shirking scripture

So I haven't been doing my homework.
"Homework?" you ask. "What homework, pray tell?"
The homework for church. See, this summer our church is doing a manuscript study of the book of Philippians, in the New Testament. A manuscript study is a really in-depth study, looking at the book as a whole, then in sections, observing words, sentence structure, repetition, themes, etc.
"But Heather," you say, "This sounds right up your alley! You were an English major and did this stuff all the time! You are a total manuscript nerd! So why aren't you enjoying this?"

Before I go into those reasons, I want to point out that I think the sermon series is, in general a good idea. I think it's great for Christians to actually read the Bible and study it in depth--especially so they understand the context behind certain favorite passages that are oft-quoted. Last year our church read the Bible (yes, the whole Bible. Well, I did the Old Testament) together--I participated happily. And I like the way our church is doing it. I don't feel peer pressure to do homework--they give you space during the service to do catchup if you didn't have time during the week. And our speakers are good.

But when I sat down to actually try to participate, I felt as though I were forcing myself to eat some very unpalatable vegetables. Mixed with some sawdust.
Why?
I've been feeling mildly guilty about it for a few weeks now. It's not just that I'm avoiding the reading/study--I've also kind of not enjoyed the sermons so far. Like the whole experience turns me off for some reason.
Rather than feeling guilty/bad (my usual modus operandi) I decided to come clean! And examine why this sermon series isn't sitting well with me, personally.
Here are a few reasons I've come up with:

• I did a little too much of this kind of study in college. My college church experience was a little extreme in some ways, and bible study was huge. Two examples: I used to do personal devotions each day, examining bible passages with this same method, and filled notebooks with Observations, Interpretations, and Life Applications (OIL for short! Isn't that clever?). I got just slightly burned out. To this day it's hard for me to do daily prayer/study and not feel like I'm forcing myself to do something unpleasant.
• Another bad vestige of college: at one point I took a weekend theology class with my college fellowship. Our teacher told us that with the Bible, there were many "Applications" but only one "Interpretation." Being my then-meek self, I said nothing, but inside, I was aghast. A book in translation from 2000 years ago only has one interpretation? You've got to be kidding me. The Great Gatsby doesn't have frickin' one interpretation.
  
• I think I have some problems with reading the Bible this way. Or, maybe, more accurately, reading it only this way. I felt great relief reading A Generous Orthodoxy by Brian McLaren, where he points out that the Bible is not a great big answer book: not every passage lends itself to Life Application. Some of it is poetry, some law, some prophecy, some history. It isn't always "applicable" in the same way that, say McLaren is. Philippians as a book is really more readable this way--it's meant to instruct. But still, something in me rankles.
  
• Something about this way of reading, for me personally (surely not for everyone), takes a lot of the joy out of the Scripture. Maybe it's like dissecting a cadaver instead of sitting down with a person and talking. I found our quick read-through of the Bible refreshing--I got so much context and felt no pressure to "get" everything.
• Sometimes, having been in Bible studies since ninth grade, and doing this OIL thing on and off since then, I feel like I've heard every possible angle on the heaviest-travelled verses. The surprise is gone. The words have become cliched and fail to surprise me. "Take up your cross." (Yawn.) "Love your enemies" (Sigh). "For God so loved the world" (Next). I say this not to be sacrilegious, but I think reading the same words, the same way, for that many years gets reductive. I want to be taken aback by the glorious grace and openness of the Scriptures. Not bored because I'm hearing them the same old way.
• Maybe because I am an English major, this kind of reading is maybe too easy--or too head-based for me. I love to dissect text and squeeze out the OILs. So much so that I almost forget what it is I'm squeezing. I'd love to have a love affair with Scripture--I read authors like Phyllis Tickle or Kathleen Norris and am amazed at how they describe this book that seems so standoffish to me. I'd love to see its words with fresh eyes. But when I do my same old same old Interpretations and Applications I find it more an intellectual exercise than anything relating to my heart.

When I sing Scripture, it goes straight to my heart. When I pray Scripture, it does too, to a lesser extent. What I'd really love in a sermon series is a way to read scripture that is also in depth, also takes seriously the richness that is in the Bible, but is not the old Evangelical bugaboo of OIL. MacLaren says that sometimes the Evangelical church makes Scripture into an idol: we worship it, rather than God. Yet Jesus was also the "Word made flesh". Made flesh though--living and active. Breathing and running and jumping and dancing.

If anyone has suggestions for me about how to find new eyes for the Bible, I'm all ears. (or eyes?) I've looked into stuff like Lectio Divina (not terribly substantially) in hopes I'd come up with ideas, but beginning and actual practice of something new has seemed too hard. I'd love to have company.
So there you go. Now that I've read all my reasons, I feel better about shirking. I pray these reasons aren't excuses, but help me figure out how I can find joy in the Bible for myself.

righteous anger

So Lucy woke up this morning at five.
Five!
That was after two other wakeups and a normal bedtime. No particular reason why she should have woken early. (I know, I know, besides the fact that she's a baby).
After 40 minutes of nursing/bathroom breaks where she screamed/random tickling (read: super-annoying) with her flailing arms/her pausing during sucking and gumming my nipple (ouch!) I got up in a very foul mood.

I went into the prone position on the bed and prayed. Because I was in a very foul mood and I was blaming all the wakeups on Dyami.

I know, I know, this makes little sense. But see, he had the audacity to sleep while I was getting up. And not move when I was traipsing back and forth from the bathroom to the bed. And to ask if I needed anything when I got up the last time (to which I said, very severely, No.)

So I prayed, because I knew my anger was tiredness-induced and not necessarily justified (possibly, but not necessarily). Then he made things a little better by rolling over and getting up with us.
So I announced, "I'm in a REALLY BAD MOOD."
He nodded, and took care of Lucy while I went into the kitchen and made some eggs to calm my grumbling tummy. And just my grumbling.

When he came in a few minutes later, I was in a slightly better mood. I told him I had been praying that I wouldn't be quite so pissed off at him for Lucy waking up. Because I realized it maybe wasn't completely rational anger.
He laughed and thanked me for realizing that (this time). "Maybe we should give you the water bottle so you can squirt me every time Lucy wakes up. Then we can all suffer together."

I brightened up considerably and went to fetch the water bottle. He thinks he was kidding. Hahahahaha.

surviving

So on Monday night and Tuesday night, Dyami woke to hear me cussing. I hesitate to tell you which word, because you'll realize I'm a bad person, completely unsuited for motherhood. Sigh. Okay, I'll give you a hint: it rhymed with duck.
Anyway, I said it a lot. As I was trying to get Lucy to fall asleep after a few hours of trying (5.5 hours on Monday. Fewer hours, but later, on Tuesday).
I don't know about you, but the mental image I have of myself is spouting bad cuss words in the middle of the night. Not the image I want Dyami carrying around, either.

Thankfully, there was no cussing last night. However, I did rant for a while. I'm not sure how long. (Doesn't ranting just make the time fly?) When Dyami pointed out that I was ranting, I got really pissed, and then about ten minutes later (after crying), found it really funny. Makes sense, right?

I felt a little better after meeting with some moms this morning. Turns out three of the four of us had some sort of meltdown last night. So I'm doing about average. Whoopee!

I have realized that one does not emerge from the first year of mommyhood unscathed. One would desire to approach the experience with boldness, grace, and emerge stronger for it. Get our hair mussed, perhaps, but not feel like Valium was called for. Not for our sanity so much, but for the sanity of those that have to live with us.

Question: Why am I using the royal "we"?

I joke about my midnight f-bombs, but in reality, I'm ashamed. Why do I have such anxiety? Why do I let my fear get so ugly? Where is my peace, my joy, my unshakable foundation in the Spirit?
Scary thought: I'm doing much better than I was a few months ago! And these past few nights have been tough, but they have been by no means the worst I've been through! So why cussing now?

This ugliness was right below the surface, pre-Lucy. I'm just more raw, which is why all this stuff comes out now.
Also: I don't want the ugliness to get worse, when she's actually able to understand me better.
I have been praying more than usual, lately, which is possibly why I didn't get out the steak knives along with the f-bombs. But I would like to be doing better. To be better.

So how do I find grace and quiet strength in the middle of the night?

I don't have any answers for myself. (I tend to talk to myself a lot. When I'm not using the royal "we").
On the prayer site I've been trying to use, this was the reading this noon:
"O God, you will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are fixed on you; for in returning and rest we shall be saved; in quietness and trust shall be our strength. " Isaiah 26:3; 30:15

I don't know what I'm returning to, but I want to turn that way. Badly. But my spirit is like balky stroller.
Oh, Lord, may I turn your way. And keep fixed on you. May I be strong, in the middle of the night. May you be Lord of my nights, as well as my days.
May my mouth be filled with your praise, and not--well, all those other things.
May it be filled with silence, if nothing else.

straw poll

So I've been doing an informal straw poll of friends to see if they think I'm crazy. Results are still pending, but no one has suggested stoning.
Yet.
I'm heartened!

I'm sure some of you more independent thinkers find it amusing that I survey friends to see if it's okay if I think differently. Whatever. It helps me sleep better.

Yesterday, we had dinner with my old roomie and her husband. Shoshana challenged God to find her a husband that was a charismatic and a feminist; she was a little taken aback when she met James. (She forgot to specify that he be taller than her. So she went barefoot at her wedding. Problem solved.) When they watch moves (Shosh prefers buddy comedies or action flicks) James is always appalled at the objectification of women that Shosh doesn't notice.

Anyway, I explained to them how I've arrived at thinking more about feminism and God and all those issues, and thought I'd share my explanation with you all. (The three of you! Huzzah!)

See, being a mom really made me realize for the first time that I'm a woman. That my life will be limited by being a mom for the next few years. (Sure, expanded in some ways, but also limited, as in: I want to go to the bathroom/eat/hang out with friends now. Whoops! The baby needs me!) And a lot of this is pure biology: ie; my body produces milk. Dyami's does not. End of story.

And because of some patriarchal experiences in college, I had this sneaking suspicion that God was male. Or at least very, very masculine. CS. Lewis' essay about how women can't image God like men didn't help.

And through all of this, motherhood has been the most intense spiritual discipline I've ever undertaken. And I've understood God's kind creative powers and sustaining power more than ever because I, myself, birthed a person and sustain her.
And I've been praying more (partially out of desperation, partially out of boredom, and partially out of a sincere desire to know God more--hey, one of three ain't bad).
So why, in the midst of a spiritual rebirth, did I feel less and less like God understood me? That I was included in His image? That he valued what I was going through?

That pesky masculinity thing. If God is more accurately imaged my men, then where am I? Does that mean men are godlike? If so, then aren't women inferior by definition?
I didn't want to think any of these things, but my brain kept going over them.

Now that I've researched these issues more (I'll give a full reading list soon) I don't feel so shut out from the Trinity. And I am reminded how much Jesus shattered the patriarchal assumptions of his age. And that God created me in His image, too. So take that, CS Lewis!

In some ways, I'm comforted. But in some ways, I'm profoundly uncomfortable. I liked my not-so-thought-out images of God that didn't challenge conventional wisdom (or my husband's opinion). I'm still searching, and know that I'm not likely to find definitive answers until I meet this God of mine when He comes again or I go to meet Him face to face. Then shall we know, even as we are known.

the wrestler

So I don't really like seeing God in a different, scary way. I would kind of prefer to go back to the easy comfortable, "God is my BarcaLounger*"

Today I went to hang out with some cool women to pray, and I asked for prayer about how I've been thinking about God. I'm pretty good friends with some of these women, and I still couldn't come out and directly say, "So I called God She the other day. Still want to pray with me?"
They seemed pretty unfazed by my honest, if not completely all-inclusive description of what I've been thinking. I think I said something about "considering the feminine aspects of God".

To make things worse, Dyami isn't super excited about my (admittedly) unorthodox thinking. We've agreed to disagree for now, but we're both pretty bummed out to not be on the same page about something we both care about. And I respect this guy's opinion more than practically anyone's in the world, so it hurts my brain not to be able to come to agreement.

Two thoughts comfort me.
1) God is big enough that even if I'm calling him or her the wrong thing, he will forgive me. I'm truly seeking His will, His image here. Her image. Whatever. I'm sick of second guessing pronouns, people!
2) God honors a wrestling match. Jacob (hardly the poster child for the goody two-shoes set) wrestled with Him and received His blessing. I'm allowed to think unconventional thoughts in a sincere desire to know God better. I'm allowed to wrestle with who I think God is.

I made some apple crisp. Apple crisp helps everything, including existential wrestling matches with the divine. Excuse me while I go try to make weight.


*What the heck is a BarcaLounger, anyway? Look here. Motto: "Because you're comfortable with the best."

heresy

So last night I prayed to Mother God in my head.
Actually, I called Her (gulp) Mommy.
To be honest, it felt awfully, awfully good. Like, suddenly, this light turned on in my head. I could look to God to tell me how to be a mother.
Not that a masculine pronoun should have stood in the way of God teaching me to parent. But to be honest, it kind of did, conceptually. And not that I wasn't asking God for help. But He didn't seem--available, somehow. Or (this is going to sound really bad) qualified.

So, I've been thinking a lot about heresy. I mean, if you're edging on the border of it, you think about it some.

Mostly, for me, heresy means What People Will Think. I have lots of little conversations in my head about WPWT. Especially when I'm putting my private thoughts out on a publicblog. (What a great idea, Heather!)
Ms. A stands in for all my non-Christian friends. She's wondering: what's the big deal, anyway? Why shouldn't you call God Mom? And why the heck would you stay in a faith that has problems with it?
Miss B. stands in for all of my more conservative Christian friends. She thinks it's a little suspect that I go to a church that not only ordains women, but used to have a woman as a head pastor. She has been worried about me, but never so much until now. The Bible never uses a feminine pronoun for God. Jesus doesn't call God Mother. So how can I? The Bible is the basis for our faith. If we don't take it seriously, we'll all end up shaving our heads and wearing purple robes. Or worse, spandex!

And sometimes I myself am Ms. A or Miss B. And to be honest, Dyami falls more in the Miss B category. (Though he's fine with ordained women).

When I was little, taking dance, I took both jazz and ballet. For years, I liked jazz best, but at about 12, I started taking ballet more seriously, and got really into it. So much so that in later years, when I tried taking jazz classes, I no longer could get the hang of the steps.
Bear with me: this actually relates.
See, ballet is codified. It's a dance that relies heavily on tradition. So the steps in ballet aren't really much different then the ones performed in the 18th century, in Russia. They even have the same names.
Whereas jazz kind of morphs. It owes a lot to ballet, but more to musical theater and Bob Fosse. And nowadays, probably even more to hip-hop. So the jazz I danced to Paula Abdul (so nasty) in the eighties would look kind of ridiculous now. (So would some of my costumes: bright orange taffeta with polka dots!)

Christianity is like ballet. It relies on authority. The Bible, of course. But also tradition, to help us interpret documents that stand at a cultural, temporal, and lingual remove of thousands of years. And the authority of our church leaders. And also social authority--the authority and opinions of our friends and families (and the inner voices that stand in for them).

In American culture, authority is made to be questioned (or sued). Not so much in Christianity. See, none of us wants to question so much that the dance we're doing bears no relation to the one danced by Jesus. Or Paul. (Or Aquinas or Luther or Wesley)

It's a fine line.

Now, the next issue all this raises (I'm already far out on a limb here, so I might as well inch further over and really risk pissing everyone off) is homosexuality. What gives with Christians getting so worked up about it? And if you start questioning the treatment or place of women, questioning the place of gays follows not too long after.
'Cause a lot of me really agrees with current popular opionion: it really sucks that gays seen as sinful for something that they don't choose (I don't think they do) and is such an integral part of their identity. And to not be accepted in church? To be told you are sinful just for being something?
See, this is where the Bible really gets us into trouble, because unlike with women, there isn't a lot of wiggle room. No depictions of gays that are positive. No gray areas, or problems with translations. No interpretive loopholes.
I heard a pastor of a Presbyterian church in San Francisco speak about this topic. His church has a lot of gay members (big surprise), and he embraces them, and respects them, and I believe they serve in leadership, but he tells them that, much as he'd like to think differently, he does not think it's a lifestyle condoned by God. Because it just ain't in the Bible.

This pains me, too. Because if this whole femininity problem bothers me, being gay and trying to find your place in the church must just be unbearable.
But what are the alternatives? Chuck the Bible and not be Christians anymore? Chuck our (admittedly nuanced) dependence on its authority?
Oh, dear Lord. Help us to understand.