can imagine is cold fusion; Cold fusion therefore necessarily exists. Wittmer concedes the futility of the argument as a starting point for discussion, believing the most valuable attribute of Anslem’s theorem is how it opens our eyes to the vastness of God and the sorts of words we must use to revere God with. However, I am logically predisposed to gravitate towards the Judeo-Christian source of such claims about God. But denying the whole of Scripture, can reason or philosophy ever explain the existence (or lack thereof) of God? Or God’s divine attributes? If all I ever had of the Bible was the first three chapters of the book of Genesis, to what view of God would I rationally concede? It is clearly a matter of faith and nothing more. Such a bizarre way to begin a chapter.

Wittmer’s take on metaphysical dualism and his criticism of Western Christianity seem to be above reproach. His distinction is perfect: A chasm exists between us and God. Logically, in order to recover the image of God we have lost, we must make no quarter for sin. However, we all retain a proclivity toward all manner of sin as a result of the “fall”. Therefore, the need for a Savior was and remains necessary. The line we draw at this point hinges on how gnostic our beliefs have become. Do we surrender to the majesty of a being that is wholly other than us? Or do we utilize our own sin-management and behavioural modification systems in order to escape the tainted bonds of this disgustingly evil earth?

Taking into consideration God’s necessarily transcendent nature, I wonder what the point of all this theology must be? If we will never fully know nor understand God (in this life or the next, as we are still created things) then why bother now? What is our ultimate purpose on earth in 2009? And what of open theism? How transcendent is God?

Wittmer takes a decidedly gracious (and correct) approach to the nature of this chapter. To concede that no one will ever know all of the answers to all of the questions (short of transcendence) is not only philosophically consistent with modern and ancient rationale, but remains supported by Scripture (as Paul attests, that our dependence upon and justification to a necessarily existent God is by faith alone). I am left with one thought: A necessarily existent God, to whatever degree of perfection, must be biased towards caring for the beings said God created. The notion that it is God’s will that I continue (or cease) to be is humbling to say the least. The very fact of my existence proves to me that God exists and God is good.

I am very curious to see where this reading will take me on my journey to a achieving a well rounded theological foundation.

Grace, Part 2

I am a venomous bastard of ungrace.

There comes a point in everyone's life when they have no choice but to face the sickening, garish, schismatic, decaying image of themselves. It may come in a mirror. It may come in a conversation. It may come in a quiet moment of personal contemplation. But the day will come. And when it does, there are only two options: confront the image with truth and grace, or close your eyes and forget what you saw so plainly a few short moments ago. After all, how easy it is to miss what you aren't looking for.

My father was a "mean drunk." That says nothing to the beauty that I am convinced must have been at rest within him—tied up, ball-gagged and made to acquiesce, but present nonetheless, I am sure of it. And there were moments of immense surprise; Knott's Berry Farm, Disneyland, trips to the zoo, and the times that he administered my ear medication after my first surgery. "Mean drunk," however, was the image most visible to those who knew him best—or perhaps to those who saw him explode in a random Sacramento grocery store.

To his credit, I cannot personally remember a time when my father ever raised a finger with the intent to physically harm me. I can, however, remember the times when I wished he would have. At least then I would have been assuaged by the fact that he thought enough of me to want to abuse me. As it was, when I did not provide any amusement to him, I fell completely off his radar.

For the amusements, I can remember my father serving alcohol to me very early on and in a variety of situations, though little else of those moments. I can remember being terrorized by that damn green sea-monster mask he loved to wear and chase me around the room with. I can also remember my sister and I traveling with him to the houses of strange women and watching bizarre movies and eating Ritz crackers while the adults disappeared to destinations unknown.

For the abuses, I will suffice it all by saying that watching random household objects being used as weapons was a common occurrence. I can also vaguely remember a firearm being held to my mother's face as my father shouted something indiscernible and with great intensity. My sister often found herself in the middle of those situations, whereas I was on the outside looking in from a distance.

At least she knows he loves her.

I had never known what love really was up to that point, and for many years struggled with its meaning. But there was no struggling with the reality and definition of the blood-curdling, explosive, embittered, seemingly limitless rage that I lived with on a daily basis.

I was terrified of my father, though always desired to be close to him. But to be close was to experience the sting and discoloration that his anger would surely leave. It was a few short years into their marriage before my mother knew this truth to be irreversible. Despite all of the Christian advisors that told her to “stick it out” because “God hates divource,” she knew that it was only a matter of time before there would be no time left, and his violence would claim us all in its decent into nothingness. It was life and death, and the cost of staying would be our very lives.

In December of 1988, when I was nearly seven years old, my mother took my sister and I on a grand adventure; on a covert operation to escape the tyranny of a dictatorial state; we were refugees in search of a new land and new opportunities. She told us we were “going for a ride.” She didn’t say where. Through the next year, we lived like we were in witness protection. There were men of ill-repute sent to discover our location. It was shortly after the divource was finalized that our need for hiding was obsolete.

January 20th, 1990. I will never forget. That is when my life ended. I just didn’t know it yet.

In a drunken rage, my father left a bar with his then-girlfriend. Speeding and with great stupidity, the two began arguing. In the course of events that followed, my father was ejected forcefully from the vehicle. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. The car landed on him, crushing him instantly. It was my father’s father that decided to pull the plug. "No, he won't wake up. He's gone. He won't be coming back."

What does that mean? What does that mean?

I was emotionless. I had never been told how to react to news of this sort. Should I be sad? Should I be angry? Should I cry? My default reaction was the same it had been every time news of my father’s behavior reached my young ears: Stillness. If I remain still, I thought, then he won’t see me. And if he can’t see me, he can’t yell at me. And if he can’t yell at me, I'll be safe. I clearly misinterpreted the significance of the news I was given. And so, with tears in her eyes, my mother communicated all that I could not.

From that moment on, a deep bitterness and hatred of God overtook me. It was almost a night-and-day transformation. I was told to “shape up and fly right” by those who genuinely loved me. I was ignored by everyone else. I was sent to many counselors and therapists and psychoanalysts, though none proved of any use to me. I was inconsolable, and worse yet, I didn’t know how to tell anyone.

In my pride, I remember thinking, If only he had lived; I would have grown so big that I would have punched him out for all the things he did. Silly logic, to be sure. But the sentiment was as white-hot as the rage broiling within me. I told myself, I will never be like that rotten, venomous, son-of-a-bitch-bastard. With every once of inner fervor, I dedicated myself to the hatred of the man, and by proxy, of God.

God is dead. There’s no other excuse.

It was a divine irony that befell me thereafter. In my attempts at secular humanism, I came to resemble the vestige of my patriarchal chromosomes all the more. The more I looked into the mirror, the more I saw my father glaring back at me, and the more I had to lie to myself to avoid what was obvious to everyone else. Slowly I became wax, and my identity melted the hotter the rage became. I was, as Nietzsche put it, an Immoralist, in the truest sense. Yet it became an immorality that I could not escape; that left me feeling more chained than ever. None of the vices of this world ever filled the emptiness that fed upon itself like a wolf gnawing at its leg caught in a hunter’s trap. I was trapped. And there was no way out.

I remember consuming a bottle of Kettle One and some unknown amount of Johnny Walker. I was writing in my diary the following words:

I never fail to fail. . . I never fail to fail. . . I never fail to fail. . . I never fail to fail. . .

The words had barely been scrawled before I found myself drowning in the hopelessness that made its presence felt in my eyes. And as the moisture spilled, my thoughts drifted to the only thing I hadn’t tried to end the pain.

I remember gripping the knife so tightly that it dug grooves into my strong hand. And as the blade passed through the layers of dermis, a feeling just as white-hot as my sorrow overtook my wrist. Then all became dizzy and dark.

Finally. Nothingness.

So it was with great soberness and vehemence that I awoke the next morning. I failed at failure. Divine irony. Bastards. I can’t even die right.

It was very shortly thereafter that I received a call from my mother. Desperately, she asked if I would go to church with her. Finally, and with great trembling, my pride had melted away with the wax of my arrogance and I accepted her offer. It was there that I found hope. It was there that I found healing. It was there that I understood for the first time what my mother had shown me all along.

It was in a church that I encountered GRACE.

It was then I knew in the depths of my soul that GOD loved me; that JESUS CHRIST was as close to me then as He was infinite in dimension. It was at church I discovered that God had never abandoned me; that a God who would allow Himself to suffer and die was a God who understood anything that I had gone through. It was then I knew that no matter what my propensity for sin was, God’s readiness to forgive was surpassingly greater. It was then I knew that the cost of discipleship would be my very life, but it would be an undeserved method of payment; an unequivalent exchange; my filthy rags in exchange for God’s glorious riches; my fractured, violated, depraved, mangled, numb, nocuous, mutilated, impeachable heart, in exchange for the eternal NESHAMAH of RUACH ELOHIM. I was given a new life empowered and sustained by God’s very Spirit. And I now serve God with the unrestricted fullness of the heart He has given to me.

So then, I guess one could say that, as children of God, we are all ambassadors of GRACE to a world Philip Yancey aptly defines as trapped within endless cycles UNGRACE. And it is within this context that I will attempt to articulate and give shape to the inarticulable, all-surpassing nature of GOD’S GRACE:

GOD will never stop loving us. GOD will never leave us or forsake us. God desires to make us whole, complete.

These truths epitomize the whole of the scriptures. More than that, God knows that we are all, at the very core of natures, unrepentant venomous bastards of ungrace. And He doesn’t care. He loved us so much that He performed the physically impossible in order to satisfy His need for both justice and relationship with us. Jesus was more than a scapegoat for a pitiable, violent breed of superapes; He was and remains the very expression of God’s unfathomable love for us.

So then, how does one broach the subject of living within the grace of God? What precisely does grace afford us? How do we live our lives propelled by grace yet compelled by righteousness? What role does grace have in our personal sanctification? Maybe I’ll come to a conclusion or two before I celebrate my thirtieth birthday. Here’s hoping. ome to a conclusion or two before I celebrate my thirtieth birthday. Here’s hoping.

Wrath Of God

Something interesting occurred during meditation.

I've often read about God's wrath. I've heard sermons about our God as a "righteous judge" who is solely fit to "separate the sheep from the goats." I've heard that God can be viewed as a "New Testament God" or an "Old Testament God." I've heard that in the past God was vengeful; nowadays He's a lot more easy-going.

God's grace affords us many benefits. We can sin all we want right up to our deathbed, and it will all be forgiven if we say a little prayer of repentance. If this were so, then what's the point in living righteously, denying ourselves of our baser lusts? We can be forgiven. After all, "God's grace is sufficient," isn't it?

Without becoming polemic, Paul's words in Romans certainly apply: "What then are we to say? Should we continue in sin in order that grace may abound? By no means! How can we who died to sin go on living in it?" Does this mean that I should live in fear of GOD ALMIGHTY? How can I love God and still fear his wrath? How can God, who is love, still operate in old-school vengeance-giving?

My studies in Amos have lead me to the conclusion that God loves justice. Without going into much detail, it suffices that God's wrath is levied upon the unjust and the unrighteous. It seems almost like a punishment for ill behavior, much as a parent would discipline their children for neglecting to follow accepted codes of civil conduct. And for the crimes against humanity committed in the book of Amos, God would need to impose equally detrimental retribution to atone for the iniquities of an entire people group.

And what of modern examples of this behavior? Did God enact his justice on the likes of Cambodia's Pol Pot? And what of USSR's Joseph Stalin? Germany's Adolf Hitler? Will God intervene in the Burmese junta? Or Uganda's Lord's Resistance Army? There seems to be more present examples of injustice in the world than there are of harmonious societal bliss.

I think the key to understanding God's wrath lies in this statement: Human depravity hurts God. If I view my proximity to God in terms of relationship, it changes everything. God is no longer of the deist construct. God is everywhere and fills everything with His presence. God desires us to love Him as He first loved us. God desires to restore what has been ravaged and mend what has been broken. Thus, it makes sense that the decisions we as a species make to turn against what God intended for us to be is not only a breech of trust but a painful thrust into the very heart of God.

Imagine raising a child to know all of your love and good intentions for their future. You take great delight in the various stages of their development, and, painful though they may be, it's worth it because you know that in the end the many "blessings" you've afforded them will pass from them to their children and their children's children. You are effectively leaving a legacy of holistic wellness that may last for a thousand generations. Your great patience will have paid off. But what if, after all that you went through to raise your child, they decided to fall away from you? You no longer hear from them. Then much later, you see and hear about all of the horrible things they are doing, but have no influence in their lives to keep them from harming themselves and others. And what if you found out that your child was convicted of murder? Rape? Molestaton? Unspeakable acts of grotesque detail? Though your initial love for them may have never wained, a new feeling grips your heart with an unrelenting ferocity. Perhaps you regret ever having children. Perhaps you decide to disown them. Perhaps you feel compelled to make restitutions for the wrongs your child has committed. Whatever the case, you certainly must come to terms with the feeling that has now crept into your heart and commands your acquiesence:

Inconsolable grief.

There may be no other appropriate response. Watching something that was so cherished become so depraved. Spirit rending grief.

So then, if God is our originator, and if God loves us unconditionally, and if God is just, then God's wrath can be understood in this way. God gives us rules to follow, but reminds us that the most important thing we can do is to love God and love one another as we ourselves are loved by Him. And when something then happens to veer away from the original intent, restitution must be made. And if that veering is committed by an entire people group, then a "cup" of God's wrath begins to fill. And I contend that the cup is not merely filled with innocent blood that has been shed; rather, it is filled with God's tears that God Himself sheds over the damage He contributed to by creating us the way He did in the first place. God knew the unspeakable evils human beings would perpetuate, but it was the only way He could know our unrestricted love. Therefore, when God's cup has been filled and He can shed no more tears—when a people group has become entirely unjust and unrighteous, and the knowledge of God's kingdom has been lost from the people—God then intervenes, and His wrath is often instituted by other people groups. It can be said, then, that the wrath of God is the greatest expression of God's compassion for His children. It means that He not only feels what we feel, but does so all the more deeply, as He is ultimately responsible for judging us for all that we do.

So how do we live in light of this? Is God's wrath merely a past-tense curiosity? Or are there far-reaching effects that we cannot even see? How does the wrath of God apply to me on an individual level? What is my responsibility in intervening in the affairs of the corrupt among us? If you know, please leave a comment so I can get some rest tonight.

Torah, Part 1

It's easier to write a Part 1 than a Part 2. I must be an evangelist.

Last night I went to Temple Beth Or to experience a Friday Family service. I was amazed at what I witnessed and participated in.

I had been exposed to Hebrew tradition as a younger man in the form of Messianic Hebrew expressions of worship, which involved reading from the Torah, speaking in Hebrew, and other seemingly strange practices related to the "structure" of worship. But last night everything was different.

During the course of studying the Psalms in Religion 103 I have come to appreciate the Old Testament in a fresh way, particularly pertaining to the Torah. At first read-through, the Pentateuch is a dizzying array of covenantal law in which God's will for His people is expressed in exacting detail. Such a God of rule-following was never appealing to me as a younger man. I suppose such is the case for many teenage Americans. No one wants to follow rules in the United States unless it benefits them to do so. And therein lies the nugget of great "blessing" so often missed in my New Testament studies.

Blessing is often associated with action. I do something, then I am blessed. Perhaps there are those among us who have had a million dollars dropped into their laps while sitting on the couch eating Doritos; or maybe others have done nothing to deserve the loving kindness expressed to them by a complete stranger. Nevertheless, the Torah makes a clear point that blessings are something to be desired in one's life, and they often come as the result of putting one's faith into action.

So what does it mean to live a "blessed life?" What is "blessing" after all? In a later post I will wrestle with that very topic, but for now I will focus on its existence as pertaining to the Torah.

It seems that God's very presence was felt in the midst of His community as a result of His people's adherence to rule-following. Deuteronomy chapter 6 issues the Shema, which states: "Hear, O Israel! The LORD is our God, The LORD is One! You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might" (Deut. 6:4-5, NRSV). The verse before this states: "O Israel, you should listen and be careful to do it, that it may be well with you and that you may multiply greatly, just as the LORD, the God of your fathers, has promised you, in a land flowing with milk and honey" (Deut. 6:3, NRSV). The idea here seems to be that if I make God my priority with a single-minded adherence to following His guidelines for my life, then God's very presence will be with me causing me to receive many blessings including an increase in children and an abundance of basic living essentials as well as non-necessities. Rule-following has its benefits. But God didn't want autonomous rule-followers. The Shema itself is explicit; God wanted people to love Him. And the natural outcome of a loving relationship should be holistic well-being.

God's law was then to be spoken of everyday. The "rules" were to be physically placed throughout society in architecture and in oral tradition. The Torah was revered as something more than a well-written historical document; it was the expressed will of God for humankind. It was a way for God to provide a loving "canopy" of protection around a people living in the midst of a hostile reality. Following the Mitzvot was the natural response of someone who understood and embraced this kind of love in creation.

So how does this all relate to Temple Beth Or? Simple. We were all given a booklet to follow, which was a blessing itself. The men were given yamikas, as well as some of the young girls who wanted to wear them. This was a Reformed Jewish temple, so the allowances for gender equality were well accommodated.

As the service progressed, we were quickly in the midst of ancient ceremony. We would rise for many things and sit for explanation to the gentiles and exposition of scripture. Of particular note, in the midst of all the spoken Hebrew prayers, the Scrolls were revealed and marched about the room for all to see. In a gesture of respect, we all faced the Torah as it moved about the room, never allowing our backs to be turned to it. We were told of a prayer in which everyone must face west as it was being recited. The sacredness of the Scrolls took on a completely new meaning for me. The way that scripture was revered was something that cut my heart asunder; O, how I take God's word for granted! If I were to lose my Bible, I could just go to the store and buy another one. For the Jew, it is an event to read from the scriptures. Such devotion stands as an example to me of the love that exists in the heart of those who follow Torah.

As I was reading the booklet that I was handed which detailed the service (and translated the Hebrew into English) I was amazed at how often God's love was mentioned. I was inspired by how often God's love was referenced to "creation." I was amazed at how God's presently-creating power was called upon to heal the sick in the community. I was amazed at how every aspect of creation—from multi-celled organism to sub-atomic particle; even to the vastness of space and the things beyond our comprehension—were revered as the result of God's love in creation. Such a broad scope of the love of God cannot be contained; yet it was appropriately recognized all throughout the service.

So what of this "blessing" then? How does this fit in? Well, blessings were offered to God, and it was expected that blessings would be received naturally by us as we worshiped God through ceremony. God's "canopy" of Torah is something that exists whether we are awakened to it or not. However, to those who have been awakened, much in the way of blessing becomes available to them. Does this mean it's appropriate to seek the blessing for its own sake? Certainly not. We are not commanded to love the blessing, but to love God.

So then, the proposition seems to fit, in that as we pursue God with our love, we become awakened to His presence in our lives, and participate in this exchange of blessings that are designed for our benefit, from our loving Creator to us, such that we do not deserve, but such that He willingly bestows upon us. Such is the nature of Torah.

Eucharist

Today marks the first time I have been asked to participate in the Eucharist during chapel at Trinity Lutheran College. The invitation occurred six minutes before the service began. I had never been involved with handling the sacrament for a Lutheran Eucharist before. I expected there to be some prompting or direction, but. . .

I seemed to have taken to the responsibility rather well. I instinctively knew what I was doing. And as I was holding the chalices of wine and juice, reciting the words, I came to a wonderfully serendipitous discovery:

"Blood of Christ shed for you. Blood of Christ shed for you. Blood of Christ shed for you. . ."

The act of ministering in this way somehow personalized the moment for me in a way that was truly profound. The repetition of both people and speech allowed me to focus on the actions taken by Jesus of Nazareth on the night He was betrayed, as well as the significance of what was achieved on the cross. That mantra allowed me a window into a mystical moment wherein the death of Christ was personally my own. The significance of this event has waned as time has passed, but the moment itself remains untouched by the ills of memory; it shall stand as a time of centering and reorientation in which I came to feel the expressed will of God for my life in that moment. Truly profound.

Table Talk, Part 1

Beatitudes. . . Interesting. . . .

I've been pondering for some time now the significance of a discussion that occurred at lunch time two days ago. Prof. Elness Hanson has been hosting a series of "table discussions" wherein all are welcomed to participate in and bring a voice to various topics of religious significance. Wednesday's discussion was hosted by Dr. Grigsby and moderated by Prof. Elness Hanson. The topic was the Beatitudes, and the impression that was left on me was of particular significance.

I have always been the sort to require a philosophical understanding of a thing before I can accept its practical application; it's no use to employ a quadratic equation until I can grasp what it means to employ its use. Another way of saying that would be that it's no use describing the mechanics of a vacuum until I can understand its nature and why it exists in the first place. Theory before application.

So what do the Beatitudes mean? What is their purpose? Why would Jesus choose to speak these words? I cannot simply accept God's many blessings until I can understand why I am being blessed in the first place. And I certainly cannot employ the blessing's use if I don't understand its intended function, nor if I cannot reconcile the fact that I certainly do not deserve it. But finally, after some great while, I have been given an open window into the fundamental concepts that Jesus (according to the implied author of the Gospel according to Matthew) was trying to communicate.

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." These are Jesus' reported first words in his famous "Sermon on the Mount" as recorded by the author of the Gospel according to Matthew. Without detailing a complete exegesis on the passage, I'll focus on the point that Dr. Grigsby made concerning that interesting phrase, "poor in spirit."

Both Matthew and Luke Gospel accounts use the word "poor" when describing those who are blessed by God. It is the same Koine Greek word, "ptochos," which communicates the same concept that "beggar" does in American English, but with the added socio-political quality that is of one who pertains or belongs to a mendicant social hierarchy (Strong, James. "New Strong's Exhaustive Concordance." Nashville, Tennasse: Thomas Nelson, Inc., 1996. Greek Dictionary, 78). Vine's adds the connotation "metephorically," suggesting that the Greek word, as it is used in context (Matthew 5:3; Luke 6:20), is not necessarily to be taken literally (Vine, W.E. "Vine's Concise Dictionary of the Bible." Nashville, Tennessee: Thomas Nelson, Inc, 2005. 282).

Dr. Grigsby suggested a number of possibilities; none of which I can entirely recall, and all of which I desperately wish to. Nonetheless, I do recall Dr. Grigsby presenting the idea that if the Biblical passage were to pertain only to those who were financially destitute or socially marginalized, there would be no "blessing" for anyone else.

Does this mean that Jesus wanted us to live our lives bereft of financial security? Cast aside by every wind of political upheaval? Eschewing any political and social voice in our communities? Certainly not, as verified by the whole of the Gospels. In my studies, I have found that God does not promise that we all will become financially wealthy Christ-followers. But Jesus' had a tendency to address issues of the human heart at the very core of human existence. It is not wealth that God takes issue with; it is the heart behind the wealth that makes all the difference. So then, were Jesus' words meant to direct us into an impoverished lifestyle in order to please God and receive His blessing? Certainly not; that conclusion is far to exclusive. However, that is an overwhelming conclusion one may come to if the Gospel according to Luke were to be taken literally.

So then, what was Matthew trying to communicate to his original audience? It seems that a more inclusive language was necessary to persuade not just those who were ptochos to begin with. Matthew included this concept of being poor in a more holistic way. One could then be financially affluent and politically influential while remaining entirely bereft of God's blessing. If one was not "poor in spirit" one then could not ever truly take hold of the "kingdom of heaven."

Again, Dr. Grigsby made an insightful suggestion; Psalm 51:17; "The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and a contrite heart, O God, you will not despise." The Hebrew word for "broken" is "shabar" meaning, "to burst (lit. or fig.):— break (down, off, in pieces, up). . ." (Strong, Hebrew Dictionary, 136). Another English term one could employ would be "shattered" or "fragmented."

What Dr. Grigsby suggests is that Jesus' words were not simply meant as a literal interpretation of those among us who are "poor." Rather, Jesus' words were decidedly inclusive and extended to anyone belonging to any socio-political hierarchy. Jesus was certainly not referring to the kingdom of heaven as another earthly possession to be accumulated, but a reward for those who endeavored to empty themselves of their own arrogant self-importance and accept by faith that what Jesus said was fundamentally irrefutable truth.

It is my initial conclusion that Jesus was issuing a call to anyone who would listen to participate in something altogether beyond our comprehension: Jesus was communicating to us that the new reign of God on earth—the participation of God in our lives and in our midst; making his "dwelling place" within and throughout us—has come, and those who remain "fractured" of their pride and self-entitlement will take hold of this "blessing." This all leads into a very missiologically minded series of "blessings" which I will attempt to address in a later posting. But for now, it remains enough for me to have come this far in my initial understanding of this well-worn scripture.

So then why the discrepancy between Gospel accounts? What of the issue of faith? How is one truly "blessed" by God when they are "fractured?" When does the fracture itself become a "stumbling block?" These are the things that keep me up this late at night. Perhaps tomorrow I may find an answer. Until then. . . goodnight, God bless, and be sure to tip your theologeon.

A Personal Psalm

A confession: I do not understand enough about the varying classifications of the Psalms to identify in which category this belongs. However, I was assigned authorship of a "Personal Psalm" in my Religion 103 class and would best describe it as one of "new orientation" wherein I personally move from a place of disorientation to a pursuit of God's Torah.

So without further ado, here it is.

A Psalm of Anthony J. Morrow to the LORD Almighty.

The city of Everett belongs to the LORD
and all who live within city limits;
Though there are murderers and drug addicts,
prostitutes and homosexuals,
and those who disregard YOUR existence;
all have been called YOUR children.
So then, who are we accountable to?
Who is able to judge?
Who among us can say they’re “perfect” already?
For all have fallen short of YOUR BLUEPRINT,
every last one of us needs YOUR grace;
YOU alone made that which exists
because YOU are EXISTENCE.
Why then should I refuse to get my hands dirty?
Why then should I fear reaching out to the lonely?
The sick? The hungry? The violent?
The merciless? The ostracized? The embittered?
After all, YOUR BLUEPRINT builds a new kind of community;
one that includes all people
from all walks of life.
YOU even gave us YOUR Spirit,
so we could be empowered
to build from YOUR BLUEPRINT
a mighty house of inclusivity,
that could never exist in the richest neighborhoods;
For YOU exist in the midst of the marginalized and the profane
just as much as the wealthy and the wasteful;
YOU are close to those who are furthest from YOU
because they need YOUR touch the most.
YOU desire that all who are lost would turn to YOU,
being united in love and community;
and those who are led by YOUR Spirit
will find themselves in their midst;
so that all will know of the abundant hope,
the free gift of grace and peace,
that awaits those who freely choose YOUR embrace,
give up on selling out
and follow YOUR BLUEPRINT.

I will not comment further, except to say that this was an excellent exercise in self-examination and furthering to grasp the core tenets of my faith-life. It was a privilege to bring a poetic voice to my theological wrestlings.

Grace, Part 1

Since life is a journey, it seems fair that I report on it in "parts."

So. . . Grace. . . yeah. . .

Near the beginning of this year I made God an interesting proposal. I struggled (and in some cases, still do) with many doubts concerning the core tenets of my faith. One of these areas was God's grace and what it meant for myself, personally, as well as the world as a whole. So I asked God to grow me in that area toward maturity. Boy, what a thing to proposition God about. . .

I lack the clarity to go into much detail at present, but I wanted to record some of the highlights for further exposition after much meditation.

Firstly, I did not realize how performance-driven I was in my relationship with God. I was, in essence, endeavoring to earn God's love and acceptance by doing acts of service; by setting unreachable expectations for myself and then beating myself up for not reaching them. "I can do better." "I'm better than this." "Give me another chance to prove it to You."

The argument looks something like this: If I can win God's favor, then He will love me. To do this, I must endeavor to become like the thing I desire. The thing I desire is infinite by nature. I, however, am finite by nature. Therefore, I must somehow move beyond my own finite-ness in order to achieve my objective. So then, if I can set, pursue and achieve the impossible, then I will be reconciled to God and will have earned His favor.

Rationally, one must presume that I suffer from an obsessive compulsive disorder manifesting itself in perfectionism wherein my entire sense of self-value and validation arise from what I can do for God, as if He was terribly wrought with some previously unknown shortcoming. A logical fallacy, to be sure, but what a terribly self-defeating thing for the patient (myself)! It would be bad enough if this were in response to another individual's continued (albeit co-dependent) involvement in my life; but within the context of an infinite super-being? How would one ever cope with the continued failure to measure up to that impossible standard?. . .surprisingly well; but it's the result of grace and not my works that I live to ponder these matters.

Grace seems to be less concerned with performativity and more concerned with relationship. It's easy to imagine a God who is so transcendent that He demands our capitulation in whatever He wills. It's exceedingly difficult for me to imagine a God who is so transcendent (beyond my limited grasp) that He will never stop loving me, no matter what I do. This seems so wrong. What kind of infinite being could love someone, even if they turn their back on Him?

I've heard the sermons on the prodigal son more times than I can remember. I've even preached it myself. But it was never so real to me until recently, as God opened my mind to accept the notion of what grace truly affords us. To have a God love us jealously; to have Him never stop pursuing us with His love and grace; how can I have missed it for so long?

Here's the problem inherent in the argument, and it's not in the unreasonable expectations nor the misunderstanding of validation and acceptance:

I want control.

That's it. Control says that I can make myself look like God. Truth says that there's nothing I can ever do to look like God. Grace says that God loves me so much that He's committed to transforming me so that I can then begin to look like Him. Grace says that God looks down upon my pitiable state with a kindness and compassion that I certainly do not deserve, all the while working through my many failures to draw me closer to Him. And as if that weren't enough, there are innumerable bi-products of this undeserved proximity including peace, holistic wellness, freedom from former "atonement" methods, and the indwelling Spirit of God who never stops breathing His life into me, the effects of which I cannot fully form into a coherent articulation. God's love just is. I don't deserve it; but He gives it to me anyway. All I have to do is take it, trusting that when I fail (and I will fail) His love won't stop beckoning me back to Him.

In the next post, I will go into further detail about what life is like without God's presence. But the gist is simply this: It sucks. Don't recommend it. Stay tuned.

The Language Of God, Part 1

I hate when books sit there for months unread.

So I decided to do something about it. I picked up Francis S. Collins' book The Language of God and began reading through the introduction. I found his statements both alarming and exhilarating.

Collins would say that his own upbringing was not entirely bereft of the knowledge of some form of formal deity, but that he was discouraged from participating in any practices associated with the worship of, or relationship with, said discouraged deity--save for singing in the local Episcopal church's choir, but only for the music lesson it accompanied.

Collins entered college at age 16 and pursued chemistry. After completing his degree, he pursued physical chemistry at Yale. Two years into his Ph.D., he left and pursued medicine at the University of North Carolina. His driving passions were the "mathematical elegance" of physics and its direct application to helping people in the realm of biochemistry. These goals seemed in line with his adopted atheistic viewpoint.

But it was at the bedside of a dying woman that Collin's life would be forever changed. He was a practicing atheist, sure. But she was a devout southern Christ-follower. The way in which she embraced her fate haunted Collins in a way that mirrored his feelings toward the question she left him with:

"What do you believe?"

He choked. All that knowledge he attained could have developed a perfectly rational response to her innocent question. And he choked. He didn't know. And so he began his search to find an answer to that very question.

In a remarkable turn of events, thus far into my reading, it seems as though it was not a profoundly emotional experience that lead him to turn from atheist into a believer in a benevolent God. Rather, it was a purely logical one. And Collins' studies were not limited to the Christian understanding of God as Christ, but to all world religions. He was drowning in a sea of questions that, to him, were monumental; and, self-assuredly, he felt as though he were the first human being in all of history to ask such questions. But in an ironical turn of events, it took the posthumous mentoring of a once and recanted atheist—celebrated author and Oxford professor C. S. Lewis—to bring logical harmony to Collins' scientific, reductionist mind.

I have found in my personal spiritual journey a remarkable thing: I had once relied solely on my experiences with God and my "personal relationship" with Him as my only touchstone for truth, a sense of growth and development, and a feeling of purpose in an otherwise chaotic existence. My story is quite the opposite of Collins, but not quite to the degree that I'd consider myself sojourning from "saved" to confirmed atheist. I am merely arriving at the same questioning landmarks that Collins found himself in. And interestingly, as my path converges with his, I find that my journey is one of an intellectual reconciliation between personal truth and universal absolutes where my only docents left pieces of the map scattered throughout time and place.

As for my prayer life with the Christian God or "Jesus" or "Christ" or whatever you will. . . I am woefully aware of my wretchedness. It seems that I have fallen into a logical fallacy; I know from experience that I ought to simply receive God's grace, as it is a free gift that affords humanity many benefits; I also do not wish to abuse such a rare and precious gift; yet I am in constant need of said gift; and I continue to behave in ways that are antithetical to my aim, that is, to live a life worthy of the good news of Jesus Christ. And there are still these questions. . . Am I really hearing from God? Were all of my experiences conjured by some deep longing within me that craves meaning and acceptance? Are those miraculous experiences easily downplayed and explained by the scientific method? And what sort of response can I give to a God whom I still love more than life itself? To use a metaphor, is it enough to mumble through the words hoping to learn the melody?

I don't know. At this point, I am firmly aware of two things: Yahweh is love. And love hurts. The hope, one must assume, lies in the belief that God is not harmed by questions, as He already possesses all the answers. At present, I guess I'm just a confused little kid wanting his Dad to help sift through the sandbox with him.

Bruggemann

This week I have learned some interesting things in class.

In Brueggmann's booklet Spirituality of the Psalms, he lays out a wonderfully simple construct for the Psalter consisting of three parts: 1) Psalms of Orientation; 2) Psalms of Disorientation; and 3) Psalms of New Orientation. He goes on to say that this model is not always linear and perhaps remains chronologically consistent and cyclical throughout one's life, but that it stands as a mode to describe our relationship with God to which creation itself will testify.

Though allusions can and have been made to Messianic prophecy and the life of Jesus of Nazareth throughout the Psalms, Bruggemann offers a wonderful interpretation based upon uniquely ancient Hebrew tradition. This is epitomized in his proposition:

"Much Christian piety and spirituality is romantic and unreal in its positiveness. As children of the Enlightenment, we have censored and selected around the voice of darkness and disorientation, seeking to go from strength to strength, from victory to victory. But such a way not only ignores the Psalms; it is a lie in terms of our experience (Preface, xii)."

This proposition is shocking to me for at least two reasons. First, it stands firmly in my mind as verification of the present activity of the Spirit of God in my life up to this point. But perhaps more importantly, secondly, Bruggemann's interpretation calls us to acknowledge the parts of life that Westerners spend a great deal of time and money trying to forget.

What does this mean? To face a life of near-cyclical reorienting? What paradoxes does this present the Christ follower who's only understanding of God is that He exists to please our needs and quiet our fears? What if some should fall away on account of this proposition?

Without writing volumes, I can say that my experiences seem to lend themselves to the notion that God is more pleased with me when I venture forth into the dangerous, perhaps violent, and certainly uncomfortable breech of uncertainty. It is there that I seem to find God's pleasure; where His will and desires for my life are fulfilled (or in the process of being) as He continually transforms me from the "inside-out."

There is much in the way of Biblical interpretation that stands to verify this point of view, but I will not focus on that aspect of the argument nor waste precious word-processor space recounting it. It seems like a very Western-Enlightenment-systematic-theology thing to do to provide 35 points of reason to back up such claims. But there is a Voice that cries out to us often in spite of reason that can only be heard when all else is stripped away; when all else is silenced; when we are in a place of primal fear and foreboding; when the bottom has fallen out; when we've broken through the ice; and when we refuse to let our circumstances dominate us, instead choosing to take the authority we've been given and allow God to dominate the situation.

There is a Voice in our experience. There is a Voice in our relationships. There is a Voice in our greatest tragedies. And that Voice is closest to us in the midst of those tragedies, and closest felt when we turn to It.

I have lived through some terrible experiences. These experiences have happened apart from and in the midst of my relationship with God. But it is only through the understanding of my proximity to God as a "relationship" can any of the heartache make sense.

There is a constant longing in the heart of God to be with His people. We are told that God is "jealous" in His love for us. We are told that God has a "hope and a future" for us and that it includes our "holistic well being." We are told that His "loving kindness leads us to repentance." We are told that Jesus didn't come "into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through Him." We are told that God is constantly building up a cup-full-of-wrath, but that He stays His anger to those who turn to him. God says, "You will be My people, and I will be your God," and, ". . .you will call me 'My Husband' and no longer will you call me 'My Baal.'" We are even commanded to "Love the LORD your God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength," and to "love your neighbor as yourself."

God is all about love. This is what Christianity in modernity affords us. Yet I sometimes experience greatest love in the context of personal sacrifice and humiliation. We can never experience true growth without pain; but it is possible to experience pain without growth. My "orientation" seems to be under assault.

Some old sayings come to mind; "It's always calmest before the storm," and, "It's always darkest before the dawn." I wonder if nature itself testifies to the model Bruggemann presents, and I wonder if it is impossible for humanity to appreciate the vastness and richness of God's love unless there existed a seemingly equal and opposing void that forced us into the embittered uncomfortableness of the paradox that is our relationship with God.

It seems to break God's heart when I choose things that hurt others; even when the only one I hurt is myself. Sin is no longer "as defined by law" some terrible consequence for a crappy rule-follower. It is the result of my turning away from God's desire for my life. And it is fascinating to think that this causes God pain. And when viewed in the context of a relationship, this makes perfect sense.

My desire, then, is not to avoid breaking rules for their own sake; rather, my desire is to love God so much that the thought of causing Him pain repulses me from the desire to "sin." And this is okay because we know that in the end, God desires us to be well in a holistic sense.

Does this paint our God with wimpy colors? What kind of victorious God could possibly be hurt by betrayal? Wouldn't God be beyond such a human and emotionally base experience?

Well, no. And that's okay.

It seems to endear us to our loving God rather than repel us from Him. God is intimately in tune with human experience due to the fact that on some nearly imperceptible level He experiences some of the same things we do.

Peterson refers to the life of Jesus of Nazareth in this way; "He was looked down on and passed over, a man who suffered, who knew pain firsthand. One look at him and people turned away. We looked down on him, thought he was scum" (Isaiah 53:3. Peterson, Eugene. "THE MESSAGE: The Bible in Contemporary Language. NavPress Publishing Group, 2002.) Jesus Himself, being the expressed image of God, being fully God and fully human, experienced life in the same way we did, immersed in it, though not conformed by it.

I can only imagine what Jesus felt as He screamed from the cross, "Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?" that is, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" (Matthew 27:46, NRSV). Jesus experienced the most extreme form of disorientation, and that seems to bring us great comfort because we are a species that continually struggles with realities of life and death, forgetting just how amazing our God really is and how deep is the reciprocity of identification between One and the other.

So to the original point, with no further ado. It seems to me that by embracing the disorientation of humanity and allowing our loving God to propel us into dangerous, painful territory, knowing that He desires our ultimate benefit, using our former tragedies as touchstones for His loving kindness, and that the mature faith is rooted in this equivalent exchange of trust and goodness, it seems entirely plausible that Yahweh would have us face our greatest fears and accept our every "orientation" as a sign of His closeness and activity in our lives.

Beauty From A Beast

So much has been transpiring, and yet, as with many aspects of my life, I have neglected to journal them so as to have a record of my life for the times that memory fails me—which is an unfortunately frequent occurrence.

I have been struggling in a number of ways.  One of which is my own self-perception.  I have always seen myself as the “Beast” to someone else’s “Beauty,” never deserving of that last transformation from beast to prince.  This has caused a great sum of pain over the years.  Yet I believe that God has been working to change all of that in the last two months.

I was recently cast in a musical stageplay by Stephen Sondheim called Into The Woods.  This was significant for many reasons, some of which I’ll detail.

My previous acting experience as Owen Musser in The Foreigner, though officially lauded, left me emotionally drained.  I was and am grateful for the precious gift of working with Director Bob Henry, under whose guidance I learned a great deal about the precious gift of acting and interacting with creative professionals.  However, once the show came to a close, I decided not to perform again, instead pursuing whatever God would place before me as my vocation.

One year later, I was told the following: “Yeah, they’re having auditions for the school play in a couple of hours.  You should think about auditioning.”  Right.  I won’t even bother describing how many things were technically wrong with that invitation.  I will suffice it to say that I feared that even if I were able to scrape together an audition from my repertoire, I would be unable to rise to the occasion.  But God had something altogether different in mind.

I happened upon a chance encounter with TLC’s Playfest overseer.  She keenly assessed my reluctance to participate and extended an invitation nonetheless.  I told her that I had never performed in a musical before.  She responded with grace and a warning that it was not for the faint of heart, but that I must audition nonetheless.

So I did.

I still don’t know why I did.  My experience as an acting major at Cornish and my many acting experiences since then represented a life that I had spent considerable time trying to escape.  And yet this time, from her in particular, I felt something nearly spiritual beckoning me to return to a once hallowed ground—a foundation that no matter how hard I tried I could not raze.

Having moments to prepare, I chose one of Buzz Hauser’s monologues from Love! Valor! Compassion! and the song “Free” from A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum.  I remember waiting outside the audition space for my name to be called thinking, “Whatever else happens, just be honest.”  I decided to, if nothing else, practice the presence of God by allowing each continuing moment to be led by God's desire for me rather than my desire to succeed.  Then my name was called.

I said to the director that I had not prepared in any way, that my voice had not been warmed up, that my technique had been rusted from non-use. . .blah blah blah.  And with that, I was instructed to proceed.  I was amazed at what happened next.

It didn’t suck.  At least, not completely.  Of course, when I attempted the F# it was outside my capability and resembled something like what I imagine the sound of a badger with a sore throat in a slow blender would be.

After the bits were done, I was given a new bit for an improvised sketch and told to work on something for five minutes, after which I would perform it for the tribunal.

Great.

So I went outside, and as I did, the funniest thing happened: words and technique flowed into me as if from somewhere else entirely.  Jokes, double entendre, rhetoric, satire, melody, dialects, gesticulations. . .they came rushing back.  And when I was called back into the rehearsal space, I simply allowed it all to flow right back out.  I became concerned when the director neglected to call scene that I would run out of material with which to improvise.  But when I began to run out of steam, scene was called and I was thanked for my participation and instructed to await the callback procedures.  It was over.  I went home and that was that.

A little over a week later, I received word that I was asked to return for callbacks.  This time I was given a song to perform and two scenes to improvise with a scene partner.  I guess the real bummer was that I couldn’t remember how to read sheet music.  I listened very closely to what everyone else was doing, endeavoring to recall how the song went from the recording I had heard a week earlier.  The only thought that continued to push me forward into this frightening arena was this: “Be honest.  Don’t worry.  Give it your all.”  And so I did.

I sang the song “Agony” as best I could with a male scene partner.  I also improvised a scene with a female partner in which I was the Big Bad Wolf endeavoring to instigate some less-than-virtuous rendezvous with Red Riding Hood.

Before the final phase of the callback audition, I was pulled aside and asked about my scheduling conflicts and my reluctance to play a large role.  I told the director about my full-time work status and part-time school work load.  I told him that I would love to participate, but only in a way that would be most beneficial for the ensemble as a whole, after all the show is only as strong as its weakest scenes.  He said that he had seen enough of my audition and was not considering me for any other roles than I had already auditioned for him.  With that, I thanked him and left.  A couple of weeks later, I received a phone call that I will never forget.

I remember praying that whatever God would will with this experience would be done in me.  I also remember saying that the Big Bad Wolf would be fun, that I could do it, and that I had experience enough with grotesque characters to make him compelling.  But if I could wish anything, it would be that I could play Cinderella’s Prince because I had never played someone desirable before; I had always been a tertiary or villainous character.

Then the phone rang.  It was the assistant director.  He said, “We want to thank you for auditioning.  We were very impressed with your improv as the Wolf. . .” to which I thought oh well. . .then he continued, “We would like to cast you as Cinderella’s Prince.  Is that something you would be interested in?”

I paused.  I had never been approached in this manner before.  Questions?  Would I be interested?

I said, “Do you feel as though this is the best decision for the ensemble?”

He replied, “Yes, we do.”

“In that case, yes, I would be happy to play the part of Cinderella’s Prince.”  I don’t remember anything after that, except hanging up the phone, dropping to my knees in shock and weeping at God’s faithfulness to grant me the desires of my heart when I seek after His desires for me.

And that was that.  I am now in the midst of the rehearsal process.  The show opens in a month-and-a-half.  I have thirteen brief scenes in which I appear onstage.  I have five full musical arrangements to memorize.  I have two duets with a fellow prince.  I have a “moment” with a baker’s wife.  And all the while the Lord has been showing me that I am no longer a “beast” to be imprisoned but a “prince” to be maintained with all humility and dignity.

God is faithful to take our past failures and disgraces, mix them with high heat and purpose, and make from them something altogether beautiful.  I look forward with great expectation to what great things God will do as He continues to propel me into the realm of holistic well-being.