emergent sapiens

here's a humorous—and uncannily accurate—description of the typical sociological/cultural aspects of a typical emergent-type: http://purgatorio1.com

we attend sunday morning services at what some people would id as an emergent church. we don't really fit in, socially, (we have children older than most people who go there) but we like it.

mind, medicine and faith

science is finally figuring out that what's "all in your head" really is all in your head, and that perceptions created in your head result in physical manifestations—not that you can conjure up a Jeep Cherokee by imagining one—but you can alter the course of illness or recovery. (and when it comes to benefits, feeling good beats a new car any day of the week)

does this push God into the junk heap of failed remedies? no. rather, it pushes the limits of how we allow God's incredible creation to work.

it pushes the limits of our faith: which prayer requires more faith? "God, i beseech thee to heal me if it be thy will" or "God, grant me the faith to believe that within me lies the power to heal?"

yes, that second prayer quickly slides us into territory that contemporary Christianity shuns: Are we saying that humans have the power of God? That we are God? That illness is a symptom of not-enough-faith?

If we accept on faith that we are created by God, can we not also accept on faith that God has given us this gift of self-healing?

What if the belief that humans have the power to manipulate their own healing through the mind is not any less Christian than the belief that only God can heal?

stupid church signs

All who read this will live better lives.
—[what the?]
—maybe the sign's like a magic genie. only you don't have to get outta yer car to rub anything, you just hafta read the sign.
—[cool! turn around. i want to read it again]

Same sign board a few weeks ago: What's missing in ch--ch? ur.
—hey loser, come to church so we can put up a different sign
—[u. r? huh? oh, i get it. it's like a play on words, like "you are."]
—duh

...to be continued

8/13/05
same church...

Can't sleep? Try counting your blessings.
[yah, like, my life is so boring, that will put me to sleep fast]
what if i run out of blessings before i fall asleep?
[in that case, i suggest that you actually go to church some sunday. that way you can at least catch a few zzzs during the sermon]

8/16/06
same church...somebody over there needs a new hobby.

Think life here is hard? Try afterlife!
We'll see YOU in hell!
[*sigh* so much for the Good News. at least i won't be alone]

Blessed Assurance, Jesus is Mine

It's an American traditional hymn written circa 1870 by Fanny Crosby, a blind woman credited with writing, 7, 8, 9,000 hymns, depending on what site you read.

I don't want to be critical of the psychological state which permits the joyous proclamation,

Blessed Assurance, Jesus is mine,
Oh what a foretaste of Glory Divine.
Heir of salvation, purchase of God,
Born of the spirit, washed in His blood.

This is great for the person wrapped (raptured?) in the belief that indeed, Jesus is theirs. Having been there, I remember how comfortable it was to hum that song and knowthat Jesus was mine, all mine; that my life was good because Jesus was right there, all the time, looking out for me.

After a while (as I matured, perhaps) I began to wonder what it was like for other people who had to sing that song in church. What was it like for the dad struggling with his own history of sexual abuse at the hands of a church elder? How did singing that song feel for the woman in an abusive marriage? What was it like for the boy whose dad was in and out of jail because of alcohol abuse, or the brothers whose domicile alternated between the family car and the homeless shelter?

This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Saviour, all the day long.
This is my story, this is my song,
praising my savior, all the day long.

What would it be like to sing that song while trying to survive the winter in the mountains 10 miles west of here while an army occupied our town? How assured would I be that Jesus is mine if I lived in whatever world headline had the news media's attention that week?

I have carefully built my world to be one that works for me. This construct, of course, hinges upon lots of circumstances beyond my control. I suspect that for Fannie Crosby, she too, although blind, lived in a privileged and comfortable world. She was at least privileged enough to be educated, recognized, and published.

When our safe and comfortable world falls apart, where do we then find blessed assurance? Huh. That's when real faith kicks in, I bet.

Perfect submission, perfect delight,
Visions of rapture now burst on my sight
Angels descending bring from above
Echos of mercy, whispers of love.

I wonder: Do I really believe? Am I capable of hearing those echos of mercy, whispers of love?

Perfect submission, all is at rest,
I in my Savior am happy and blest;
Watching and waiting, looking above,
Filled with His goodness, lost in His love.

starry eyed, dreamy faced, sappy little shepherds tending docile flocks in peaceful fields.

terrified, bloodied, despairing mothers, fathers, children watching every good thing in their lives as it is destroyed, and then watch each other die empty, meaningless deaths. would you die with that hymn on your lips?