You Can't Always Get What You Want

You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want...

- Rolling Stones

I just had a very interesting discussion with a dear friend of mine that ultimately led to her asking me if I thought God answers prayers.

Now any Theology 101 student will tell you that God answers ALL prayers, it’s just that sometimes His answer is "yes", and sometimes it's "no". While that may be a sufficient answer for a class of 6th graders, it just doesn’t cut it with me. Why should it matter a whit to God if my kid scores a goal in his soccer game, or if that woman with the crying baby sits next to someone else on the plane? Why can’t God answer “yes” to all those petty prayers? Does it really make that big a difference in his plan for my life? Is God an adherent to the “Butterfly Effect” ?

For those of you not familiar with it, the “Butterfly Effect” says that the changing of even the tiniest detail (like the killing of a single butterfly) can have devastating unintended consequences on future events. But if that’s the case then the implication would be that God doesn’t answer ANY prayers EVER.

So why doesn’t God answer my fervent prayer to let my kid score a goal in his soccer game? Is it because the parent of the goalie is praying equally hard that his kid not get scored on? Well, if that’s the case then why does God answer his prayer yes, and mine no? Is it because that parent is better than me? Is it because he’s the “right” religion? Could it be that God likes his kid better than mine? What?

I was once told that all prayers can be summed up in one of two phrases: “Thank you!”, or “Please!”. Well, the “Thank you!” is easy enough to understand, and doesn’t require any answer by God, but the “Please!” is much more problematic, and (I think) more complex.

I believe that there are actually two sub-classes of “Please!” prayers. We pray for things we want, or we pray for things we need. The “want” prayers are easy enough to understand - they come from our petty desires and selfishness, and as such I do not believe that God answers them one way or another.

On the other hand, I think that God answers “yes” to ALL our prayers that come out of need. So, do I “need” my kid to score that goal? That’s a simple one, how about this – Do I “need” to have mom hang on to life long enough for my brother to get to her bedside? Or do I “need” for the killing to stop in any one of a hundred places around the globe? So what is it that we actually “need”?

If we expect an answer from God, we have to first reflect on what it is that we are asking Him for. Is it just one of our many personal desires or preferences cloaked in something else? Do I “need” my kid to score because I “want” him to feel good about himself? Do I “need” mom to hang on a while longer because I “want” my brother to have a chance to say goodbye? Do I “need” the killing to stop because I “want” to feel good about the state of the world, or because I “want” the people to feel safe?

Is there anything that we truly “need” that God hasn’t already provided? Or have we just failed to recognize that He said “yes” to our prayer long before we even thought to ask.

So I guess it's like the Rolling Stones taugh us so long ago,
"...But if you try sometimes
Well you just might find
You'll get what you need "

Peace.

The Shadow Knows

"From ghoolies and ghosties and long leggedy beasties, and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord, deliver us."
- Scottish Prayer


All of us have one, that face that we keep hidden from all but our closest friends. It is the face that sometimes shows when we lose control. It is our shadow self. It is the part of ourselves where we hide our fears and frustrations, our hate, anger and insecurities. It’s the place where we keep all those things that make us feel small, and ashamed, and weak.

It’s also the place where we keep all those things that make us human.

Our personal development, the way we become the person we are, is a struggle. There’s no way to feel safe unless we learn to face fears. There’s no way to feel emotion without recognizing that some emotions are painful. There’s no way to feel self-assured unless we recognize and overcome our insecurities. It’s the feelings that make us who we are.

Fortunately, few of us become so paralyzed by our shadow side that we cease to function. We find a way to overcome all the ghoolies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties that try to keep us from becoming the people we think we want to be. But those monsters are always hiding in our closet. They are always ready to spring out and grab us by the ankles, to drag us into their clutches when we are most vulnerable.

The problem is that, we need to make ourselves vulnerable. By keeping the closet door of our lives closed and locked, we keep all the demons out, but we also keep out the angels. Because they’re in there too.

Yes, there are angels in our shadow self as well. Even though it's sometimes hard to recognize them as angels, they are there. They are angels that want to bring us great gifts, if only we will let them. Angels that will bring us hope, and peace and, most precious of all, love.

We need to recognize that these are gifts, freely given to us. Gifts which we cannot earn, that we may or may not feel worthy of, and that are beyond our ability to control. They may come to us early or late, like a soft summer breeze, or like a thunderbolt from the sky. They may come to us from a direction that we least expect it. They may be gifts that we don’t even recognize immediately as gifts. Our job then is to always be ready for them.

We need to keep that closet door open, and know that oftentimes it will be a demon that will come out. We have to be ready for that, to fight that demon, and force it back into the closet. But never shut the door, because every so often, if you’re really patient and keep facing that closet, an angel will come to the door holding something. The truly happy person is the one who is ready and waiting when that angel comes, the one who accepts their gift, and then, without even knowing what it is, opens it.

May you all find a way to quiet your demons, and may all your lives be filled with angels bearing gifts.

What would Jesus do?

“...What if God’s like one of us? Just a slob like one of us? Just a stranger on the bus, trying to make his way home?...” - Joan Osbourne

It’s an interesting philosophical exercise to reflect on how Jesus would react to, and exist in the present day western society. I’m not convinced, as some of my church friends are, that he would be the angry, vengeful, old-testament God, turning over tables at the temple, and publicly rebuking sinners. I actually believe Joan Osbourne got it right, he would be just like one of us… only different.

Jesus was, aside from the most important aspect of his persona, a mensch. It’s a beautifully Yiddish word that is used to refer to a person having admirable characteristics, such as fortitude and firmness of purpose, one who radiates a kind of fundamental decency.

Yet, He was all about the relationship with God, he didn’t sweat the earthly stuff. He rendered unto Caesar what was Caesar’s and he didn’t heal everybody, just a few. He raised the dead not for his own glory, but to show that even death held no power over God. He turned water into wine not because folks were thirsty, but in order to illustrate and emphasize a message. He fed 5000 on crumbs not because they were hungry, but because he wanted to show his followers that they needed to have faith in the power of God to do what seemed impossible. Fundamentally, it wasn’t about Him, it was about the message he brought. The message that there is an all knowing, all powerful God who created us, sustains us, and loves us unconditionally, and asks that we show the fortitude, and firmness of purpose to carry out those trivial tasks that he sometimes asks of us in small, quiet ways. Jesus understood, and wanted us to understand that God isn't always "magical" but often works small miracles through poor, simple slobs like one of us. His only request is that we be faithful to Him, and decent to one another, not for our own sake, or for His sake, but because it’s the right thing to do.

So, what if God’s like one of us? What would Jesus be like if he walked among us?

I think he’d be the kid in school who’s not a great athlete, but who makes every practice, always gives 100% and does the little things to help the team, and would thus have the respect of the “jocks”. He’s the kid who isn’t a “moter head”, but has their respect because he seems genuinely interested in their obsession with all things car, and would listen to them. He wouldn’t be a “stoner”, “thrasher”, “greaser”, “goth”, or “nerd” but they would consider him “cool” because he doesn’t hate them, fear them or judge them, he just accepts them the way they are. He wouldn’t be the guy all the girls are throwing themselves at, but they would all like him “…as a friend…”.

He’d be the guy at work who you could always count on to get his work done well, and on time. He’d be the person you could tell things to in confidence, and be sure they would stay confidential. He’d give you honest answers in a compassionate way. He’d be the guy everyone likes, but no one thinks to invite out for drinks after work.

At church, he’d be sitting towards the back, really listening to the sermon, and trying to learn something from it, maybe he’d be invited to teach Sunday School because he seems to have a unique way of connecting with kids in a loving way. The consensus would be that it was too bad he wasn’t married because he’d be such a great dad.

On the bus home, he’d be the guy who quietly reads the paper, who always seems content, but not overjoyed, who greets everyone who meets his gaze a smile and a sincere “how are you?” and then listened to the answer, he’d be the guy who gives up his seat to the old lady getting on the bus, so she could sit closer to the door.

Yep, he’d be just a slob like one of us…just a stranger on the bus…trying to make his way home. As are we all.

Peace to you all.

Mom Died

Mom died.

Simple words, far too simple for a lady as complicated as she was. As full of life, as full of mystery, as full of deep and challenging thoughts, as full of secrets.

She gave us all fair warning. She knew life is a fragile, fleeting thing. Even when I was little, we thought more than once that we were going to lose her. The diabetes, heart disease, high blood pressure, lung ailments, none of it slowed her down, or dampened her enthusiasm for satisfying her eclectic curiosity.

She went places women didn’t go back in the day. More recently, she went places old, sick women didn’t go. She went not to prove anything, but because they were places that were calling to her - Brazil, Colombia, Venezuela, Mexico. She was astute enough to know when something is truly calling to you. She was brave (foolish?) enough to answer those calls.

She believed in things that often struck people as odd or eccentric. She believed them because she listened to her heart, and her soul, and not just her head. She listened to what they were telling her, and ignored what the rest of the world was saying. It was all just so much noise to her.

She loved with a love that was deep, and full. She heard her soul overflow like a river, and knew he was the one, and sure enough he was. They knew they would be together forever, and so they were. And so they are still.

She lived until she was no longer able to explore the mysteries of this world, and so it came time to explore the mysteries of the next. She didn’t let go, she just kept going on the path that she saw stretching out ahead of her, and stretching back behind.

And now she is out there somewhere, finding new adventures, finding new mysteries to explore, her curiosity free to go places no earthly body could.

God speed, Flora Emma Correa, God speed.

The Tomb is Empty

Easter mornings, when my brother and sister and I were kids, we would wake up excited.

On Easter sunday mornings, although we would have to make the usual sacrifice of getting on those tight shoes, and putting on a tie and sitting in a church pew for what seemed like ages, on Easter the reward was a hunt for those chocolate eggs that mom and dad had hidden around the house.

Every family has it’s traditional way of ensuring that everybody gets a fair shot at the eggs, and in mine that meant that each of us kids had a room in the house all to ourselves. We would tear the rooms apart, looking for those chocolate treasures, and then gulp them down as fast as we could, so that we wouldn’t have to share, leaving only the empty wrappers on the floor as a reminder of all that sweetness.

After the gorging would come the penance. Off to church we went and, as if the length of the service wasn’t enough, after church on Easter Sunday we would make the rounds of the cemeteries. My family, even though most of them lived fairly close to one another (nothing is never far away, relatively speaking, in New England) seemed to showed an appalling lack of consideration to their future generations by having their corpses interred as far apart as possible.

It’s not like they didn’t get along in life. Mine was a family filled with love for one another, at least as much love as a people of that generation were able to show. Still, they insisted on colonizing cemetaries all over the city of Providence and it’s environs. Like so much seed cast upon the fields. So, Easter became a time of chocolate bunnies and visits to tombs.

Today, as I sat in church, listening to Rev. Dukes (she is a REAL reverend) I was struck by something. A great realization. The work of the Holy Spirit perhaps?

All those visits to cemeteries that we made, and still make today, have reinforced a great truth that I've just been too blind to see. The fact of the matter is that because of Jesus’ great sacrifice, ALL the stones have been rolled away from ALL the tombs. Like Mary Magdeline learned, the ones we go there to seek are not there. They are ALL risen, and are seated at the hand of the Father.

Yes, all the tombs are empty, for the ones we seek are risen…they are risen indeed.

Peace to you all, and a very happy Easter season.

Another view of Good Friday

Caiaphas was the Chief Priest in Jerusalem at the time of Jesus' crucifixion. I imagine what was going through his head at the time. I imagine him writing to his son about it:

My Dear Son Elionaecus.

Now that the Passover festival is complete, I am finally availed of time to write you. I am weary of spirit and body both from the demands of the festival time, as well as from the weight of the mantle I wear. It has become more clear to me than ever that the small stirrings which have occurred in our nation will soon culminate in a popular uprising against the Roman authority. I would welcome such an event if I believed that it would be our gain, but instead I fear that the outcome of any such event will be the utter destruction of us as a people. Thus it is that my role here has become more that of an arbiter than of a priest. The balance which exists between our nation and the authority must be maintained, even if it necessitates some small sacrifices.

I say all this to you because you have undoubtedly heard of the events of this Passover concerning the Nazarene prophet. I say to you that it was a difficult thing to watch, and a more difficult thing to have been forced to be an actor in that drama. Needless to say, there will be many versions of events circulated, and I fear that both my name and the name of your grandfather may well be mentioned at times in these tales. This troubles me doubly because I believe Pilate’s calculated actions in this matter have sown the seeds of destruction for our peoples by inciting further unrest at the expense of all of us on the Sanhedrin. Not that the Nazarene was without blame. He did himself much harm by openly consorting with a group of Galileans! Didn’t he realize that Galileans are always suspect of sedition? Had he been blind and deaf to the anti-Roman agitation there that has for years drawn unusual attention from the Governor? Imagine - he would not even deny that he had claimed kingship! Well, needless to say, Pilate made great sport of that issue, even going so far as to post a sign on the scaffold “King of the Jews”. While many of the throngs at the execution may have found it humorous, we on the Sanhedrin knew what Pilate intended by that message – that the only “King” that our people needed is Caesar.

In fairness, I can understand Pilate’s position. Can you imagine how such a story would have been received in Rome? I can assure you that if Caesar had received such news, we would all be hanging from the crossbeams of a crucifixion scaffold. While I understand that circumstances demanded that he take action, I am troubled that we were once again forced to send one of our own to the slaughter for Rome. I continue to be troubled by the need to balance the best interests of our people against the petty vindictiveness and blood lust of our Governor.

At the trial Pilate asked the crowd if they wanted him to release the Nazarene, but he specifically referred to him as “…your king…” I tell you truthfully that I felt my breath leave me when he asked the question that way. Fortunately, someone had the good sense to shout out that we had no king except Caesar. Pilate seemed disappointed that his trick failed, and he was denied the chance to arrest the whole throng on sedition charges. Then he washes his hands, can you imagine it! He washes his hands as if the decision to execute the man was ours.

The execution itself was a most terrible spectacle. I usually don’t attend them because they are so disturbing, but, perhaps because I had spent so much time questioning this man, I sensed something drawing me to attend.

I recall the meeting the Sanhedrin had with him, there were so many witnesses who clearly had been sent by the Governor to try to convince us of his guilt. All the while, he sat there, not speaking even to defend himself. He was probably a rebel, and definitely lacking good judgement, but I actually felt pity for him nonetheless… That is until he claimed to be the one the Pharisees say was promised by the prophet Isaiha.

I can’t imagine why he said such a thing. He must have known what the reaction would be. So…everyone condemned him to die for his blasphemy, and many struck him, and some spat on him, and… I am now ashamed to say that I was one of them. I say I am now ashamed because I have tried to learn more about this man as I have struggled to make sense of his behaviour and actions.

For instance, at the execution, as the end came he made a most curious cry, saying Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani? My God, My God, why have you forsaken me? I continue to wonder what he could have meant by that? Also, perhaps it was just coincidence, but one of those mysterious ground shakings occurred at the moment that he died and I noted that it seemed to feel colder. I must tell you that the whole spectacle was more than a little unnerving for all of us. It troubles me when I look back on the details of that day, but I record them not so much for myself, as for yours, that you may share in it through my eyes.

I remember noticing some older women, and a few others, followers perhaps, sitting off some distance the whole day, watching him. It seemed sometimes as if he would never die and give himself and his friend’s peace. I was disturbed at how the Roman soldiers seemed to express particular delight in his prolonged suffering. It was no doubt another means of reinforcing a message to all of us, but wasn’t it enough that they had tormented him all day, and stolen the very clothing from him?

In any event, the execution seemed to satisfy Pilate, and served as a sufficient example to us all that the remainder of the festival was unmarked by any further incidents.

But the question remains: who was this man? The more I learn out about him, and his teachings, the more uncertain I am about what we have done here. Clearly he was not mad, yet just as clearly he and many others believed that he was the Messiah. Was he? Is it possible that the Pharisees are right, and a messiah will come… or has come? I admit to you in strictest confidence that part of me wants to believe him. I wish I was able to speak freely on these thoughts, and ask these questions openly, but while I sit on the Sanhedran that is a luxury that will have to remain confined in letters to you, my precious son.

Since this Passover feast, I have begun to ponder the question – How will we know when or if a messiah comes? Will we know, and even if we do, will we be able to admit it to ourselves, and speak of it in the presence of others who might scoff at us, call us blasphemers…even perhaps spit on us and condemn us?

Tell your brother and mother that while troubled in spirit I am well in body, and will return home soon. Your esteemed Grandfather and Uncles also send their regards.

Your Father, Joseph Caiaphas

Church Closings

My old church is closed.

When I was growing up, I attended the Church of the Messiah in the Olneyville section of Providence, Rhode Island. It was the same church that my mother had attended as a little girl, and that my maternal Grandmother and Grandfather attended. It was an old church, but I don’t remember it being an old congregation. Sure there were older folks, but there were plenty of kids as well. Whole families attended and there were enough members to justify two services on Sunday. I went back there with my brother about two years ago. It seemed smaller than it did when I was a kid, but other than that, it was exactly as I remembered. There were only a few people there, and some of them even remembered my brother and I. It had been thirty years since I had last set foot in the place, but those decades fell away the minute I walked in the door.

I loved the Church of the Messiah. I loved getting there early, and sometimes sitting there alone. I loved being alone in the church. I would look in awe at the huge Oak beam that ran across the entire worship area, with a carved oak cross at the very midpoint. I loved watching the sun stream in through the stained glass windows, I loved touching those windows, and the lead between each individual piece of glass. I loved the smell and feel of that place.

As we walked in the door, we passed the baptismal font and I paused. I ran my hand over the cold stone. It was pink Vermont granite, in the shape of a chalice. I remember thinking of how many babies (myself included) had been baptized there. I remember, as a kid, standing at the back, handing out bulletins when I was in the “Senior” department. Sometimes we even got to take up the collection. I remember how the money would go into a red velvet bag in each gold collection plate. I looked, they were still there - thirty years later. Still sitting on the little table at the back, right side, right under the little lamp that seemed to always be on.

I saw the bell rope, and I remember how we sometimes got to ring the bell before services. That job usually went to Doug Fox, a boy in our class who’s father died when we were all about 12. Doug had keys, and would sometimes take us through the little door at the entryway that led down into the basement. It was dark and spooky down there. The church had burned to a stone skeleton in 1920 and the basement still showed distinct signs of the fire. Down there, you could feel the soot even 40 years later. It smelled like a burned building, it was dark, and mysterious.

I knew that building inside and out, and being back there after so long felt like coming home, the quiet and peacefulness of the place wrapped around me like a blanket.

We went in, and I took a seat by the crucifixion window on the left side, even with the row that I sat in when I was in the “Junior” department, next to the image of Mary, holding a dead Jesus, the wounds in his hands and feet which you could actually touch if you stood up on the end of the pew – which you could only do when there weren’t any adults around. (There weren’t, so I did).

The organ played, and I sang. I mean I really sang -from my soul - for the first time in a long while. It came time to take communion, and more memories flooded back.

I remember Saturday morning catechism classes – being cooped up in church on a clear, bright day off from school. I remember what it felt like to finally take that first communion, and trying hard to remember to do everything just the way we had been taught. I remember being so anxious for the usher to finally reach our row, so we could go up. I remember walking right up the three steps at the front, and past the organ on the right, seeing Mrs. Bishop playing softly, the HUGE organ pipes on the left, behind the choir. Then, stand in line and wait for your turn at the communion rail, the place where the “little kids” couldn’t go yet. I remember kneeling down on the cushions (not like the hard rails in the pews), right there with the adults, right hand cupped into left, waiting for Rev. Welch to put the wafer in my hand. I remember while waiting I would look at the big carved chair that was only used when the Bishop was visiting us. I remember how the railing was just a little too high for me, so I had to stretch out for the wafer. Put the wafer in your mouth immediately if you wanted to sip the wine (yes, real wine).

And now it was thirty years later, and the reflection staring back up from the bottom of the communion chalice wasn’t that of a 12 year old. I saw the face of a middle aged, balding man, and it both surprised me, and made me a little sad. But I remembered what we had been taught so long ago - you let the wafer dissolve in your mouth - never chew it because Mrs. Dircolee told us”… we don’t chew Jesus…”. Then walk back to your pew with your hands folded, kneel down and wait for everyone else to have communion.

So that’s what I did, but I also fought back tears brought on by emotions I still haven’t sorted out. If you had asked me thirty years ago why I went to church, I would have said I went because “…mom says we have to go”. But I now realize that I was going there to be with God.

The Church of The Messiah is closed, and all that’s left are the empty shell and memories. It was a victim of changing demographics. But it was, and always will be a part of who I am, and has touched, and will continue to touch everything I ever do. I close my eyes and I am there, full of people, full of kids. I am one of them again.

It is still the place I think of when I preach and when I pray. It is still the place that helps me to sing – really sing – from my soul.

As I think about it, the truth is no real church EVER closes.

Peace to you all,

Mega-Churches

So why are the mega-churches and the evangelical’s the only ones who are gaining members? I had a recent discussion about that with some fellow Elders from my Session, and it was fascinating how out of touch some supposed church leaders seemed to be on the matter.

I remain convinced that the growth of these organizations is attributable primarily to their willingness to give hard and fast answers to peoples questions on matters of theology.

When I look at how mainstream denominations have evolved in the way they “do” religion over the past 50 years especially, I see churches that reflect the increasing embracement of the multi-cultural psycho-babble that permeates public discourse in so many other areas. It is unfortunate that this has bled over into the theological sphere, because it is my firm belief that people in general are tired of the effort required to do self-analysis and reflection on matters of faith, and have come full circle to a point where they just want straight answers. Life is hard enough without having your faith become a constant source of intellectual drain. People want religion to be easy, and the evangelicals give them that.

The mega-churches do it also, but in a different way. They make religion easy by creating an organization where you determine how involved you become. If you want, you can come for an hour on Sunday, and then just write a check – commitment fulfilled! In a way, it’s the modern-day version of indulgences. However, they also make it easy for you to become involved in very specific causes that sometimes are even in conflict with other causes supported by the same church. They in effect become churches-within-churches for social justice purposes. Not only does that allow people with sometimes divergent views to be devout members of the same mega-church, but it also allows these mega-churches to make the clear distinction between duty to God, and duty to man.

In that regard, this architecture serves these churches well by allowing individuals to be moved by the Holy Spirit to action, but provides a wide array of avenues for carrying out that action without tacitly endorsing one form of action while tacitly (or even openly) condemning other forms. You need look no further than how the mainstream churches handle the issues of abortion, evolution or homosexuality to get a clear picture of their “my-way-or-the-highway” approach to social justice issues.

However; (and here is where I’m going to risk alienating some of my church friends) the problem for the mainstream churches is that unlike the mega-churches, they have failed to understand that the Holy Spirit is going to move each of us to action in our own time and in our own way, and they’re all “right” ways. Furthermore, most of these issues are moral matters that are driven by faith, but are separate and distinct from theology in its strictest sense. To “do” religion and to “live” religion really can be two different things! It’s one of the reasons I think that mainstream theologians have such a hard time with Buddhism. Is it a philosophy of life, or a religion? The real answer is – who cares! Let it be either one or both, but let the individual discern that for themselves.

All this having been said, there is still a problem here.

I once asked a minister friend of mine, “Is religion supposed to be hard, or easy?” His answer was a simple “…yes…”

Mega-churches and evangelicals make religion easy and convenient, which is why they’re growing, but the fundamental question here is: “Are they really nurturing spirituality, and fostering the development of a personal relationship with God?” It’s a critically important question that speaks to the whole purpose of a church. If you take that purpose out of the equation, then you’ve got to consider the logical extension of the mega-church architecture ad-absurdum and ask why not eliminate the building and parking lot entirely, get rid of the community aspect of church and make it a “virtual” experience? Just post a theological FAQ list and be done with it all!

We really do come to church because we want answers to life’s hard questions, but the ugly truth is that there are no easy answers. Life is something you’ve got to figure out for yourself, on-the-fly. There are no clear instruction manuals or on-line guides. There is no technical support line you can call and get a walk-through.

But, at the end of the day, there IS God.

He’s going to answer your questions in a still, small voice that you will often have to listen hard for, and that may often be hard to understand. He’s going to give you answers that you may not even recognize as answers, and that apply to you and you alone. He’s going to provide you resources that you may not recognize as resources. He’s going to be listening for you, and watching you, even when you don’t think He’s there. He’s going to be there always, ready to help, but sometimes His help will be in ways that you don’t expect. He has a plan for your life, but a plan that you may not understand, or may not even like very much at the time.

The problem is, all this requires that you develop and nurture a relationship that allows you to talk to your God, and your God to talk to you, without all the extraneous noise getting in the way.
And THAT, my friends, really does take work.