Gospel Harmony Joy Note 13...

One of the best parts of reading a parallel Gospel happened with the next section I read.  Reading Matthew 8:1, 5-13 and Luke 7:1-10.  I am not sure why, but the words servant and slave are so very different to me.  I suppose I could call someone who knows the Greek, but I suspect it is my knowledge of American History that colors my response.

What master would seek healing for a slave from someone bruited to be a prophet, perhaps even the Messiah?  Wow!  That kind of care, of commitment, is as extraordinary as what came next.  Healing from believing.  

At church, for the Monday evening services, Divine Service Setting One is used.  In it is an offertory that we do not actually sing, which comes right before the Service of the Sacrament.  In that offertory is the same stance that the centurion took:  Lord, I am not worthy.  For the centurion, he was not worthy to have Jesus come to his house.  For us, we are not worthy to approach the Lord's Supper.

One of my most favorite parts of the Large Catechism, as I have oft now said, is Part V.  In particular, start reading at paragraph 55.  There begins this wonderful exploration of the journey our sin and doubt takes us down.  Down and away from the forgiveness, the healing, the sustenance waiting for us.  Oh, yes, I am a wretch, I think as I read.  And Luther agrees.  Yes, you are.  Your worthiness will never get you anywhere.  Because I am unworthy, I am worthy in Christ.

Faith is what earned the slave his healing.  Not even his own faith, but the centurion's.  Not even the centurion's, but the faith in Christ, of Christ, given to him.

All that for a slave, for someone history deems sub-human, viewed as property.

What I am trying to say is that I knew the story as a servant, not a slave.  To me, with all my knowledge of servants and slaves, I appreciate the difference between the words, the class, the perspective.  And it humbled me.

That same awe and humility came in reading one of the signs given to speak back to John the Baptist:  the poor having the Gospel preached to them.  The poor!

There is a praise song that used to be sung in evangelical churches ... long, long ago:

Hear O Lord and answer.
I am poor and needy.
Guard my life for I am devoted to You.
Hear my prayer, O Lord 
and my cry for mercy;  
in this day of trouble I will call for You.

From the Psalter, yes.  I find it sort of ironic that the praise songs that I liked the best stemmed from there.  When I was a missionary in Africa, I learned to sing some straight from the Bible. Those I loved the best.  So, I still sing this song and the ones I learned in Africa.  But, tonight, just now, the poor and needy suddenly made sense.

The psalmist ... and me ... is not poor in money, but in the Word of God.  He is needy in his sin and the sickness, the poverty of being separated from God.  He knows is.  And He knows that God is generous and merciful in the giving of His Word.

Well, at least to me, that is the way of poor and needy.

And I am.
Poor.
Needy.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Choices...

Last night was my second attempt at grass aversion therapy with Amos.  My poor little puppy dog is terrified of the stuff (unless he is distracted by the need to race across the lawn in order to chase the wild rabbit that lives in our yard from his presence).

During the day and now at night, I have tried sitting in the grass and wooing Amos to me.  I have sung songs, spoken invitations, and told him silly puppy dog stories.  I have held out his Babies and laid out a path of treats.  All to no avail.  Primarily, as I labor to cajole Amos out onto the grass, he makes circuits about my perimeter by navigating the brick edging of the beds, the sidewalks, and the stepping stones.  Sometimes, he just sits on the steps.  Most of the time, he is begging me to come back to him.

If I carry him to the grass with me and attempt to set him down, he returns to the safety of a non-grass surface so quickly that he becomes a fluffy white blur.  I am not sure why, but his fears are growing deeper, stronger.  Within their grip, Amos becomes near paralyzed and his entire focus is getting to a place of safety.  Oh, how I understand my puppy dog!

I do find it odd that as some of my fears have eased, Amos' have grown.  Now, he is more at ease in the house with people coming to visit or stopping by.  Once he has met someone, he seems to remember that person the next time ... not  that I have a lot of visitors.  But his barking and shaking and climbing atop my shoulders is much, much, much less inside the house.  With the seminary grad student's fiancé, Amos battled only the slightest bit of fear, before finding his ease.  Seeing that made my heart sing. So, I am not sure why out of doors has become an even greater problem.

Even though he is just a puppy dog, I have started giving Amos choices.  I ask him questions and he responds.  True, he may only be able to recognize one or two words in the question, but he does not always decide the same way.  For example, when we have been outside for a while without any sort of production, even though he has made known his need to be outside, I will ask him if he wants to go poo-poo-outside or to go inside.  He does not always choose the safe haven.  Another case in point, shockingly, when I ask Amos if he wants some food, he does not always choose to rise from his snoozing spot.

Amos has also learned more than I have taught him (I am proud to say that he has learned the command "come").  By this I mean that he has learned the patterns of my life and responds to them.  Those, too, include their choices.  For example, he has learned that when I get out of bed and pick up the ice packs, that means I will be going downstairs to fetch new ones.  Before, Amos would never allow me to leave his side without following, but now, most of the time, he merely waits in bed for me to return.  If I am slow (usually when I also check my blood sugar and then inevitably have to get something to eat), Amos will move to the top of the stairs and wait there.  So, he makes choices according to his comfort level and he has learned to trust that I will return.

Since I now live my life by alarms going off from my phone to remind me of what I need to be doing all day long, when an alarm sounds whilst the two of us are lounging in the GREEN chair, Amos will automatically get up.  When I shut the laptop at night, Amos will get up and head upstairs.  In the mornings (or what passes for Myrtle mornings), if the alarm sounds in my bedroom, Amos leaps up and is all ready to get out of bed.  But if I get up without an alarm, Amos waits until I tell him that it is time to "get up" before he moves.

When I get ready to go out (spend time standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, Amos lies at the end of the hallway by the stairs, because he knows that I will be leaving.  As we move downstairs, he follows me.  When I grab my bag that I take with me (to hold medical stuff and my pocket Book of Concord and my Kindle and such things as to help me pass the time), Amos will then go sit at the front door.

When I get out the purple beach towel, Amos knows he is getting a bath and heads to the tub rather than the basement door (standing at the laundry sink to bath him hurts too much now).  When I get out the nail clippers, Amos goes and hides behind the pillows on the couch, tucking his paws between the seat cushions.  When I fetch this one particular pillow, Amos will oft beat me to the bathroom where I am going to writhe on the floor for a while.

I have also stopped punishing Amos or even speaking or moving in a negative manner when Amos has what I call a "fear poop."  When he is really frightened, Amos poops.  Even if I try to be proactive, such as when I know a stranger will be in the house, and have Amos conduct his major business just prior to the stranger's arrival, Amos still manages to poop again if his fear gets the best of him.  His indoor "accidents" rather bother me and it was not uncommon for my upsettedness to be visual and vocal, as well as internal.  Recently, however, I realized two things:  1) The result is from fear, not willfulness, because he asks to go out when he is in need and 2) my ire primarily stems from the feeling like I have failed as a good puppy dog owner when he has an accident inside.  Neither of those are reasons for punishing Amos or making him feel badly for what has happened.

It used to be that when Amos had a fear poop, he would run and hide because he knew what my reaction would be.  Now, he only backs off a bit, although he does still hang his head.  Sometimes, I have to work at controlling my emotions at the sight (or rather smell since that sense if oft the first indicator of a problem), but I will simply fetch a stretch of toilet paper, some paper towels, and cleaner.  I do not praise Amos for the accident, but I allow him in the GREEN chair, once I am settled back down, without out any sort of fuss or negative response to his joining me.

Thus, Amos has learned my routines, my patterns, what my movements mean.  And he makes choices based upon them.  I am also giving him choices, and he responds to them.  In short, Amos has adapted to my life as it has changed over the two years we have been together.

Would that it were I had, too.
I have not.
Realizing this has weighed heavily upon me.

Tell me that I should get over something or accept something, and you are putting me under Law.  Tell that it is okay to feel badly, to struggle, to not want the life I have, and you are giving me Gospel.  Freedom.  Mercy.

I want that from others.  I need it.  But I also want and need it from myself.  I do not believe that I can, by myself, change me or heal me.  Psychology is important, but so is spirituality, at least for those who live a life in Christ.  Wanting to believe does not always mean that believing will be easy.  Understanding the gift of Mark 9:24, however, can give you the freedom from the law of having to believe yourself. "Immediately the boy's father cried out and said, "I do believe; help my unbelief."

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

This same juxtaposition of belief and unbelief, in a sense, can be found in the first part of Psalm 119: 94, "I am Yours; save me...."

In the psalm, the psalmist spends much of the time giving argument for his piety and his faithfulness and much of the time begging for salvation, for instruction, for refuge.  To me, it is that same pendulum of faith and doubt.  And, as I told someone recently, I have come to understand how it was that Luther could have developed his theology of the cross from the Psalter.

There is a part of me that ... pridefully, I guess ... is disappointed that the Praying the Psalter blog I created simply does not get much traffic, even though for 105 straight days now, I have posted psalms to my Facebook wall from it.  I thought people might like it, might begin to start reading the psalms, praying them, for few that I know actually do so.  I thought the blog might be a tool for showing how rich in comfort and solace the Psalter is, just as how I hoped the Book of Concord Snippets blog would do the same.  For, in both, I have come to see how intimately I am known by God and have, thus, found both a measure of peace and a weapon against my relentless foe.

But even if no one else uses it, I find myself going back and perusing the list of labels and considering the frequency of specific topics.  Granted, with Blogger's 20-label limit, it is not a perfect referencing index, yet it is informative.  For example, in 105 psalms thus far, the cry "how long" occurs 11 times.  A longing that is not triumphant in faith, but rather a tad doubtful or despairing or weary.  Consider the frequency of some of the other labels in those first 105 psalms: afflicted (22), refuge (25), rescue (8), save me (11),  restore (6), remember (12), adversaries (13), enemies (34).

I wish I were still a researcher and could properly code and analyze the content of the prayers of the Psalter.  I know the end of the Psalter has lots of praise and rejoicing, so no accurate conclusion can be drawn, yet, upon the Psalter as a whole.  But in my experience I regularly encounter the struggling sinner rather than the rejoicing saint.  Sometimes, the doubt and despair swing on a pendulum in the same psalm, such as with Psalms 42 or 77.  Sometimes, I see the exact same cry worded identically or nearly identically across several psalms.  And those cries are ones seeking help, refuge, salvation, and recompense.  Recompense for the petitioner and recompense for his enemies.

Why are you in despair, oh my soul?
When will You remember me?
Will I be forgotten forever?
When will Your anger against me cease?

The psalmist speaks of a broken body, heart, and spirit, of a weariness so deep and so heavy that he is consumed by it.  He waits for rescue.  He wonders if he will be rescued.  He remembers God.  He longs for God to remember him.  He is taunted by his enemies.  He taunts them.  He drowns in despair.  He walks in hope.  That is faith.  This faltering belief.  This wavering conviction.  The two sides of the coin being certitude and doubt ... a coin smelted from everything in between.

In the midst of this, I have begun to recognize a pattern.  In some psalms it is very obvious.  And so I wonder if it is also in others, merely subtly and thus beyond my notice.  In this pattern, the psalmist counters his own unbelief with a recitation or a remembrance of the deeds of the Lord, of the works of God.  The psalmist steps outside his thoughts, feelings, and/or circumstances and chooses to focus on God.  Extra nos again.

I wonder if part of Luther's inspiration or impetuous behind including so many specific things to say to our foe in times of struggle in the Large Catechism is because of this pattern in the Psalter.  There is a conversation with the self mingled in with these prayers that is the same as a conversation with our foe.  When you ask yourself, answer this.  When satan accuses, respond that.  Luther gives very concrete examples of making a choice to speak what is True, to remember it, in times of doubt and despair.

Again, all throughout the Confessions, are references to the anguished and anxious soul.  Many times it is to them the author points as the very reason for the Gospel.  In so doing, we learn of the very real, very effective comfort of the Bible.  It is not an empathy or a sympathy, but an actual comfort that guards and protects, that soothes and heals.

In the Psalter, it is a listing or acknowledging or remembering of who God is and what He has done, is doing, and will do that is the counter to anguish and anxiety, to suffering and despair, to doubt and hopelessness.  There is no condemnation for those struggles, but a response for them.  And, to me, often that response is this conscious choice of the Psalmist to let God's Truth be refuge or weapon or both.

In my opinion, there is no better example of this than Psalm 42. I had learned the first three lines of that Psalm in a praise song and thought it was yet another unwavering proclamation of faith. Yet another example of a Hero-of-the-Faith praising God.  But it is not.  Read it.  Read it again.  Read it slowly and swing with the petitioner as he moves from belief to unbelief, back and forth and back and forth again:

As the deer pants for the water brooks,
So my soul pants for Thee, O God.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God;
When shall I come and appear before God?
My tears have been my food day and night,
While they say to me all day long, “Where is your God?”
These things I remember, and I pour out my soul within me.
For I used to go along with the throng and lead them in procession to the house of God,
With the voice of joy and thanksgiving, a multitude keeping festival.

Why are you in despair, O my soul?
And why have you become disturbed within me?
Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him
For the help of His presence.
O my God, my soul is in despair within me,
Therefore I remember Thee from the land of the Jordan,
And the peaks of Hermon, from Mount Mizar.
Deep calls to deep at he sound of Thy waterfalls;
All Thy breakers and Thy waves have rolled over me.
The Lord will command His lovingkindess in the day time;
And His song will be with me in the night,
A prayer to the God of my life.

I will say to God my rock, “Why hast Thou forgotten me?
Why do I go mourning because of the oppression of the enemy?”
As a shattering of my bones, my adversaries revile me,
While they say to me all day long, “Where is your God?”
And why have you become disturbed within me?
Hope in God, for I shall yet praise Him,
The help of my countenance, and my God.

SIGH.

Oh, how my Creator knows me and my Good Shepard saves me, and my Comforter loves me to have caused to be penned this prayer, to give this gift to me!

When Pastor Brown posted on his blog that it was okay to be sad and lonely at Christmas, I was soothed and relieved.  I was also emboldened.  His post gave me the courage to choose to not force myself to go to church during Easter.  Yes, Easter has nothing to do with my past, but the associations remain within me.  Choosing to allow the time to pass without the strain of battling all that is within me and having to be surrounded by joyous folk and all that family togetherness at the same time was good, right, and salutary for me.  I had no migraines this Easter.  I was sad and lonely and I struggled, but I was migraine free.  And my wounds were not deepened, because I neither punished myself nor heaped shame upon myself for not being in church.

All of this is not to say that faith is a choice.  It is a gift.  This I know.  But we do have choices in our lives.  Choices that I believe come from the strength of the Living Word.  

In the Psalter, the petitioner speaks of doubts and struggles and speaks of Truth.  The Truth bears the weight of those doubts and struggles, literally turning mourning into joy.  For the longest time, I thought that transformation was a permanent one, but how could it be here?  We live in a fallen world where the devil, the world, and even our own flesh fight against us, trying to tear us from God.  How, then, could the struggle to believe ever really be over? 

I have given Amos the freedom of choice.  In doing so, I have given him the freedom to be who he is and not who I think he should be or who I want him to be.  Yes, I will continue to try and work on things, such as his fear of the outdoors, of grass, because it is important that a dog be able to tend to his business if he has learned that his business is to take place on the grass (ground) out of doors.  But I will not force him.  I will only speak the truth to him.  I will give him the opportunity to choose and accept his choice either way.

Sometimes, this means that I have to drag myself from the GREEN chair when he asks to go outside repeatedly because his fears drive him back indoors before he can tend to his bodily needs.  Twice.  Thrice.  Four times before his relief is found.  In fact, most of the time this is his choice.  Far less than I want does he look longingly at the back door before taking a tentative step away from the safety of the back steps (and me) onto the sidewalk, onto the surface that will lean him to the object of his fear but also to the relief of his body.

I still find myself terrified as I am writhing in agony from my innards malfunction, but I am learning to choose to let that fear be okay to experience as I work to remember or to recite at least one thing that I know to be True about God about, who I am in Christ, about what the Holy Spirit is doing to me through the Word and through the Sacraments.

One thing.  

That is another gift of the Psalter.  In Psalm 27, the psalmist boils down all his longing to just one thing: to dwell in the house of the Lord forever.  All else can fade away.  All hopes and dreams and desires.  And in focusing on one thing, all doubts and fears and struggles can also pale in power.  Present though they may still be, perspective has set them in their place within the life of faith.  Some day only one thing will be left.  Perhaps not now.  Perhaps not for decades.  But eventually.

Barring some mighty work of God, I am not going to be that suffering saint.  I am not the one to rejoice in my suffering and walk in confidence all the way.  I am Psalm 42 and 77 and a host of others.  I want to be 91 now but I understand that I will be some day.  And I know that Christ is now.  In Him is enough.  Even if my life in Him is a broken, quivering mess.

As Luther advises, greet the taunts of your foe without prevarication.  

"You are a sinner!"

Yes, I am.  But I am baptized.

"You are not worthy to approach the altar!"  

No, I am not, but Jesus bids me come anyway.

"You struggle to believe!"

Yes, I do, but I am not saved by my belief but by the obedience and faith of Jesus Christ.

"You are not holy!"

No, in the flesh, I am not.  But in Christ I am and the Holy Spirit sanctifies my sinful flesh through the Word of God and through the Sacraments and will not cease to do so until I am made whole and holy in glory.

"You are weak."

Yes, I am, but Jesus is not.

"You don't even know what to pray!"

No, I do not, but God arranges the prayers on my lips, Jesus continually prays for me, and the Holy Spirit is always interceding for me.

"You do not have the confidence of the Christians around you."

No, I do not, but Jesus left the 99 to go after the one who wandered away.

"You do not want the cup of suffering!"

No, I do not, but neither did Jesus.  He chose it anyway, for me, knowing that my knowing He did would still not keep me from struggling and doubting and not wanting to suffer.  He forgives me, so I can at least accept who He has forgiven.

"You live in fear."

Yes, I do, but the Psalter shows me I am not alone in those fears.

"You live in shame."

Yes, I do, but the Psalter tells me that God delights in me and recompenses me according to the cleanness of my hands.

"You do not always rest in the Truth."

No, I do not, but the battle is over and you have lost.  Even if I forget that victory for a moment, a day, a month, a year, the outcome is the same because it is not I who clings to Christ, but Christ who clings to me.

As someone who has been "accomplishing" and "doing" her entire life, living a life that is ever dwindling in strength and stamina is a struggle.  I feel the failure. I feel as if I am a succubus upon the world.  I do nothing. I serve no one. I further not the kingdom of God.  If you could see how little time I spend away from resting and recovering, I think I would die of shame.  Honestly, I am not sure I could even be around my best friend and be who I really am ... not mask, not pretend, not over work myself or strain my body and mind to the point of near collapse.  I just cannot be that person yet.

But I can no longer punish myself for that particular struggle.  I can try to do something from the confines of my new existence, even if I am afraid it result in scorn and failure rather than in service.  And I can focus on just one thing in the maelstrom that oft rages around me.  

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Gospel Harmony Joy Note 12...

As much time as I spent reading all that came before this next section, I have spent reading this one.  I want to move on, but I didn't want to do so until I could write about it.  Only, how do you write when you are not sure of the words or the Word?

Deli meat.  Deli meat is what finally came to mind.

I do not know another person who views deli meat the way I do.  All my life, I have watched others make a sandwich with deli meat where the bread and fixings vastly out proportioned the meat.  Economics always came up if I dared to bring up having just one or two slices of deli meat on a sandwich.  Me? I pile the stuff on.  Pile.  My philosophy is that if you are having a meat sandwich, the meat ought to be the primary focus, not everything else.  Not anything else.

The funny thing is, to me, that those who use but a single slice or two, would mightily protest at such parsimony were they to be purchasing a sandwich from a deli.  If they are craving a turkey sandwich, they do not want to be served a sandwich consisting primarily of bread, lettuce, tomatoes, and/or condiments.

In a way, you could think of the meat sandwich as the Good News.  If the bread is the Law, then the meat is the Gospel.  Of course, Jesus being the bread of life probably negates the metaphor from the start, but consider overlooking that one literary flaw.

Sometimes, it seems to me that the Good News sandwiches being served up these days are rather light on meat.  As if economics are at play ... as  if too much Jesus might be bad somehow.

Right now, in many places in the online Lutheran community, there is this war waging over sanctification.  Too much to write about save for the fact that, in my opinion, few even note the fact that it is the Holy Spirit who sanctifies, not how a pastor preaches or what a Christian does.  We are sanctified by the Holy Spirit through the Living Word and the Sacraments.

So, for me, it is ... strange ... that I came upon this section about the Law in my parallel Gospels at just such a time.

I left off finding that it was fitting how Jesus followed the sermon on the mount, on telling us who we are in Him, by teaching that He came to fulfill the Law, not abolish it.  I have been dwelling up such a marvel, but even so I still cannot puzzle out the next set of passages.

1. Matthew 5: 21-48 / Luke 6:27-30, 32-36   
2. Matthew 6:1-18                                          
3. Matthew 6: 19-7:6 / Luke 6:37-42
4. Matthew 7:7-27 / Luke 6:31, 43-49
5. Matthew 7:28-29

One of the features of this book are section headers.  I find them to be very different from the headings in my Bibles.  They are more of an outline, one for which I am extremely grateful in the help it provides in comprehension of the Gospels as a whole.  In fact, at the front of the book is a listing of all of the headings, major and minor, with a five columns listing references from the Gospels and then the page on which the section begins.  I have already gone back to that listing to more easily review previous topics, and I anticipate it being a help long after I am finished with my initial reading of this parallel Gospel.

The five section headings for the passages above are below.  I will note that they are all minor sections continuing the major section entitled Appointment of the Twelve and Sermon on the Mount.

1. Six contrasts in comparing the Law
2. Three hypocritical practices to be avoided
3. Three prohibitions against avarice, harsh judgment, and unwise exposure of sacred things
4. Application and conclusion
5. Reaction of the multitudes

While I was reading the first set of passages listed above, my heart sang.  My very first thought was So, this is where Luther got the idea for how he wrote Part One of the Large Catechism!  If you are a writer, once you get over the utter shock of reading how there is no escape from the Law, you marvel at the craftsmanship of how Luther wends his way from the letter of the Law to its spirit.  For me, I especially marvel at his skillful use of juxtaposition of a simple sentence following either a rich and full of description passage or a deep, complex sentence.

But I digressed.  Craftsmanship aside, take the commandment not to steal.  You read the commandment and immediately start congratulating yourself for not being a thief.  But Luther teaches us that not only are we not to steal, we are also to prevent others from stealing from our neighbors, to protect our neighbors' wealth, and to help our neighbors increase wealth.  Not stealing is actually all that?  Luther spins out the fullness of the Law from something we might erroneously believe is in our grasp until he leaves us gasping with the weight of the knowledge that we cannot keep the Law.  Only Jesus can.

In the passages I read (and have been re-reading again and again), Jesus spins out the depth of the commandments about murder and adultery, about deceit and about loving our neighbors.  As the verses piled one upon the other, I thought of the Large Catechism and laughed.  I thought of the Large Catechism and wept.  I know my sin. How could anyone entertain any notion of participating in sanctification, in making themselves holier.  In reading these passages of the Gospel, I understood them for the first time and rejoiced that Jesus is my keeping of the Law before God.

And while I do not wholly understand Matthew 5:48, "Therefore you are to be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect," I assumed this was Jesus' way of coming full circle. Obviously, I, as a sinner, cannot possibly be perfect. This, this teaching of the Law from the Living Word, is why the angels proclaimed in Luke 2:14, “Glory to God in the highest. And on earth peace among men with whom He is pleased.”  I cannot be perfect, but Jesus is.  His teaching demonstrates the impossibility of man keeping the Law, but we already know that with God all things are possible (Luke 1:37).  Maybe a better way to put it is that, for me, Matthew 5:48 was an Alpha and Omega moment.  Jesus is the beginning and the end.  I came to fulfill the Law ... because to do so you must be perfect.

But with the next section and the ones following, the clarity began to fade.  I am not seeing the Gospel within them. I do not understand what Jesus is saying.  At least with most of it.

The parts about giving and praying, again reminded me of Luther's writing, especially all the points he made about the foolishness of the members of monasteries who assumed their lifestyles made them more righteous, more holy, so much so that they sold their "extra" holiness to others.  That sounds so absurd, but all the talk about sanctification bruited about, talk that to me is just the other side of the coin of works righteousness (not that righteousness and holiness are synonymous), sounds just as absurd.  If all talk of salvation, justification, and righteousness must have its beginning, middle, and end with Christ crucified, then all talk of sanctification must have its beginning, middle, and end with the Holy Spirit.  Yet so often then end of sanctification talk is with man and what he does, rather than with the Holy Spirit and what He does through man.

However, the third section and the fourth become more confusing to me, for they read as instructions on how to live, instructions as absolutes.  We are sinners.  We live in a fallen world.  We simply cannot do all of these things.  Do not judge.  Oh, how we judge! Give more than is asked.  Oh, how we are misers. Treat others as we want them to treat us.  Oh how we hurt even the ones we love!  Ignore the false prophets.  Much of the Church in America is enamored with the teaching of a woman who declares she is no longer a sinner. Build your house upon rock. The rocks we oft use are ones of our own fashioning and thus really are sand.

Jesus also speaks of dogs and swine and narrow gates and treasure and fruit and those who think they are His sheep but are not.  Yet in the middle of this instruction piled upon instruction we have Jesus declaring, "Ask, and it shall be given to you; seek, and you shall find; knock, and it shall be opened to you. For everyone who asks, receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it shall be opened" (Matthew 7:7-8).

That, too, sounds like doing, even if it is filled with promise.  Only is not Jesus the verb of a life of faith?

On an aside, one of the things I find fascinating about Matthew 7:7-8 is its symmetry with Revelation 3:20, 'Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and will dine with him, and he with Me."  In Matthew, it reads as if I am to knock. However, in Revelation it reads that Jesus is knocking.  In Matthew, it reads as if Jesus is opening the door.  However, in Revelation it reads as I am to open the door.

For me, I choose to put these two passages squarely in the category of one of the mysteries of God of which we (or is it pastors?) are to be stewards of, as Paul writes 1 Corinthians 4:1.  Perhaps I should care more who exactly is to serve as steward, but my focus is on the fact that mysteries of God exist in the first place.  Not all  is revealed to us.  We truly do see but in part, see through a glass darkly (I Corinthians 13:12, at the moment.  Perhaps it is not a coincidence the imagery of mysteries and dark glass resides in the same epistle?

Alas, though, all those thoughts reside in single verses, when what I at least have learned is: context, context, context!

I do not understand most of the sections in this part of my reading in the harmonized Gospels.  As I have read and re-read, other verses and bits of the pure doctrine I read in the Book of Concord flit into my mind, but I have not grasped the Gospel of this part of the Gospels.  I see Law ... or rather I see Gospel as Law, and I know that it not correct, not what is truly being presented here.

The final minor section (of the larger one), just two verses, concludes with the notation that the multitudes marveled that Jesus was teaching as one with authority instead of as a mere scribe.  The multitude did not know, did not understand, that the Living Word was teaching the Word of God.  What greater authority is there than the One through whom and by whom all things came into being, the One who came to fulfill the Law?

I suppose the crux of this note is that while I still am confused, and lack the clarity with which I had rejoiced in all the previous sections I have read thus far, I believe it is time to stop lingering here.  The Holy Spirit will reveal what should be revealed, eventually.  This I believe.  This is my cognitive rest when it comes to reading the Bible.  So, I am working on resting in that part of the Promise given to me, and I moved my bookmark to the beginning of the next section for when I open the parallel Gospel again.


Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

Shift work...

I am not a shift worker.  At all.

Ever since I was a little girl, I have been one of those who works hard and works long.  In fact, at 11, I was cleaning housing for very good money.  Actually cleaning entire houses by myself.  Including making patterns with the vacuum cleaner, cleaning out appliances, and cleaning all the glass in the light fixtures, on top of tackling bathrooms, the kitchen, dusting, and laundry.

The last three moves, I have unpacked everything and had all the artwork (save for the heavy stuff here since I had to learn how to do so in lathe and plaster walls) hung within the week.  That includes cutting down the boxes and cleaning up all the stray packing materials.

Really, I only know one type of work: Work until the job is finished, even if you drop dead afterwards.

So, while my life has become one that is primarily lived in the GREEN chair, I still have yet to shed this aspect of who I am.  For someone whose disability is making itself ever more known, this is not good.  I need to acquire the skill of shift work.

Even here.

When I finished painting the closet wall/door in the basement living space, I swore ... took a solemn vow ... never to paint again.  I hurt too much.  I mean, who else would duct tape a paint brush to her hand in order to paint?  Me.  I had to finish the job.

In the past week, I have been confronted by the fact that I am no longer capable of doing the yard work that I did even last fall.  I weeded for less than an hour the other day and was certain I was close to meeting my maker.  I shall not mention the number of times I fainted or how knackered I was for hours on end afterwards.  I chalked up the unexpected reaction to a fraction of the time I have spend sitting on the ground mucking about in the soil to it being extra warm day with bright sun.

But.  No.

Yesterday, I went over to a friend's house to edge her yard and dig up a small amount of junk bushes from her front bed.  I wanted to give her some visual rest from the mess in her bed for when she came home from her trip.  [I also arranged for someone to remove the large bushes and created an initial plan to beautify the front bed the previous owners grossly ignored.]  While there, I also unburied enough edging stone to re-establish a border on the bed, since it was only lined at the corners.  With all of the rain, the small bushes practically leapt out of the ground.  However, she does have two more sidewalks (perpendicular-to-the-house ones) than I do.  Even if I wanted to do so, sweeping up the mess I made was utterly out of the question. I lingered there quite a while just to try and gather the strength to drive the single block back to my house.

Thinking of this new reality for me and of the needs of my own yard, I spent the evening overwrought not only in body, but in mind.  How in the world am I going to keep up my own yard, even with primarily low-maintenance beds?  Weeds can never be completely eliminated.  And I have this rather pesky ground cover, Snow-on-the-Mountain, I have systematically been removing from the beds I created in all but two locations.  SIGH.

This evening, I tried shift work.

I had three spots where the ground cover had really started to re-establish itself, two of them being on the other side of the brick border of the section I left for the wild rabbit that lives in my back yard.  So, I worked only on a single section at a time, sitting on the ground and using my trowel to hasten the job.  Three rounds meant that I finished in pitch dark (after an evening nap), so I used the headlamp a plumber gave me when I admired it in an effusive manner over the course of a two-day job.  

I supposed you could call this first attempt success, but it has dawned on me that nearly everything I do needs to be shift work.

I should not be doing all stages of laundry on the same day, simply for the fact that doing so means too many trips up and down the stairs.  Cleaning, also, needs to be done in even smaller shifts than I had imagined.  For example, instead of cleaning just the bathrooms, I need to clean only one bathroom at a time.  One.

I have been tackling smaller jobs, but have done so one after another after another.  It is how I was raised. It is also who I am.  The hard worker.

My Ph.D. was completed in less than three years.  I have always been both admired (and chastised) for my rather prodigious production levels at work (apparently being highly productive can intimate others???).  In my first house and this one, I have done an enormous amount of hard labor, repairing and renovating.  Even as my body has been slowly falling apart, I still managed to finish a basement.  From the outside, I am sure I look odd ... or even a tad crazy.  I work in pain. I work in tears. I work even when I can barely move or knowing that when I try to move from where I am working an explosion of pain will come. I work until I faint and then awake to work some more.  There is only me and so I must do the work.  If there is work needing doing, once started it must be finished.

True, I like order.  I like a clean and attractive house. But the truth is that I really enjoy leaving something better off than I found it, from a job to my own home and everything in between.  For example, back when I used to babysit, after the children were asleep (having picked up their rooms and bathed), I would clean the kitchen and even do laundry.  Sitting in a chair watching television or reading a book seemed somehow wrong to me.  If I was there to be of help, then that meant even after the children were in bed.

With this house, I want very much for the next owner(s) to feel as if it is modern and livable even as its historical nature is preserved.  When I was looking at houses online before I moved here (I bought it sight unseen/online photos only), I saw so many that were as old as mine, but that had been gutted and updated so much so that no one would know the house was built nearly 100 years ago.  So, I have made careful choices as I have worked on it in order to balance its nature with modern living.  Creating an inviting utility space/laundry area, restoring a basement bath area, and adding a living space is a part of making this an attractive house that has three living levels, not merely two.

Of course, not working, I had to do most of the work myself.  And in so doing, I ignored pain others would have not endured in the first place and have driven my body to the brink over and over and over again.  However, even if I wanted to continue to do so, I cannot.  This week drove that point home in a harsh and unequivocal way.

Shift-work-weeding, three sessions of no more than 15 minutes, still required one nap, a couple of hours of resting, and enduring pain in my body even as I type this.  For me, now, sitting unaided and/or using my hands for any length of time has dear consequences.  The same is true for standing and trying to walk for extended periods.

How in the world am I going to learn to do things in small increments?  
How am I going to learn to leave work undone?
How can I change who I am?

If truth be told, I have come to another disturbing realization that coincides with what I have learned about extended laboring.  I believe that another part of my body is mal-functioning and discovering that is the real reason behind setting out to get some hard work accomplished.  By this I mean I realized that my reaction pattern to noticing another loss within my body is to act as if nothing has changed at all.  To ignore. To pretend. To mask.

Last Friday, I came back from picking up a prescription and nearly vomited when I opened the door.  The house was filled with such a rancid smell that I immediately proceeded through the house and out the back door to escape the smell.  And then I panicked.  Surely, there was a dead animal somewhere.  Surely, what I was smelling was not the seminary grad student's cooking.

Just in case, I darted back inside, ran the disposal with hot water and lavender dish soap, and then followed that up with spraying Clorox cleaner down the disposal.  Afterwards, I fled outdoors again, voicing my worries about the smell to a friend on the phone.  Finally, unable to find a dead animal, I asked the seminary grad student to come upstairs and take a whiff.  As I did so, I noted it was only on the first two floors.  After being in the kitchen for a while, sniffing here and there, he finally recognized the lingering oder as his dinner.  His dinner that he found tasty.  A normal sort of dinner ... no sardines or anything like that.

My hearing does not work well anymore.  Sounds are distorted. In fact, even the vibration of an open window in the car is so painful to me I cannot bear it.  When I listen to music, I have the bass completely turned down (-5) and the treble completely turned up (+5).  I can hear it better that way.  But when my best friend was driving me to my father's funeral, she could not tolerate what was coming from the car speakers.  What was "normal" to me was painful to her ears.

My vision is the same way ... has been far longer than most everything else.  Even with the right correction to my contacts and now glasses, I often have blurred or double vision.  Several years ago, I went for a new prescription and had a melt-down of sorts in the doctor's office when I looked at the piece of paper in my hand and saw that she had not changed the numbers at all.  How could that possibly be?  I could barely see!

I am ashamed to admit that not only did I weep in frustration, I refused to leave until she tested me again herself ... no technicians at all.  The results were the same.  I had gone to see her because she specialized in patients with neurological problems.  As I wept, she carefully explained that while the lens correction was right, my brain was not interpreting what I was seeing properly.  The nerves were not functioning as they should.  In fact, she was not surprised at what I was experiencing.  Blurred and double vision are, after all, facets of multiple sclerosis.  The color loss, painful movement, and sensitivity to bright light I also battle she marked up to optic neuritis.

For months now, I have been noticing that many of my favorite things to eat no longer taste right to me or no longer bring the same enjoyment when they do not taste wrong.  Suddenly, it hit me.  My smell-a-nator must be malfunctioning, too.  Whatever nerves control olfactory senses surely are growing wonky because I know the seminary student would not be eating rancid food.  And, when he first came in August, I had no issue with what he cooked.  Last Friday was the worst time, but there have been others, of late, where I could not bear the smell of his culinary efforts.

Another loss within me.  Another change.

Of course I care little for how I respond to what the seminary student prepares for his meals, but I do care very much about the fact that foods I savor are no longer savory to me. How did I handle that realization?  By setting out to clean up the yard and tend to the weeds that have cropped up with all the rain we had.  By cleaning and organizing and working at any and everything.  By collapsing in the GREEN chair and then dragging myself up out of it just a short while later.  Even when I am increasingly exhausted because I have had more and more nighttime innards writhing bouts.

Shift work.
I need to learn shift work in chores and in facing the things happening to my mind and to my body.
Only how in the world do I change who I am in such a fundamental way?


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Back here again...

I had become accustomed to less writhing than more. It is back to more. Of the past week, nightly. Hours in agony brings me back to despair and my wordless pleas to God ... though for what I no longer know. Strange, for me, to longer desire death as my release. Yet what else is there from this ... existence? With the times of all my other medications, I was trying to avoid the activated charcoal. Weeping, I now call myself a fool. and yet in the midst of it all, I find myself rather oddly wondering what mercy is it that I beg ... shamefully ... from God?

I am also back in that place where no matter what or how much I drink my thirst is never slaked. Such a small thing in the midst of the agony that is abdomen so swollen I wish for someone to slash it open just for relief. Thinking, primarily that such an action would also stay the nausea and dizziness. Yet all the drinking makes me wonder if I might merely just explode.

And in the midst of all of this are my jumbled thoughts of water ... having begun to notice, with all my labeling of the psalms in my Praying the Psalter blog, just how often water comes up.

Sometimes, I am the woman at the well, wondering what in the world Jesus means by Living Water. What an odd moment for her that must have been ... hearing of something unknown and immediately being filled with longing for it.

Which leads to another label: How Long. The Psalter is filled with that question. For years, know, I have been fascinated by the fact that the question is shared by both Triune God and man within the Scriptures.

Could it be that somewhere deep within my wordless cries to God is that question?

Would that it were I could retain the Words of the Psalter within me so that I might, in such times, pluck from my mind the ones that speak of my heart and offer them to God. I know they are there. I just cannot remember them.

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

This spring and last...

It is hard, for me, to face just how much has changed with my body, with my mind, with my life.  I laughed today.  A day that I laugh is one to be cherished, no matter what else happens that day.

Yesterday, I set out to clear Amos' deposits in preparation for some long-over due mowing.  A small  delay and copious amounts of rain resulted in growth you could almost see if you watched long enough.  The grass was so hard, I could not find anything to clear out.

Since my labor was going to be spent that way, I decided to dig out the ground cover that had crept into the grass.  My beloved grass.

It was there because I was too weary last fall ... this winter.  SIGH.  I saw the ground cover growing up against the brick border that was laid and spill over.  I should have just used the straight shovel all along the border to stab deep in the ground to cut the roots.  But, while I oft thought about doing so, I never did.  Just the thought of the labor was exhausting to me.

Perhaps an hour passed, between digging with my trowel along about 12 feet of yard and tending to a small patch in the side bed and two weeds in the front.  Two.  Two I had to totter up there, so weak and wobbly and completely fatigued was I.  An hour.  Just last summer, I could have sat on the ground for twice that without being so utterly devastated within my body.

That I was this way discouraged my whole being.  I notice things.  Small things.  Tiny witnesses to what I am losing.  I wonder why no one else does.  But few are around to see.  And, if they are around, some silly part of my self spends all my energy, and then some, to mask those losses.

After a few hours, I went to clean the bathroom for the guest that was arriving.  I fainted four times.  Four times merely scrubbing the tub, the toilet, and the sink and cleaning the mirror (I had tended the floors the day before).  I wish I had the courage to tell folk that they are most welcome to come but need to scrub the tub themselves.  That ... and put sheets on the bed ... both fore and aft the visit.

Four times.
I should have done what I do for myself.
Climb in the tub, sit down, and scrub before I shower.

Today, I asked the one mowing to leave the cord out for me so I could shape the burning bushes some more.  Wildly overgrown when I moved here, today was my third pruning job over the past two years.  Primarily, the second one last fall was the major work.  However, pruning with leaves is harder than pruning without.

So, after putting it off for quite a while, I fetched the electric hedge trimmers, picked up the cord, and rounded them as I wished.  No more than 10 minutes passed between pruning and winding up the cord and returning both cord reel and trimmers to the garage.  10 minutes.  And I was huffing and puffing and oh, so tired.

But it is not just the fatigue.  It is the blankness growing in my mind.  The things I am forgetting.  The things that become having-never-passed.

So often, too often, I heard that my life has changed and I have to move on.  "You need to get over it."  Get. Over. It.  Horrid words.  Cruel words.  Ignorant words.  Were it possible I would. Truly, I would.  But how do you get over something that is still happening?  How do you absorb losses that daily continue?

My darned lawn mower broke today.  Two weeks ago, for the first mow, it worked fine.  Today, the mower started a pass and it died.  Nothing.  Not a bit of power.  Wanting for it not to be so, I pulled apart the handle where the switch is and the cover, but there was no evidence of broken, pulled, or blacked wiring.  Being two years past its warranty, I suppose I got my money's worth.  Still, just four years?

Its brokenness meant being confronted by my own.

I, the scholar.  I, the knowledge manager.  I, the communications expert.  I, the writer.  Me, all those things I used to be ... the person who once thrived on the challenge of juggling multiple projects and task ... the one who cannot make a decision, who, when decisions come my way, begins to sink into panic, to become paralyzed with the burden of figuring out what to do.

After much angst, my best friend's husband came to the rescue, listening to what I had learned about an alternative to the Black and Decker model I have purchased three times, weighing pros and cons with me, and pin-pointing that factor which tips the scales one way or the other.  I happen to believe our minds are rather similar when it comes to thinking about things.  So, perhaps it was easier to do so for me.  But so few are willing to help me this way, are willing to just make a decision for me.  A decision on things that matter not, with regard to all the other things I have to face.  His help was pure and utter mercy.  Mercy heaped upon me that halted the panic and freed me from its prison.

Mercy that came even though I struggled to talk with him at first, to focus, because I saw my friend's photo on the phone and yet his voice was on the other end of the line.  I have to practice everything, rehearse everything. I cannot handled the unexpected, even if it is a good thing.

To me, it honestly does not matter if the lawn mower decision turns to be one that is less than the best.  I care not.  I just need to be told what to buy, what to do.  I need that on the things that are inconsequential to the dark and deep things weighing upon me.  I would not ask you to tell me what choices to make in medication or treatment or such things.  But what to buy, where to go for something, what to do ... that helps.  Immensely.

The seminary grad student encouraged me, having not yet changed the oil, to use a deal that came up on Groupon for both an oil change and tire rotation.  He had a concrete plan for something I had been putting off, primarily because I have always gone to Toyota, where getting in and out never happens under three hours.  I cannot sit in a chair in the waiting room for three hours.  I cannot do so for an hour.

He and his fiancé both helped me to set up an account, to purchase the deal, and to download an app to show at Jiffy Lube when my printer would not print the Groupon PDF.  I have a plan.  The number is in my phone, along with an alarm to call and ask which time of day has less traffic.  I go there. I show the deal.  I finally get the oil changed and rotate tires that have been in the same place for three years.  And I will be in a place where service is built around quantity and thus speed.  Why didn't I think of that?

I doubt either of them understand what mercy they showed me in helping me come to a decision on where and how to change the oil.  In walking me through an unfamiliar process.  No matter that it is a simple thing to join Groupon.  It is not simple for me.  

New things are not.
Following directions is not.
Making plans or decisions is not.

That refrigerator decision, finally made by a stranger in Lowe's, dragged on for a year.  Month after month the shame of wasted food when money is such an issue.  The burden so great I would weep for hours.  Today, my lawnmower broke, I frantically called all the males I know (and friends with husbands) and left messages, my dearest friend's beloved called me back, a new one was chosen, and it is waiting for me at Lowe's ... once I remember to pick it up.  [The growing grass should be a strong enough reminder to fetch it.]

It is hard to face the losses in my mind. It is hard to face the losses in my body.  It is especially hard when I have to face both.  And it is near impossible to face when all the while I have a stark contrast between a time this year and last.

The truth of me is that I spend most of my time hiding. I hide in books. I hide in movies and television shows.  I hide in the Book of Concord.  And I hide in the Psalter.

With the Confessions, I find ineffable comfort in all the times the anguished soul, the anxious person, the terrified conscience is mentioned.  I find comfort in both that the answer for such is the consolation of the Gospel  and that someone like me is not the exception, but the expected.

With the Psalter, I find ineffable comfort in the wild swings of certitude and doubt, of exultation and despair.  Again, how I struggle, how I feel, is expected for these are the prayers my Creator gave His children, gave me, to pray.

In a way, the fact that I do not remember, given how much time I spend hiding, is almost a good thing.  The movies and shows are "new" to me.  As are the words of the Confessions and the Living Word of the Psalter.

In this, it matters not the differences between this spring and last.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Girding my loins...

I find it difficult to go to church, even on good days.  A host of obstacles always seem to be flung in my path.  And when one is cleared, another appears just behind it.

I love, love, love that my church has an evening service that is liturgical.  While I would rather it be the setting used most on Sunday, Divine Service 3 since I know that one, but I am slowly ... very slowly ... learning Divine Service 1.  It is a shortened service in that just one hymn is sung, but nothing else is stinted.  For me, given that I know so few hymns, that loss is felt less keenly than most might.  I used to really enjoy hearing hymns sung about me, but now that it is so difficult for me to discern melodies or hear the words.  Well, the reminder of how much my brain has changed how I regard being surrounded by hymn singing.

The church is old, and the walk from handicapped parking to at least 1/3 of the way into the pews is rather long.  It is even longer after having sat in the wooden pews for the duration of the service.  A long time ago, one of the pastors mentioned the option of coming in the side door.  I could swear he said I would need to walk through the small chapel, and looking at where the chapel is located, I was not sure how much shorter the walk would be.  Then, the other pastor mentioned it again, and I opted to try it out.  It turns out that there are three side doors, and one is but a hop, skip, and a jump from the sideways pews that line the front third of the church.

However, going in the side door meant that I did not get a bulletin.  That means that while I can follow the liturgy in my hymnal, complete with bookmarks for both halves of the service, I would not have the words of the introit, the Scripture references and copy, or the hymn of the evening.  The last two services meant I was lost much of the time.  Being lost in church is most especially discouraging for me.

I do not like the reminder that I simply cannot comprehend oral text.  Even if you read to me from the Bible, I need to be following along to retain something of it.  Something.  When I watch movies and shows online, I read summaries before, during, and after the watching.  Even with sound and visuals, I struggle to remember what I am hearing, what is happening.

When I was having the cognitive testing for the disability application process, the most brutal moment was when the psychiatrist read me a story and then asked me questions about it.  I could not answer a single question.  Not on the first story.  Nor the second.  Nor the third.  I, the literacy professor, utterly failed at listening comprehension.

I was so stunned at the blankness in my mind that I could not continue the testing for a while.  With regard to the story, there was nothing there.

During the sermons, now, I barely remember any of the text. I try to hold on to a point or two of the sweet, sweet Gospel, but all too often at the end of the sermon, my mind is blank.  Thankfully, the church began recording the sermons last fall.  So, I can listen to them over and over and over to actually hear the Living Word.

During the Scripture readings, I follow along in the bulletin.  I also re-read them when I get home that night and throughout the week.  But without the bulletin, the reading of the Living Word just resulted in more blankness in my mind.  The first week, I tried to remember the reference given and look up the passage as the pastor was starting to read, but I could not.  I find it difficult to look up a written reference.  Remembering and finding a spoken reference is an impossibility.

Being in church, lost much of the time, I wept.  And I felt so very guilty.  Should I not merely be thankful for being in church and for receiving the Lord's Supper?  Oh, how I wish I had more grace when it comes to accepting, to swallowing, what is happening to my brain.

I almost did not go to church tonight.  Walk the long way and have a bulletin, but struggle to walk back out when the service is over or walk the short way and be lost in the service.  SIGH.

So, I upped my girding of loins by throwing social convention to the wind and wearing my stubby braids to church. Stubby braids and a bandana.

Oh, how I miss my long hair.  I have been trying to manage the pain in my head with peppermint and lavender oils. I still do NOT believe in aroma therapy, but the stuff does help.  I fear I am getting to the point where the pain is more than stubbornness can bear, but at least I can braid a small length on either side of my head.

The power of the braids (ridiculous though they are) is so great that an usher actually brought me a bulletin tonight!  This elderly gentlemen walked the entire length of the church and back so that I might be able to follow the whole of the Divine Service, not just part of it.  Yes, I wept in the pew for a while, so thankful for the provision of my Good Shepherd.

A bit of the Gospel reading is still ringing in my ears.  "Are you the Christ?  Speak it plainly."  Jesus' response was that He had, many times, and that the signs had told them such as well.  They simply couldn't hear Him because they were not His sheep.

The sinner in me fears greatly at such an answer.  Am I not one of His sheep?  Do I struggle to believe the riches of Christ crucified are for me because of this?  But the saint in me tells the sinner in me to not be so silly.  I am baptized.  I am one of Jesus' sheep.

But I am also a sheep who asks Jesus to speak the Gospel plainly.  I need Him to do so. I need my pastors to do so. I need my fellow brothers and sisters in Christ to do so.  To speak plainly.  And to speak often.


Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

Gospel Harmony Joy Note 11...

Scattered thoughts from my latest reading, yet most of my thoughts of late are scattered.  Scattered and yet full of glimpses of the sweet, sweet Gospel.

I left off the with Jesus withdrawing to the sea of Galilee, just before He choose out His disciples and climbed a mountain.  Ah, that sermon!

However, before that I read of Matthew citing Isaiah 42:1-4.  Such a beautiful passage, though I understand not the second verse about not anyone hearing His voice in the street.  But something that struck me is in it God calls Jesus His beloved.  And yet, somehow, I, too, am His beloved.  Oh, how can that possibly be??  I, the sinner?  I, who struggles mightily with despair and doubt?  The answer is that this is another example of how God seems me through faith, through the obedience of Christ, His perfection!

When I finally came to my official reading of the sermon on the mount, into which I dabbled before, the very first bit I noticed was Luke 6:17.  Jesus climbed a mountain and stood on a level place.  A level place.  Sure footing again.  Again, the words of the Psalter about a smooth path, sure footing, a level place sprain to mind again. And again I marveled that, to me, it seems as if Jesus is our smooth path, our sure footing, our level place!  Am I strange that I hunger so to start from the beginning of the Psalter again and circle each and every cry for or thanksgiving for a smooth path, smooth footing, a level place.

Somewhere in the Psalter is a verse I need to find again where the psalmist is kept from stumbling by angels lifting him up.  It is highlighted, but so much is highlighted in all of my copies of the Bible with regard the to Psalter--at least it is now--that finding verses I know are in there by highlights is no longer easy.

It puzzles me at times, that those prayers are such a complex mixture of doubt and despair and an unshakable certitude.  Of course, is that not the epitome of the old Adam and the new Adam both living within the petitioner, within the penitent?

I wrote about how the beatitudes are not attitudes marking proper Christian living but who we are in Christ.  They are the To Be of Christ that we are because we are in Him.  Mind the verbs, Myrtle.  They are not yours, but Christ's.

Matthew 5:13-16 still puzzles me, makes me yearn deeply for a proper lessoning on that bit.  As I wrote before, from the Psalter's references to light, I suspect that this is another part of who we are in Christ.  We are salty.  We are light.  These are not evidence of our faith for which we are to strive or earn as evidence of our faithfulness.  They are.

Perhaps it is another coin.  One side is our Triune God.  The other is believers.  One side I am. The other side you are.   Only, really, if you think about it, no matter the speaker, the words are the same: I am.  Is that not what Luther teaches us to fling back at our foe when he is accusing us?  Yes, I am a sinner, but I am baptized.  End of discussion you lout!

I could be wrong, but Matthew 5:16 could be my first encounter (in this reading) of "good works."  Of that I note that the verse tells us to let our light shine in such a way that others see our good works AND give glory to God.  Hmm.  Good works doesn't seem to be about sanctification, here, but rather glorifying God the Father.  God the Father who care for His creation, provides for His beloveds.

The parallel version continues on with just Matthew for a bit.  For now, I wanted to finish with Matthew 5:17-20.

"Do not think that I came to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I did not come to abolish, but to fulfill.  Fo truly I say to you, until heaven and earth pass away, not the smallest letter or stroke shall pass away from the Law, until all is accomplished.  Whoever then annuls one of the least of these commandments, and so teaches others, shall be called least in the kingdom of heaven.  For I say to you, that unless your righteousness surpasses that of the scries and Pharisees, you shall not enter the kingdom of heaven."

Verse 18 caught my eye.  At first, I puzzled over how the Law is still in effect if it is fulfilled.  When speaking this, of course, Jesus had not yet died for our sins.  He had not yet been the perfect lamb, the sacrifice that finally fulfilled the Law.  Much puzzling, wondering what this could mean.  I would have thought this verse would have had something about until the temple is destroyed and raised up again in three days, rather than until heaven and earth pass away.  The earth is still here!  Yet the Law is fulfilled.  Why, then, has it not been accomplished?  Did Jesus not proclaim on the cross, "It is finished"?

Yes, it is finished.  The Law is fulfilled.  Its wrath and judgement no longer falls upon those who have received the faith of Jesus Christ.  However, mankind is not finished, is it?  My forgiveness is not finished, for I daily sin.  Thus, Luther reminds us that we are daily and richly forgiven.

Remember what I wrote about the paralytic?  Jesus asked those watching if it would be easier to say "you are forgiven" or "rise and take up your palette and go."  I noted there the verb To Be with regard to forgiveness.  We are forgiven.  Each day we are forgiven.  Does that also mean that, in a sense, the Law is being fulfilled each day as well?

Creation is still ensnared by sin.  The Law still applies.  Thus, for each one of God's created, the Law must be fulfilled.  It was.  It is.  It will be.   The Promise was coming.  The Promise came. The Promise comes again.

I wonder if, when Jesus says that He is the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end, those are  merely two spots in time or if He saying that He is the whole, from the beginning until the end.  After all, I read in John 1 that all things come into being through Jesus and nothing has come into being that has come into being except through Him.  In a way, Acts 17:24-28 (verse 28 being a favorite of mine) mirrors this.

I suppose all this is to say that I had in my mind somewhere that the Law was finished.  Yet here I learn that it is not.  And here the following bit from the Book of Concord, the tenses within it make much more sense to me.

The Law indeed says it is God's will and command that we should walk in a new life. But it does not give the power and ability to begin and to do it. The Holy Spirit renews the heart. He is given and received, not through the Law, but through the preaching of the Gospel. Thereafter, the Holy Spirit uses the Law in order to teach the regenerate from it and to point out and show them in the Ten Commandments what is the "will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect" (Romans 12:2) in what "good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk" (Ephesians 2:10). He encourages them to this. When they are idle, negligent and rebellious in this mater because of the flesh, He rebukes them through the Law. So the Spirit carries out both offices together: He slays and makes alive. He leads into hell and brings up again. For His office is not only to comfort, but also to rebuke. For it is written, "when [the Holy Spirit] comes, He will convict the world [which includes also the old Adam] concerning sin and righteousness and judgment" (John 16:8). Sin is everything that is contrary to God's Law. St. Paul says, "All Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof" (2 Timothy 3:16), and to rebuke is the Law's special office. Therefore, as often as believers stumble, they are rebuked by the Holy Spirit from the Law. By the same Spirit they are raised up and comforted again with the preaching of the Holy Gospel. ~BOC, FSD, VI, 11-14

And I take comfort in the beginning, the fullness, and in the unceasing work of the Holy Spirit.

Christ was given for this purpose, that forgiveness of sins might be bestowed on us for His sake. He was also given so that the Holy Spirit might bring forth in us new and eternal life and eternal righteousness. Therefore, the Law cannot truly be kept unless the Holy Spirit is received through faith. So Paul says that the Law is established through faith, and not made useless, because the Law can only be kept when the Holy Spirit is given. ~BOC, AP, V (III), 11-12

The flesh distrusts God, trusts in present things, seeks human aid in trouble, even contrary to God's will. It flees from suffering, which it ought to bear because of God's commands. It doubts God's mercy and so on. The Holy Spirit in our hearts fights against such tendencies in order to suppress and kill them and to produce new spiritual motives. ~BOC, AP, V (III), 49-50

But the Holy Spirit carries on His work without ceasing to the Last Day. For that purpose He has appointed a congregation upon earth by which He speaks and does everything. For He has not yet brought together all His Christian Church or granted all forgiveness. Therefore, we believe in Him who daily brings us into the fellowship of this Christian Church through the Word. Through the same Word and the forgiveness of sins He bestows, increases, and strengthens faith. So when He has done it all, and we abide in this and die to the world and to all evil, He may finally make us perfectly and forever holy. Even now we expect this in faith through the Word. ~BOC, LC, II, 61-62

You see, all this is the Holy Spirit's office and work. He begins and daily increases holiness upon earth through these two things: the Christian Church and the forgiveness of sin. But in our death He will accomplish it altogether in an instant and will forever preserve us therein by the last two parts [of the Creed]. ~BOC, LC, II, 59

The final thought is how fitting it is that the sermon on the mount is followed by Jesus' declaration that He came to fulfill the Law.  For if you read such wonders about being so very blessed, and (if you are like me) your flesh is sure to begin to doubt, to even accuse you, and then immediately thereafter you read of how it is you are, in truth, blessed! 

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

Are we listening...

I found this article interesting in looking at submission outside of a biblical perspective, and it served to help me capture a few thoughts I have had about the topic of women's ordination. Two bits from the article that popped out at me are:

“I choose to serve my family and my husband,” says Reece, “because it creates a dynamic where he is then in fact acting more like a man and masculine and treating me the way I want to be treated.” NBC’s Brian Williams called it a “new and provocative take on how to keep a marriage together.”

But is it? "The Today Show’s" online survey asked the public on whether or not they agreed with Reece’s statement: “To be truly feminine means being soft and receptive and look out, here it comes, submissive …” The majority of its audience—a whopping 55%—agreed that embracing femininity and being submissive is the way to go. Only 19% disagreed.
A short while later, she defines and discusses submission:

"That’s what Gabby Reece meant when she used the word submissive. Admittedly, it’s a loaded term. But it doesn’t mean being less than, or subordinate to, one’s spouse. Submission means to defer to another person’s judgment, opinion or decision. It means you trust your partner. If that trust exists, submission is a no brainer.

And it goes both ways. “I’m just sort of surprised at the way people took the word ‘submissive.’ The idea of trying to make the lives of the people in your home, including your husband, better…that is a form of choice of service. I really believe in that idea that we should all make our lives, each other’s lives, better. And by the way, my husband lives by that same code.”

Funny, when we talk about husbands being submissive, or deferential, to their wives, no one raises an eyebrow.
Turn it around and women get heart palpitations.

I have been thinking deeply about why those who support OWN (Ordain Women Now--a Facebook page and group wanting women's ordination in the LCMS) support OWN. By that I mean, what is it that is behind this push to ordain women. I have no answers, but I do have questions that chase themselves about my mind.

Questions about the reception of faith, questions about truly understanding submission by both genders, questions about fear. Yes, fear. I mean, could it be that, at least in part, what is driving those who support women's ordination is this fear that women are not serving God enough, that the Church is harming women by minimizing their participation in worship and thus maximizing their fears over living godly lives, living holy lives, serving others ... enough?

It seems to me that the biblical arguments (both a correct interpretation of Scripture AND the incorrect picking and choosing and applying of verses to fit a point) are not actually the most productive starting point in a discussion/exploration of women's ordination.

It is my personal opinion that we ought to start with the whys and wherefores behind the desire to be ordained. For I suspect that a less-than-complete understanding of faith, of justification, of sanctification, and of the reception that encompasses all of that lies at the heart of this issue.

Back when I was in hospice training, our first lessons that followed a history of hospice care, were how to employ reflective listening. To actually really and truly reflective listen ON BOTH SIDES. I listen. I then tell you what I heard. You then tell me if I actually heard what you were trying to say. Once that part is achieved, you listen to me. You tell me what I was trying to say. I then tell you if you actually heard what I was trying to say.

What came out of reflective listening in hospice care were the fears and concerns and questions that lay beneath the oft terse, heated, and insensitive words that were flung about in the household, in the family, of the dying.

Another example of this came in my speech language pathology class that I took as an elective whilst doing my master's in literacy studies. The professor was very ... well ... strident in her opinion that most teachers did not look at or listen to their problem students. She demonstrated how most teachers overlooked evidence that students might have trouble seeing or hearing language because it was easier to classify the student who did not follow the directions written on the board as a trouble-maker rather than one who might need glasses. The same held true for the student who did not pay attention to or follow verbal teaching. Another troublemaker rather than a child who might have a hearing loss.

As the only non--speech language pathologist student in the class, I was horribly berated and oft held up as an example of teachers who are ignorant of and too lazy to learn the signs of vision and hearing problems in children. Sometimes, even the others in my class came to my defense, given how often I was the whipping boy. But I do respect the professor's point.

I oft make the same about the signs of sexual abuse in children. They can be spotted if you learn them and look for them.

So, what I am trying to proffer is that this article made me think about the signs and symptoms of spiritual struggle that might possibly be at least a part of what drives those who advocate for women's ordination.

And, just like the examples I have given, so often, not even the dying, the deaf, the vision challenged, or even the abused understand what is plaguing them ... for their existence, their struggles, their perspective is all they know ... until someone reaches out to them to listen, to look, and to help.


We believe, teach, and confess what our righteousness before God is this: God forgives our sins out of pure grace, without any work, merit, or worthiness of ours preceding, present, or following. He presents and credits to us the righteousness of Christ's obedience. Because of this righteousness, we are received into grace by God and regarded as righteous.

We believe, teach, and confess that faith alone is the means and instrument through which we lay hold of Christ. So in Christ we lay hold of that righteousness that benefits us before God, for whose sake this faith is credited to us for righteousness.

We believe, teach and confess that this faith is not a bare knowledge of Christ' history, but it is God's gift. By this gift we come to the right knowledge of Christ as our Redeemer in the Word of the Gospel. And we trust in Him that for the sake of His obedience alone we have--by grace--the forgiveness of sins and are regarded as holy and righteous before God the Father and are eternally saved.
~BOC, FE, III, 4-6 [emphasis mine]

Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

What not to burn...

Having essentially lost one of my chief coping mechanisms since there is no place left in my home in need of organizing/reducing, I have been trying to distract myself from thoughts and feelings and physical suffering by trying to cook.  Yes.  Me.  Cook.

It is a deep shame of mine, now that I am on such a limited income, that I ruin much of my food.  I simply forget that I am cooking.  The smoke alarm gets a lot of use these days.  And if I have managed to stay present in the time it takes to cook, if I am following a recipe, I oft ruin the food by not actually following the recipe.  Written instructions are particularly difficult for me to understand.

I am sure some professional could tell me just how ludicrous it is to use a constant source of failure, which happens to discourage me deeply, as a new coping mechanism.  But, alas, I suppose it is merely further evidence of my ... well, let's not put a word to my mental state just now.

Personally, I think a strong point from a positive standpoint could me made about the fact that food is so oft the cause of much suffering and subsequent mental anguish that if food could be a source of victory and enjoyment then that is an admirable coping mechanism.

You can decide if I am walking in folly or not.
Just don't tell me what you think.
Please.

I have been trying to find a Mac app or a software program to organize recipes.  But I have not found a free one and the ones I did find, too expensive in my mind, do not have loads of positive reviews.  So, I decided to create a blog that is essentially for me. Another way to remember things.

To create a blog, you have to have a name.  Finding one that fit that was not already taken was rather difficult...until I hit upon one that is perfect for me: What Not to Burn.

I backed dated a few entries to the date when I first made them.  Chief amongst those are basil burgers, the recordation of which reminded me that I have not had them in a while, having forgotten about their tastiness, and should do so post haste.  Once I have finished off all the chicken I grilled, I will make some since I have a package of ground beef in the freezer.

I did not yet post the recipe for honey beer bread.  That recipe was a colossal failure of mine.  I doubt I could make any bread that requires yeast and kneading and rising and such, even though in high school I baked all of our bread from scratch.  But I thought that recipe, yeast free, might work.  Nope.  Nada.  I threw most of the loaf away, ashamed of yet more waste.

The recipes I am posting are successes.  Reminders of things I can do ... and have still done ... despite the cognitive deficits that make doing so a near impossibility of mine.

If you care to take a gander, you can.  If nothing else, you can laugh at my title.  For once...I was witty!


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

The goodbyes I wish for...

I dreamed last night I was with someone I knew in high school.  I the outsider.  He the popular one.  Castes crossed because we were both Christians.

"I'm sorry," I told him.

"Why?"

We were sitting on my front porch and I closed my eyes to concentrate on the rich, deep ringing of wind chimes. "I just am."

"But why?" Still.  Quiet.  Intense as he was on the beach.

I was there on my porch and yet there on the beach during the senior choir trip.  I was a senior, so the principal made me be included on the trip.  Yet I was not allowed to be in the senior choir.  I sang with the sophomore girls.  Even they did not want me because I was a senior.  All I wanted to do was sing.

On the trip, he was the only one who talked with me.  At one point, one of the senior girls walked over to where we were sitting and asked him, "Why are you talking to her?"

"I look at you and think of all the things I didn't do then because of where I was. I look at you and think of all the things I cannot do now because of where I am."

"Do you want to pray with me?"

Spontaneous prayer I miss it. Deeply. I thought.  I miss holding another's hand and going together before God.  Even though I have Christian visitors, no one ever prays with me anymore.   "I'm a Lutheran now.  I don't pray that way any more."

"You don't? How do you pray?"

"I pray the Psalter. I have 150 prayers that speak the words of my heart to pray."

"I don't read psalms."

"I didn't used to either.  I didn't understand their riches, their mercy."

We sat in silence for a while.

"I have a neurological disease, two actually, that is ravaging my mind and body.  I do not know if I will be here in two years or ten.  I do not know which will go first, my body or my mind. I fear the latter."  Oh, how I fear the latter.  "I think the truth is that I spend most of my time looking at the end of life that I find it difficult being in the now ... here ... with anyone."

His response to my announcement was not what I thought it would be. "You have a birthday coming up.  Shall I sing to you now?"

In my mind, I doubted he knew how much I crave to hear that song.  I was so very, very jealous in high school, watching everyone else have their lockers decorated for their birthdays, have that song sung to them throughout the day. The carnation distributions on spirit days and my empty desk.  The valentine grams that never once came my way.

"Yes. My birthday is coming up. But a few weeks after that is my baptismal birthday."  I wish there was a song for that.  I didn't even get a cake then.

He gave me a quizzical look,  "But you were in Young Life, Campaigner's bible study..."

"And youth group and the college group and a missionary.  I was never baptized.  I stood by a river with a bunch of Christians as an eleven-year-old to announce that I had accepted Jesus into my heart.  Someone read to me about Jesus and I believed.  That day, there was water and the Word of God (in the bibles we all held).  That was my profession of faith.  I didn't understand what baptism was at eleven.  As the years passed, the part of me that reflected upon that day, upon my profession of faith, was terrified I was a fraud because of all the times I struggled with sin, with doubt, with shame.  When I finally learned about baptism, I was terrified every moment of every day that I was going to die before.   The part of me that learned was terrified that I would die before I could convince my pastor I needed to be baptized.  I nearly did.  Die. And then I was. Baptized."

Again, his response was not what I expected.  "Why am I here?"

Why was he?  I had not seen him in over two decades.  I doubt he even remembers who I am.  And then I knew.

"Driving around in a truck where I could watch the ground fly by beneath my feet because of a hole in the floorboard was one of the best times of my life then.  I never thanked you for that."

"You are welcome."

And he then was gone.  I was alone on the bench listening to the chimes.  

I wish I could actually tell him.  I wish he could know what a mercy he showed me by ignoring my outsider caste and reaching out to the awkward, confused, and wounded girl I was.  We were not friends.  But there were a few moments when he looked at me and simply saw a sister in Christ.  He spoke to me.  We talked about Jesus.  We prayed together.  And he gave me rides in that glorious, battered, old white truck.

"Thank you," I repeated, hearing my own voice break the silence in my bedroom as I awoke.

[Oh, how I miss praying with others.]

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Gospel Harmony Joy Note 10...

I do not know if I have missed something, but I think I just came across the first mention of Jesus' grief. I oft wonder the weight of that, of how there was no place He could be or even look without reminders too numerous to count of how sin was ravaging all that had come into being through Him.

I have now read three instances where Jesus broke the laws of the Sabbath, according to the pharisees scrutinizing His actions on the Sabbaths. First, the paralytic. Second, the of gathering food by His disciples. Third, the withered hand. It is in this third instance that I read of the myriad reason why the Sabbath was not "broken" by Jesus, chief among them the first instance, that I have noticed, of Jesus proclaiming, in a sense, that He has come to fulfill the Law, i.e., that He was Lord of the Sabbath.

Of the other points of argument, two speak volumes to me: 1) the reference to Hosea 6:6 that God desires compassion rather than sacrifice and 2) that the Law was made for man and not man for the Law. These days, it seems to me too many Christians forget this latter point.

But, in the end, the verse that holds me is Mark 3:5, where I read that Jesus was grieved at the pharisees hardness of heart. Even knowing their hearts, even knowing that their very flesh stands against God, rejecting what is before them, as noted in John 5:19-47, still Jesus asked, taught, and then showed His authority. He was angry, yes, as we read also in that verse and in His actions at the temple with the money changers a short while ago (in my parallel Gospel). But Jesus was also grieved. He sorrowed for the sin that angered Him.  He sorrowed for those caught in its snare.

Reading Mark 3:5 called to mind what I had read just a while ago, with the cleansing of the leper. That glorious instance of the verb To Be, where God spoke and it was so. Admonished to speak not of what had happened but instead to fulfill the law by giving an offering, the leper spoke anyway. Multitudes came. The sick, the possessed, the injured.

"But He Himself would often slip away to the wilderness and pray" (Luke 5:16).

Before reading this parallel presentation of the Gospels, I knew of just two instances of a praying Jesus: 1) when His disciples kept falling asleep on Him and 2) when He asked if the cup might be passed. Perhaps these are the same ... I cannot remember and do not wish to frustrate myself by trying to find them ... but clearly Jesus prayed more than those two times ... or that one time.

Why does Mark 3:5 (and Luke 5:16, for that matter) hold me, then? For this reason: When I hear of the passion of Jesus, I hear of His trial, persecution, suffering and death ... I hear of Holy Week. But I wonder if, perhaps, the true passion of Jesus Christ began the moment of His conception, the moment He stepped into, He tabernacled in, a fallen world. Every day of His life, every moment, He was confronted with how sin had twisted and corrupted all of creation. Jesus knew. He knew what this world, what man, was meant to be. Surely His agony of spirit was born and borne long before He came to Calgary.

Such love for me!

Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!