I find it sort of interesting that I regularly get pamphlets and things, as well as visits, from local churches. The one I received today is entitled: Where Is LIFE Taking You?
First, I learned about Heaven and Hell. Then, I learned the reason I can go to heaven and how to get there. 1. "God's Word says that all people are sinners." 2. "There is a price to be paid for your sin." 3. "The good news is that Jesus Christ paid your sin debt for you on the Cross." 4. "Jesus wants to forgive you of your sins and give you the gift of eternal life in Heaven." 5. "You must personally pray and receive Christ by faith as your Saviour."
The last bit, before the booklet flap of contact information, was the instruction: "Pray this simple prayer from your heart to God. Dear Jesus, I know that I am a sinner. I believe you died, were buried, and rose again to pay for my sins. Please forgive me of my sins and be my personal Savior. Thank you for saving me now and giving me the free gift of eternal life. In Jesus' name. Amen!"
It is a Baptist church.
The saddest parts of the booklet are:
- If you try to pay for what you owe as a sinner, you must spend eternity in Hell, separated from God. Baptism, church membership, or any other good works are not sufficient to pay the price for your sin.
- If you believe that Jesus is the Son of God who died for you, was buried, and rose again, then forgiveness is just a prayer away.
It is good that good works are noted as not sufficient, but oh, how sad that Baptism is included in that list! It is also sad that, believing is not sufficient either.
Where is life taking me?
Tuesday morning Amos ate one of my spilled pills. Theophylline. He received a dose four times what a dog might be given. I did not realize what was happening in time to induce vomiting, but I was able to give him activated charcoal—Amos will eat anything wrapped in cheese—which helped him make it through the overdose. My poor puppy did not sleep for 18 hours. He has primarily slept since that mark, taking until today to raise his tail off his backside and wag it. For Firewood Man. I'm still in the dog house for dragging him off to see the vet.
He is sleeping and sleeping and sleeping, working through the strain on his body.
I miss my puppy dog.
Life is taking me to a place where my clumsiness has resulted thrice in Amos getting medication harmful to him.
Last summer, while Sandra was away, I had Firewood Man work on her deck. He cut away a 12x12 section, reworked the railing, repaired the steps, and built two raised bed boxes. He was also to paint it, but the project was so much more than he anticipated that I helped with the first coat of paint and I painted the second coat, with some help from Sandra. I also demolished this strange boardwalk that connected the deck to the garage.
While Sandra was gone, using her funds, I bought the lining, gravel, peat, compost, and soil needed to fill the beds. Lowe's folk loaded the bags of those things in my Highlander and I lugged them from her alley, through her garage, and over to the raised beds. It was very difficult work for me, but I managed it. I wanted to do something nice for her whilst she was away, but the truth is that I also have this thought in my head that in order for someone to be a friend I must do things for that person.
Anyway, Sunday, I went to Lowe's and had the good folk there load up the same items into my Highlander again, since Firewood Man was to be building my raised bed for an herb garden. It is not yet built—though my lush lawn was mowed today ... BLISS—but the bags of all that stuff were still in my vehicle. They were still there because when I went to get them out of my car (who in the world would want compost manure in her car for any length of time), I fell straight on my backside. The force I tried to apply to moving the bags did not budge them an inch. It just budged me to the ground. I was stunned that no amount of effort on my part could even move them in the vehicle itself.
I was stunned.
Life is taking me to a place where I am growing ever weaker.
When Firewood Man was mowing tonight, I went out to talk with him. He had already texted me that it was going to be too late to build the bed, as he had planned to do, and rain-checked me to Saturday (hopefully). But I really didn't want the stinky compost in my Highlander a moment longer. I told him that I had fetched the same items as I did last summer. And then I paused. Tim filled in the rest: "You cannot move them out of the car and want me to do so." I nodded my head. "And I'll need to carry them over the bed when you are ready." I nodded my head again. Tears slipped down my cheeks. Tim, ever the rapscallion, and you're gonna pick a fight with me over thinking you need to pay me to do that lugging. Which one of us do you think is gonna win this time?" "Me!" I blurted out. But even if I write him a check, he will just refuse to cash it. Lugging things is not labor to him. It is helping.
I told him that I ordered the earth worms. He teased me that opening the container and distributing my new yard companions was not a part of our deal. I retorted that I had already decided to see if Marie would be game to tackle that task. Then, because he really is an impertinent pessimist, Tim asked my why I was spending money on food for the robins who have been keeping me company. The robins or the cardinals. He said the finches probably wouldn't want my red wigglers. Now, I'm all worried that my birdie friends, who greatly cheer my spirit each time I am out of doors, will eat the worms I bought to help put the odds of my successfully growing herbs more in my favor.
Then, Tim said I need to feed my earthworms bread. Is he pulling my leg?
Before he left, Firewood Man noticed that my house finches had had their babies. LOTS of chirping is coming from the corner of the back porch roof. He asked if I needed to borrow a shotgun, just to rile me up. Then, before I could punch him in the arm, he very seriously said that if he found out that I climbed on the airing porch and hung over the edge to take pictures of the babies he would never mow my yard again. I think the man can actually read minds. Too bad the railing is not up yet.
I have been rather distraught and have become overwhelmed by feeling defeated over ever really escaping the spiritual terror that oft consumes me these days. It is not that my pastor did not strive to instruct me on Monday, but that we went round and round and round in circles over the Lord's Supper.
He did create the Chart of all Charts for me. It clearly deserves that accolade because he managed to show me the connection between the Small Catechism and the Large Catechism with regard to receiving the Lord's Supper worthily. It was one of those times where I glimpsed what he was driving at and knew that understanding would ... eventually ... be possible. However, a question he asked at the end really discouraged me not for his question but for my inability to answer.
There are three things that, in becoming a Lutheran, I most fervently wish that I never learned. Three things that burden me immensely and terrify me. One of those things is all the bloody talk about piety.
I am sure that I will cause great offense by writing this, but this is really for my memory—although at this point I am afraid in reading over recent entries will send me over the edge. Part of our discussion was about crumbaphobia. It really bothers me the folk who are greatly horrified if a host crumb falls or if some of the host wine spills. The mixture of awe and horror and law over the care and handling of the consecrated elements really bothers me. And, in a way, crumbaphobes are the epitome of my doubts. I am not a crumbaphobe. In fact, I cannot reconcile all that I have learned about our Triune God with a God who would desire me to be a crumaphobe. Honestly, I think God would at least chuckle over the things folk fight about when it comes to handling the Lord's Supper. But the least of those things is bowing before the altar.
I don't bow. Nothing in me feels compelled to bow. And seeing folk bow each and every time they approach or cross before an altar, especially multiple times when preparing things up there, really wigs me out (for lack of a better term).
Catechesis ran long, which left me feeling horribly guilty about forgetting to set a timer and help stay on task. Since there was but an hour before the evening service, I stayed at the church. I stayed at the church and camped down right up in front of the altar.
I camped out and waited.
Nothing in me felt compelled to bow or in any way express reverence whilst there.
Nothing.
In fact, the only thoughts in my mind were about the scene carved on the front. Most of the guys on the right seemed to be arguing about something, not really paying attention to Jesus. The guys on the left were looking toward Jesus, but I wondered if their minds were really on what was happening at the other end of the table. And then I also noted that the way Jesus was carved, His face, seems far more rough, more rugged, than the way his face is carved on the statue up above.
The Lord's Supper Jesus looks far more plebeian to me, whereas the statue Jesus appears more patrician to me. I wondered if a single artist created this ... thing ... or if many folk worked on it. I cannot remember what it is called, though I asked again (for the gazillionth time), but I did write down the other two men, at whom I often stare during services, wondering who they are. On the right is Peter, holding the keys. And on the left is Paul, holding a sword. I was told that Peter represents the ministry to the Jews, whilst Paul represents that to the Gentiles. Jesus, in the middle, is come for all.
So, the altar. Nothing. Nothing at all in me. If I really believed that it is where Jesus comes to us, why do I not have any desire to honor that? I mean, put a gun to my head I know I would die rather than deny the benefits of what I receive in the Lord's Supper. But if you ask me if I believe it is Christ's body and blood, I start to panic. Christ said it is. So, it is. But that is Christ speaking. Myrtle cannot speak those words. Myrtle just doesn't understand. And she is very, very, very worried that believing in the Word of God is not ... sufficient ... to stave off whatever harm there is in receiving the Lord's Supper. That that same gun would go off because my only answer is what Jesus said. Not what I think. Or believe. Or trust.
How is it possible ... is it even possible ... to believe in the Word and the benefits but not really know about the Real Presence? And wouldn't I want to bow if I actually did have faith in the Real Presence?
I sat at the alter and felt nothing.
From what I understand of the term, I had no piety.
I worry that I have no real faith.
But, up there at the front of the church, I didn't merely stare at the altar. I spent a far amount of time staring at Jesus.
Doing so hurt.
I hurt.
The whole time I was sitting at the rail, the question "Who do you say that I am?" was running to my head. In fact, I probably whispered it a few dozen times, in between reading bits of the Bible ... and thinking about those disciples. The thing is, I don't know who was asking the question in my mind. Was it Jesus asking me? I am confident in that answer. Boy, I aced that part in the Baptist booklet designed for me to determine where I would be when I die! But was it me asking Jesus? I have no confidence, no certitude in what His answer would be.
Saul. He haunts me. How could he lose faith? How does one lose faith? As does Jesus response in Matthew 7:23. "I never knew you." Does Jesus know me? Will that be His response to me when I have my shot at the figurative pearly gates?
I wept all of Monday night. All of it. Then I poisoned my dog. More weeping. Then, something Marie pointed out sank in ever so deeply and I wept more.
Marie called to ask how I was doing. I blurted out my fear and the overall feeling of futility that pervaded me after my last catechesis lesson. For one, I realized I couldn't remember that really awesome chart my pastor made for me about the two Sacraments. I had made a binder (with top-loading sheet protectors, of course), but that was after. So, I do not know where that scrap of paper is that I jotted down his chart. Nor do I remember it.
I was bewailing my fear when Marie sort of interrupted me with her confusion that I would be so distraught since she was with me when Mary sent me a message with this really great thought about faith and brought me such peace. Huh?
Marie tells me about the day, about us going to Fresh Market, about me showing her the message there, about her still being with me when I had to pick up Isaac. Huh?
I have absolutely no memory of that. None. When Marie realized this was the case, she made another very astute observation that part of my problem is that I do not remember the consolation I have been given and that those in my life who can do so are not understanding that I do not remember.
She suggested I look at Mary's message again, but I could not find it. And Mary is out of town. I don't know if I recorded Mary's message of consolation on my blog. And that is before Marie started getting my posts via email (and thus actually reading them). So, she doesn't know if it is there either. I am afraid that if I tried to look, plowing through entries of things in the recent past that I already do not remember would leave me worse off than I am at the moment.
On one hand, it is good to have that additional bit of understanding about how my cognitive decline is affecting my spiritual anguish. On the other hand, that I had no clue what she was talking about is utterly defeating. What is the point of continuing catechesis if I cannot remember what I am being taught? If the questions (the answers to which) I have longed to be taught are not something that I can retain, why waste my pastor's time?
I am tired.
I am tired of being terrified spiritually.
I am tired of fighting to grasp something that is no in my reach.
Especially. Especially because it seems as if I am being punished for fighting, for trying to learn, for wanting to know what my confession really is.
I have been having this thought. This very real thought. I am thinking that if I were to take down all the crucifixes, put away all my Bibles and copies of the Christian Book of Concord, clear off the two shelves of study material that are in the bookcase at one end of the couch, and put away my wrinkled-from-being-wet baptismal napkin, then I might just forget. I might forget Jesus and faith. I might forget Jesus and faith and, thus, no longer be so utterly afraid.
Life is taking me to a place where the figurative langoliers are eating their way through my mind, leaving black nothingness in their wake.
I had another house dream last night. In it, I had a terrible leak around the glass ceiling on the third floor. I spent hours working with a repairman to get it fixed before its damage because too great. I talked through the pros and cons of replacement verses repair and discussed the addition of weep holes in my existing storm windows so as to keep water from building up between the window and storm window, since the original windows are all set in wooden frames. We decided to replace the beading and add the weep holes, instead of replacing all the windows because doing so would take the remaining small balance of my retirement fund. I awoke in the middle of the project, my first thought was that today had a rain forecast and the worked needed to be completed before the downpour began.
I looked around in confusion because my walls were not the walls of my home. The windows did not match. Looking outside, the scaffolding that had been built to do the work was gone. But, in looking outside, nothing was as it should be. The neighborhood was wrong. The trees were wrong. The landscaping was wrong. I was not in my house.
Only, I was. I am.
This, where I am at this very moment, is my real home.
Life is taking me to a place where I do not always know what real is.
The final part of the booklet gave me the Key Steps in Helping You Grow in Your Christian life:
- Realize you have a Know-so Salvation.
- Make a public confession of faith.
- Obey the Lord in believer's baptism.
- Attend a Bible-believing church.
- Read the King James Version of the Bible daily.
- Have a daily prayer time.
- Start winning others to Christ.
On this list, I fail at numbers 1, 5, and 7. I do read the Bible daily ... many times daily. But I read the NASB 1977. I am not sure if finally being baptized would count since I am fairly certain that it was not a "believer's" baptism. I took care of number 2 when I was 11. Is accomplishing 43% of the list enough?
I have a collection of these booklets and pamphlets and door knockers.
I wish I would receive the Lutheran version.
But would that matter if I cannot remember?
I really am tired of being so afraid. And I really do wish that I could just forget it all ... all the anguish, all the doubt, all the terror, all the shame. My existence has become so small. I believe forgetting now is possible.
The truth is that ... now ... I forget to feed Amos in the evenings more times that I remember to do so. After starving him on top of poisoning him, I had a come-to-Jesus talk with myself and set yet another alarm, yet another reminder to ring throughout my days telling me what to do: Feed Amos.
I honestly don't know why my puppy dog still adores me.
Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!
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