Beginning a Blog (after the fact)

It occurs to me that while I have a cute tagline to my blog title, I've never really taken the time to explain what "The Cross and the Sword" really means, and why I think it's such a big deal. To be honest, it's an idea that has been evolving for a few years now and I was afraid, at first, that it would be a passing thing and I would end up changing it a few times. If you've been with me for a while, you know that the tagline itself has changed a bit over time; somehow, though, the spirit of the cross and the sword have stayed with me, so here is an exploration of their roots and what (I hope) I can do with these themes in my life.

The metaphor of a cross and a sword began for me when I was at Miracle Mountain Ranch, 17 years old and newly graduated from high school. It is a long time since I looked like the stereotypical homeschooler, but not so far under my socially adapted exterior is a deeply committed nerd: a devoted Lord of the Rings fan (and fan-fiction/RP writer, she said with a nod to The Plaza), constant reader of 18th and 19th century literature, and a self-fashioned wanderer in search of chivalry, honesty and honor. That year at the Ranch I was the model apprentice, but there were a few people with whom I felt I could be myself. During training demonstrations in the barn we would sit in the loft and I would use graph paper to sketch fantastical coats of arms and brands, mustering all that I knew of heraldry to lend significance to the images and colors used in my creations.

One creation in particular stayed with me, because of its beauty and simplicity. The vertical line was too long to be a cross, the horizontal too plain to be a sword. I wrapped a casual line of color around it, from its arm to the point, then back to the other arm. I attempted to add plumes, to put it on a shield, to incorporate it into the Lion Rampant or some more glorious emblem, to use it as the "l" in my name, but in the end I found that none of the embellishments improved it and I resolved to leave it alone. Besides, the summer was approaching and I was far too busy wrangling my landscaping volunteers to be worried with developing my personal coat of arms any further.

After the Ranch, real life hit abruptly. For lack of a better idea, I found myself enrolled at a little school called Geneva College in Beaver Falls - for all that it was 12 miles from home, I had never heard of the city or the school before my mother suggested them - and I was "undeclared," which was code for: I want to know everything and I have commitment issues. Because of my interests in high school, I took a serious look at History and Creative Writing as majors, with Student Ministry thrown in there as a potential interest because I really wanted to impress a certain person from MMR. The college setting was a shock to my system, but in the honors program I found a few people with whom I felt safe enough to mention my love of imagery, icons and latin mottos. I sometimes wonder if they thought me crazy.

The battle to choose a major (and escape the incessant coddling of those in charge of Undeclared L&T "Focus Group") was intense, but brief; in the end, Terry Thomas's storytelling won me over and in the space of eight weeks I had declared for Student Ministry. I loved every one of my major classes, but I couldn't shake the desire to know everything, especially about the way people work. I have always been a people-watcher, and this tendency was incubated through the time I spent eating alone in the cafeteria and hanging out with Debbie in the Student Min Office.

You didn't know you had signed up for the story of my life, did you?

Contrary to what some people believe, student ministry isn't (all) about campfire songs and ice-breaker games. In addition to "ministry" classes concerned with the history and development of ministry, special studies in specific ministry models and situations, and three unique practicum experiences, we take quite a few Bible classes, along with theology, philosophy, and psychology. On top of this, I was at a liberal arts college with traditional "core" requirements: humanities, social sciences, political science, etc. I will never regret the time or money spent on these, ever. However, as I began to connect the dots of my learning and reflect on my experience as a homeschooler, an apprentice, and now as a college student, some difficulties became apparent.

When I say "difficulties," please know that I mean "things that are profoundly distressing"; so profoundly distressing that I don't really know how to properly express them most of the time; not in person, and not in print. At its heart is the question of Truth; in my Bible classes I was taught that Jesus said "the Truth shall set you free" (John 8), but in my experience Truth has been most associated with right and wrong. Beyond that, right and wrong often demarcate "us" and "them," "in" and "out," "valuable" and "valueless"; these in turn help "us," who are "in" and "valuable," to determine what should be cared about and who should be ignored.

We come to "know" what sin is and we believe it is our duty to preach against it; we come to "know"that sin is an abomination to God and we make it our duty to be appalled by it; we come to "know" that we have been redeemed... and we decide to cast the unredeemed world into hell's fire prematurely. Who made me the judge? What pride is it that rejoices in my personal salvation and then refuses to give that grace to others? I am not saying this of all Christians, or even all American Christians, but the pervasiveness of divisive, ignorant, and ungracious behavior within the church is well documented by recent research (i.e. You Lost Me and UnChristian). This should not surprise us, given the doctrine of the Fall.

The Bible calls the Word of God a "double-edged sword" (Heb 4:12), and I think we can agree that the simplest statements have been as destructive as a broadsword when used in the wrong place or time, or with the wrong attitude. Never in opposition, but certainly in contrast, Jesus tells us that knowing the Truth sets us free - and a few short chapter later he announces exactly what he means: Jesus said to him, "I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the father except through me" (John 14:6).

What is the truth that we are commanded to know? What did the Word of God (John 1:1) do with ultimate power? He loved. He sacrificed. He redeemed.

Redemption cost all of him. How can I do less?

In the last few years, this has been the story of my life. I believe in truth. I believe that there are such things as right and wrong. I believe that it is vitally important to preach against sin, to teach what is right, to avoid what is wrong. However, my studies and experiences almost daily remind me that I was redeemed in spite of my sin, and it is not for me to withhold that redemption from others; in fact, it is my responsibility to share redemption with the world.

For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges thoughts and attitudes of the heart.
Hebrews 4:12

Tempting as it is, I cannot run into the world waving a bright sword and pretending that all things said in truth are just. This kind of power cannot be wielded by a child like me, unless its every move is constrained also by the love of Christ, the love that willingly approached the cross. And so, once in a while I practice drawing my childish talisman, a reminder to me that God has been weaving his plans into the fabric of my life since the beginning and will continue doing so until the end. I approach life with a cross and a sword... and every day I learn more of who I am between the two.

Who are you voting for? Some conversational advice

I will add to my previous comments about political conversations that this way of talking and thinking is very hard. I wrote that post on a happy afternoon after a long conversation with people whose thought processes are similar to my own, although their conclusions differ wildly. I am quite aware that this is not always the case, and that there are people who make these conversations painful no matter how hard you try. I name no names.

I don't want to seem naive on this point; I interact with enough people every day, even on a small campus, that I know how difficult it is to have hard conversations graciously when the other person seems dead set against that very thing. Even when they are on board with your approach, basic cultural and vocabulary differences sometimes make meaningful conversation practically impossible. So here are a few quick tips on talking with people who disagree with you on politics - or any other sensitive topic:

1. Remember humanity
I do mean that you should remember that you are human and they are human, and for that very reason you will both be wrong about something. However, I also mean that everyone should remember that our conversations have implications for the rest of humanity, for the great questions of life and death, poverty and wealth. If you are in a position to talk about these things, you are probably in a position to do something about them. It's really not about you at all.

2. Benefit of the doubt
I tend to think that I am better at this than your average grad student - why do we immediately assume that because someone believes x, they will also affirm r, e and m? Just because someone thinks differently does not mean that they have sold their souls or that they would affirm the agenda of a totalitarian regime. As you can see, these other letters simply do not follow, except in the word extreme.* 

3. Practice
This may seem callous of me, but at some point conversations have to come down to personal integrity. You're probably not going to convince "the other guy," whoever they are, that you are right and their entire cognitive framework is skewed, unless you have unwittingly stumbled on a great work of the Holy Spirit. Which is possible. In most cases, however, you can talk until you're blue in the face only to discover that they weren't listening to you at all, but instead assuming that you affirm r, e and m as well as x. So do this instead of asphyxiating: get in the habit of communicating what you want to say clearly, concisely, and respectfully. Even if that person never gets it, perhaps the practice you have in this conversation will help you be more graceful and persuasive in your next encounter with disagreement.

I hope to soon write a response to my own question: who am I voting for? Hopefully it will be done before election day, but as I said... if an election is the end of the conversation, then we're doing it wrong.

*see what I did there? 

Whosetory

I was never allowed to celebrate Halloween. Tragic, right? I don't think that I missed much, honestly, and every year was an adventure, hanging dark blankets over the windows and playing very quiet games so that Trick'r'Treaters wouldn't know we were home. Apparently our neighborhood took the "trick" part literally, and they were handy with egg-throwing.

In college I discovered a new tradition. For six years now I have sat in Bible 200 (How to Read the Bible) on October 31 to celebrate Reformation Day. I wish my parents were aware of this tradition when we were growing up - it would have been a lovely counterpoint to the blue velvet drapes. More than that, Reformation Day and events like it have been vital to my faith formation.

That's a strange thing to hear, and sometimes to say. How is a silly party where we dress like we stepped out of the 16th century, eat symbolic foods, and share ridiculous poems about Calvin and Luther helpful for faith formation? The best way I can describe it is history. You know, that subject that you all loved in high school. History gets a bad rap, I think, because we treat it as just that - a subject, no more or less important than learning where commas go in a sentence or how to measure the velocity of a falling object, when it really is much more than that.

Not that English and Physics aren't important areas of study, and more than "subjects" themselves, but History is domething special. Even cultures without written language, where the people are more concerned with survival than with explaining gravity, share stories about where they come from. So why don't we?

Hearing stories about the Reformation never gets old for me, because they help me understand and take heart. Why do we so easily dismiss the faithful men and women who came before us? How audacious of us to assume that our life and times are so much more important than theirs, that we can't spare the time to hear and tell their stories... Maybe it's our individualism that tells us that each life is a free and unfettered start, but we need to get over that. Their stories are our stories, because they are our family, and I, for one, would like to make a habit of learning from their examples instead of making my own mistakes.

In the beginning

Nothing interesting has popped up from the Washington Post (not personally interesting, anyway) except for the news that "Donald Trump fires himself as his own debate moderator." Thank goodness for that, but was it really alert-worthy? Therefore, this may be a shocking change of pace, but I wanted to make some comments on the Bible. I'm in a recently started Bible study with some other Higher Ed girls and we've decided to go through the Gospel of John, one chapter a week.

A few semesters ago I took a class with Dr. Shidemantle on the Gospel of John, so it is a different experience for me: each week I feel both informed and unprepared, because the more I "know" about the book or chapter, the more aware I am that my self-sufficient attitude needs to be checked at the door. Or at the Italian leather binding. I want to record some of my new insights, the things I notice this time around, and I hope that anyone who reads this will be encouraged.

The Gospel of John
First, it is helpful to know that although this book is traditionally believed to have been written by the Apostle John (who also wrote the three epistles of John and the Revelation), he is never identified in the text. The closest the author comes to mentioning himself is with the phrase "the disciple whom Jesus loved." We accept the authorship of the Apostle because of the strength of church tradition, but also because of some of the literary styles and themes within the text.

Second, a reader should pay attention to a few themes in the text. One is the juxtaposition of life and death - Jesus is shown to be and offer a life that is more than tissue, bone and fluid, which he gives freely. Another is the importance of signs in this gospel - several of Jesus' miracles are specifically identified as "signs," and each can be matched with a specific discourse where Jesus makes the greater purpose of that sign more clear to his followers. Finally, imagery in the text repeatedly presents traditional Jewish worship and shows Jesus fulfilling the promises and symbols so pervasive to the religion.

This gospel is believed to have been written between 60-80AD. Some claim that John was predicting the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple and others that he was writing in its aftermath. Either way, it is clearly an evangelical book and targeted at Jews who were (or soon would be) confused about the end of their traditional temple worship structures. This persuasive purpose is found in John 20:30-31

Jesus did many other miraculous signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not recorded in this book. But these are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name. (NIV)

John 1
The prologue (1:1-18) is poetic and therefore always hits my emotions pretty hard, but this time the emotional impact carried throughout the chapter. The prologue begins with the well-known phrase "In the beginning," recalling the dramatic introduction to the book of Genesis. With regard to the themes I mentioned, all three are found in the prologue: we are told that "the Word" (Jesus) is both light and life, true light and truth. We are told that through "the Word" we have received one blessing after another, not the least of these the disclosing of his glory through the incarnation and other miraculous signs. Finally, we are told that "the Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us" (1:14); the phrase "made his dwelling" could also be translated "he tabernacled" among us, recalling the wilderness era temple and offering "the Word" as a living substitute for that structure. The rest of the chapter jumps right into the story, where we hear from John the Baptist (who was introduced in the prologue), meet Jesus, and watch Jesus call his first disciples.

These are all the sorts of things that I knew coming into the reading of this passage. This time as I read it, what really struck me was the timing of it all. The very fact that this gospel has a prologue informs one that John wrote with a knowledge of the end. He, and some of those he writes to, have personal experience with the rest of the story - this is clear from verse 16: "From the fullness of his grace we have all received one blessing after another." We are reminded why we care about one man's story, or why we should care, if we do not: because Jesus' story is not the story of one man but the repetition of a call as old as time and a vision as beautiful as the first sunrise: full of grace and truth.

I'm a sucker for a good epic. I can admit that books like The Lord of the Rings and the Wheel of Time series can catch and hold my attention for hours at a time because I love to follow characters through their interaction with the ancient and sacred in search of purpose. John's prologue does this for me as well. But there is more to it than a simple epic, and the moment we are invited to take part in is more than one more character's realization of the small part they play in history. "The Word became flesh" in a specific moment. Grace and truth and the face of God were made known to us in a specific time and place and no one but Jesus could have been that person - Jesus' life is the turning point in history, and that is why we care to read this.

Going forward (in the chapter) to the more literal, historical testimony of John the Baptist and the call of the disciples, that ancient desire for transcendence and purpose is still there. The Baptist's self-description come from an ancient prophet (Isaiah): "I am the voice of one calling in the desert, 'Make straight the way for the Lord'" (John 1:23), and he describes Jesus using sacrificial Old Testament imagery when he calls him "the Lamb of God." But their relationship - John the Baptist and Jesus' - is the most striking one. The Baptist says "This is the one I meant when I said, 'A man who comes after me has surpassed me because he was before me'" (1:30). Jesus and the Baptist were cousins, and even before he was born the Baptist recognized the presence of his Lord in Mary's womb. Their history and God's revelation enabled the Baptist to loudly proclaim that the past and the future were melded and completed in this man, this God-made-known.

So Jesus has been identified as the one who is eternal, who was from the beginning and is here to make God's face known. This prior knowledge extends to the people he would call as his disciples. He knows what they want to know in addition to what they ask about. We are told that he found Phillip, and that he knew where Nathanael was before he arrived. Each of the disciples receives their savior's invitation (or call) in a personal way, even if some of them do not understand - how long was it between Jesus' renaming of Simon (to Cephas, or "rock") and his statement in Matthew 18 that "on this rock I will build my church"?

So what?
I love the literary power of this book, its repetition and the themes that have begun to weave their way through it. There is so much more that I could say about each section and each verse, but I want to give myself and you, my readers, a chance to respond. What do you think?

While it is beautiful - and good for my soul - to remember that Jesus was the turning point of a history that has a beginning (and eventually an end), how do I respond to it? The greatest struggle for me, and possibly for some of you, is that this is reminder of the knowledge of God - do you see how well Jesus knew his disciples, before he met them? This is true for us as well. He knows everything about us, the most hidden sins and insecurities, and if you focus on that it can be terrifying.

But that's not where our focus should be. Do you think that John chose to tell this story this way so that we would be constantly reminded that there's nowhere to hide and therefore paralyzed in fear? Certainly not! Remember that Jesus knew ahead of time the doubts and sins of his disciples and, knowing those things he chose them anyway. It was not for the perfect that the Word became flesh, but for love. Grace and truth came so that we could receive one blessing after another instead of wallowing in our own fear.

What do you think?