I don't get it...

I don't get it.  Really, I don't get Lutherans.  Or, perhaps, I should say the general representation of Lutherans I encounter online.

Today I read this comment on a post about Lutheranism being the confessing church.  It is on a website I don't much read for the disparity of confession and the ... well ... proclivity toward legalism in many of the posts.  Plus, to put it bluntly, the comments are often filled with less than charitable words/behavior.

I also do not get Safari or many things MAC.  The reason I ended up at the website is that when I started to Google something, the website autofilled the search window.  How odd! was my first thought, given that I seriously am rarely there.  These days, given how easily distressed I can become, I have actually only taken a look-see at a post mentioned by someone whom I consider to be ... well ... a confessing Lutheran.

When the autofill happened, I decided to hit the "enter" button and scan the post titles.  Of course the one about the Confessions caught my eye.  Even knowing that the action would most likely be less than positive for me, I read the comments after finishing the post.  Here is the first one:

The creeds, catechisms and Augsburg Confession are interesting and accessible. The rest of the Book of Concord seems pretty boring and technical to average laypeople IMO. Why should we feel guilty if we prefer to spend limited spare time reading the Bible instead?

I respect those who have a specialized interest in studying the BoC.

Here, I shall be judgmental:  To me, I read the last sentence as a specious afterthought to soften the disregard for the Christian Book of Concord (BOC).  I had that thought before I read any of the other commenter's remarks further down.  What he wrote did not disabuse me of my reaction.  For example, he added later:

Point well taken. I do consult the confessions when I have a question. I just don’t curl up by the fireplace with a copy of The Solid Declaration. :)
His response was to this comment about his comment:

I don’t know that you should “feel guilty.” Do you? Another thought… we don’t pit spending time reading the Scriptures against reading our confessions. This isn’t an either/or. Instead, do both! Why not? As you read the Scriptures you might have a question such as “What does this mean?” and why not go through our confessions to see if our Lutheran fathers provided an answer?

The bottom line is as Lutherans we need to know what our confessions state. So read the Book of Concord to see what it means to be a Lutheran. In fact, if you have the time, find a BoC reading group and read it with others. That makes reading the BoC much less boring, for those who find it tedious, I think.

So, I am thinking, with great sadness and true perplexity, Why is it that people even use the word "boring" or "tedious" when referring to the pure exposition of the Word of God? To doctrine!

Yes, I wept.  

Yes, I am distressed.  

Yes, I totally, utterly, and completely don't get it.

If I set aside what it says about me that I actually would curl up beside a fire with the Formula Solid Declaration, I see the same notion of having to sell Jesus to others, to make Christ crucified entertaining and engaging that drove me to great distress in the mainline evangelical church.  I also had the completely uncharitable thought, in reading several of the comments, I wonder just how many of my Lutheran brothers and sisters are actually reading the Bible, since they are evidently not reading the BOC.

I mean, I get a lot of ... comments ... about my ... passion ... for the Living Word and my ... obsession ... with the Psalter.  I will hear people talk about not being interested in the Psalter or not understanding it or not thinking it of much importance.  Not a one of those stances do I find palatable.  

Now, if someone said he was afraid of the Psalter, well that I would understand.  I have, after all, limited the portions of the Bible in which I long linger because I am afraid that all I will read is Law instead of the Gospel I know lies within the Words.  And oft I read with fear because I encounter, on an ever increasing basis things that are completely new to me but are actually not.  I have forgotten the passages I once knew by heart and their context/connection with the whole.  Fear that turns to the sorrow of loss. But fear is never a reason I hear for not reading the Bible.  And, to my defense, I do read the Bible rather a lot.  As well as the Confessions.  

I do read the Bible because I am, at heart, a scholar.  I do read the Bible because, I am, at my core a reader.  But I also read the Bible because I am a Christian.  How else can I know God if I am not ever in His Word?  That is the should I learned when I became a Christian.  Back in those days, every good little evangelical was a Bible-toting evangelical.  Only, for me, the Bible went everywhere with me because it was my life.  And I didn't even know the half of that truth!

Jesus Freak.  Yep, that's what I heard others in my single's Sunday school class call me.  The Jesus Freak who reads the bible.  Yep, at a Bible Church.  SIGH.  I've always been on the outside looking in, not really getting those around me.

This comment, from a pastor, was one that gave me the most pause:

Lutherans have a curious idea, which is probably not shared in the same way by other faith-groups. It comes from Luther, namely, the idea of the “Word of God.”

“Word of God” is found, without error or confusion, in the Scriptures, since all the canonical books were authored by the Holy Spirit. But “Word of God” is also found elsewhere, first and foremost in the sacraments and confession/absolution (when they are properly administered), second in creeds and confessions (because they agree with Scripture), third in preaching (insofar as the preaching agrees with Scripture), fourth in the prayers and hymns of the church (insofar as such prayers and hymns agree with Scripture), etc., etc.

This means that, for Lutherans, the next best thing to attending divine worship is to read the Scriptures for themselves at home; and the next best thing after that is to study the creeds and confessions of the church. Luther said that he studied the “catechism” every day. In all cases, the “Word of God” is at work to enlighten the hearts and minds of the believer.

The difference between Scripture and confessions is a matter of how the Word is presented. The Word is presented in a variety of ways in Scripture: history, personal letters, visions, psalms, proverbs, prophetic discourse, etc. This makes for fascinating, even entertaining reading.

It is no accident that persons with the least amount of religious education are drawn to the most “entertaining” sections, e.g., the book of Revelation, Ezekiel, Daniel, etc–but what they obtain from such reading is often not very helpful to their personal faith or life. Sometimes it is even harmful and bizarre (check out all the apocalyptic titles in your bookstore).

The Word is presented in only one way in the creeds and confessions: didactic and logical. There is no history, proverbs, visions, prophecies, etc. But everything there is useful for faith and life. All of the confessions are useful for training your mind to resist the confusions that are so prominent in other faith-groups and traditions. Another way to say this is: the church has kept pace with heresy in two millenia of Christian history, by providing creeds, catechisms, and confessions that counteract the confusions of heretics and the heterodox. This is a logical result of Luther’s notion of the “Word of God.” So . . .

If you want to be confused by heresies and the heterodox, then go ahead and ignore the Confessions, or give them just a cursory reading. But . . .

If, on the other hand, you want to understand the Word of God in its truth and purity–i.e., what Jesus is saying to us today–then you should study the confessions as much as you study the Scriptures. And this is a necessary practice for pastors; a recommended practice for laymen.

I am too weary to write an in-depth response to this pastor's comments.   I would say that I take issue with the Confessions being merely a recommended practice for laymen.  I mean, seriously, this seems to contradict the Longer Preface to the Large Catechism, if nothing else.  And I would proffer that final paragraph makes moot part of his own comment and the blog post itself, by putting the Confessional on the optional reading pile for laymen.

I would note, too, that I find it a bit odd that, in tackling understanding what the Word of God means to Lutherans, the pastor does not actually discuss how the Lutherans believe, teach, and confess that the Word of God has, and is able to do, all that God is and can do (BOC, LC, IV, 18).  The Living Word is powerful, performative, and effective.  It is life given to us.

And I would note that I find the absence of the Holy Spirit as the One who does the working of the Word of God in our lives, through the means outlined and through our own reading, leaving the reader with an incomplete presentation of the main topic.

However, I savored the part here:

The difference between Scripture and confessions is a matter of how the Word is presented. The Word is presented in a variety of ways in Scripture: history, personal letters, visions, psalms, proverbs, prophetic discourse, etc. This makes for fascinating, even entertaining reading.

It is no accident that persons with the least amount of religious education are drawn to the most “entertaining” sections, e.g., the book of Revelation, Ezekiel, Daniel, etc–but what they obtain from such reading is often not very helpful to their personal faith or life. Sometimes it is even harmful and bizarre (check out all the apocalyptic titles in your bookstore).

The Word is presented in only one way in the creeds and confessions: didactic and logical. There is no history, proverbs, visions, prophecies, etc. But everything there is useful for faith and life. All of the confessions are useful for training your mind to resist the confusions that are so prominent in other faith-groups and traditions. Another way to say this is: the church has kept pace with heresy in two millenia of Christian history, by providing creeds, catechisms, and confessions that counteract the confusions of heretics and the heterodox. This is a logical result of Luther’s notion of the “Word of God.” So . . .

If you want to be confused by heresies and the heterodox, then go ahead and ignore the Confessions, or give them just a cursory reading. But . . .

If, on the other hand, you want to understand the Word of God in its truth and purity–i.e., what Jesus is saying to us today–then you should study the confessions as much as you study the Scriptures. 

A good argument, to me, save for the fact that the position that the Confessions are devoid of history.  There is history woven through out them.  References that are not fully clear without knowing history.  And, to me, I would not solely use the words didactic and practical to describe the Confessions.  They are personal, as well as practical.  They are engaging and full of colorful language.  They have wit as well as wisdom.  Yes, at times the authors' tone verges (trods heavily) upon the didactic, upon the manner of a teacher patronizing the student, but they are not about moral instruction as an ulterior motive.  They do not fit the definition of didacticism.  They are instructive and practical ... and personal and illuminating, full of Christ crucified for you and the Holy Spirit working for you. 

Were a researcher to come into a cross-section of churches in the LCMS and spend time observing the daily lives of those parishioners, creating categories for all the ways people spend their time, I would not be surprised to find reading the BOC as not statistically important, as grouped into an "other" category, and reading the Bible to be a category ranked far, far down the chart as a way folk spend their time.

Perhaps the best construction is that folk will say that life gets in the way.  I would answer that is as specious a reason for having a major focus time spent during the Christmas holidays being the stress of cooking, cleaning, shopping, traveling, parties, and hosting guests, rather than studying, celebrating, and communing with Jesus.  The Word of God is life.  And it is what will sustain you throughout all the other things that come your way.

The number one reason I value my aging iPod Touch is the Kindle app. Through technology, I can easily carry about with me the NASB 1977 translation of the Bible and the Book of Concord.  Because the Lutheran Service Book is not an app or digital format, I have typed out all the liturgy for the offices of prayer so that I am, too, never without them.  

I was and remain utterly gobsmacked and giddy over my deluxe (translate that more durable) personal pocket edition of the Book of Concord.  I can take the tomb with me anywhere, fitting in pocket, person, or satchel. 

I can take with me ... from bathroom floor to hospital bed to the infernal line at the post office ... the Living Word and the sweet, sweet Gospel that is for me.  

People will ask you, "If your house was on fire and you could only grab what you could carry in your arms or you could only save 5 items or only had 5 minutes to save things, what would you take?"  Me? Well, Amos, of course!  Amos, my copies of my NASB 1997 bibles, my copies of the BOC, Walther's The Proper Distinction Between Law and Gospel, my crucifixes, my wrinkled (and so proof that it was wet) baptismal napkin, my computer (so I could still write, read, watch, and listen to things), and the antique box in which I keep all the letters from my best friend.  I have a beautiful house filled with beautiful antiques. I would dearly and deeply miss the old things, the things of lives gone before me, that have been my lifelong companions.  But I would grab none of them.  Not the antiques.  Not the photos.  Not the GREEN clothing and GREEN chair.  Not even the glass hummingbirds or the silly and sweet ladybug doodads folk have given me.  Right up there with the devastating and inconsolable loss of Amos would be the devastating and inconsolable loss of my battered, chewed upon, stained, highlighted, and sticky-noted 1st edition copy of the Reader's Edition of the Christian Book of Concord (the one with Luther's "Exhortation to Confession and Absolution" snuck in after the Large Catechism.  

Yes, I absolutely don't get it.  Get the need for that post I read.  Get the sentiments behind the comments.  Get the excuses I hear from others about not knowing/reading/studying the Confessions.  Get the little time others spend actually reading the Bible.  Get the little interest and inexplicable appreciation of and lack of craving to pray the Psalter.

There are many good things in the LCMS world, chief among them many would say Issues, Etc. radio and other programs.  Many would say the studies and devotions and texts on the Bible.  All of those—and more—pale in comparison to the Bible and the BOC.  I read another post about family devotions and a large percentage of the comments were folk saying they struggled to find devotional material, struggled to have something to use for the family study of the Bible and doctrine.  The comments drove me nuts (yes, that was a short trip), for I do not get those chasing after devotional books and guides.  We have the Bible.  We have the pure doctrine.  Get them out.  Read.  You will learn.  

You. Will. Learn.

The Living Word is perfect for all.

The Holy Spirit is a perfect teacher for all.

The Word will not return void, will never fail to accomplish God's purpose for its going forth.

That's a promise.

Read aloud the Living Word.  Pray aloud the Living Word.  Doing so will change you, sustain you, enlighten you.  That's also a promise.  And, incidentally, it is also what we believe, teach, and confess.  Here are just a few places where we do so in the BOC.  Here is some of what we believe, teach, and confess about the comfort and consolation of the Gospel.  Here is what we teach about the fact that we cannot love or fear or trust God without the gift of faith.  Here is what we believe, teach, and confess about the work of Jesus Christ in forgiveness, salvation, righteousness, justification, redemption, mediation. Here is what we believe, teach, and confess about the work of the Holy Spirit in salvation, forgiveness, sustenance, healing, instruction, and sanctification.

Hello, my name is Myrtle.  I am a confessing Lutheran.  The doctrine is my refuge because it is the Word of God for me.  Even when I am confused and ashamed and anxious.  Because that weak and weary, struggling believer is expected in the Church.  And because I am made better by the Living Word worked within me.  

Even when I am confused and ashamed and anxious.

Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

The devils that plague me...

Sister Monica Joan: Forgive me, Lord, and protect us all from these devils that plague me.

Sister Julienne: There are no devils here. Your mind gets tired, Sister. That is all. And when it does we will protect you. We will be with you and make sure that when you forget we remember.

~Call the Midwife, Series 2, Episode 7

I understand Sister Monica Joan's prayer.  I long for Sister Julienne to be real.  To be here.  Or I there.

A few weeks ago, I stopped to get gas with someone in my car.  I hopped out and opened my tank.  My passenger shouted at me, and so I stuck my head back into the car.  She offered me her charge card, knowing of my financial situation.  Surprised and thankful, I swiped her card and proceeded to fill my  tank.  

About a week or so later, I was checking my credit card bill and saw a charge for gas.  Surely I did not get two tanks in a week??  Not with how little I drive.  At first, I wondered if my card had somehow been compromised, but the gas was the only charge on there since I had last logged onto my account.  After checking with my passenger, I learned that her card had no charge.  So, the truth was that in between hopping out of the car and answering my passenger's call out I had swiped my card and forgotten that I had done so.  In my mind, trying to remember what happened, is only blankness.

More and more those moments are happening.  I find that I have done things without remembering or do not know where I am or when it is.  At such times, I am felled both by what I know and what I don't know.  Or rather that I know I do not know.

The thoughts that follow are my devils.  The thoughts that linger after things that bring shame are my devils.  The feelings that overwhelm me, paralyze me, are my devils.  The 1,001 anxieties that fill me are my devils.

I am starting to forget what a life without anxiety is like.  That bothers me.  And then the part of me asks if it should.  I wonder if, perhaps, I should stop.  Stop trying to hold onto anything.  Just stop.

In any case, a part of me does feel as if others should be protected from them, from me.  I understand Sister Monica Joan's prayer.  In a moment of confusion, she answered the call line and kept a woman in labor from making contact.  In a moment of clarity that followed—though she still could not remember who called—Sister Monica Joan realized how her moments of confusion, her devils, could hurt others.  

Her life was a burden she felt keenly and wished not that burden on others.

As much as I long to not be the only one facing the failings in my body and my mind, in my moments of clarity I would not wish this burden on anyone.  Anxiety alone is too much, too cruel.  Never mind the writhing and the swelling and the fainting and the Raynaud's and the low blood sugar and the low blood pressure and the tachycardia and the weakness and the fatigue and the blurred vision and the confusion and the aphasia and the cold spells and the memory loss and the fear and the shame ... all of that ... any of that.

I like watching Call the Midwife as much for the main storyline as for seeing how Sister Julienne, as head of Nonnatus House, cares for Sister Monica Joan.  These were real women.  This is a real story, no matter how much is softened by time and television.  I savor listening to the nuns sing the offices of prayer, even though I do not agree with Catholic doctrine.  The call for mercy is meet, right, and salutary.  Faith in our triune God to care for and protect them all, to provide for each day, no matter what devils may come, is meet, right, and salutary.

At one point in time, I was planning for a life on the mission field.  To be a missionary, to live a life by faith, was my heart's desire.  A civil war intervened.  A chance for graduate school.  Then a condition that would preclude me from ever serving on the mission field again.  Twists and turns leading to a life in my lounge chair.  I stare, from that chair, rather hungrily at women whose lives are pledged to God and to faith and to nothing else.  I envy being surrounded by prayer.  Even the times of the greater silence, the fellowship of it.  Of it all. 

Singing the offices by myself, both parts, is not the same as praying them with others.  For a wall-flower hermit, who is most assuredly an introvert, my deep and abiding longing to pray with others is rather inexplicable to my own mind. 

Often, when the pain in my innards is too great to do anything, to think anything, to be anything, I put on this playlist I created.  It has a mix of songs that have bits and pieces of words that I get, that I understand.  They are of a hope that makes sense to me, in a way.  Trying to explain is very difficult.  Some songs are about letting go.  One is about changing the voices in your head.  Some are about trials and travails, but many are about loving or caring for another, using words I could imagine Jesus saying ... to me.  None of them are about faith.  They are simply about life ... either trying or hoping or letting someone else try or hope for you.  Yet, to me, they are words that echo the promise of Isaiah 43:1-3:

But now, thus says the Lord, your Creator, O Jacob,
And He who formed you, O Israel,
“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by name; you are Mine!
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
And through the rivers, they will not overflow you.
When you walk through the fire, you will not be scorched,
Nor will the flame burn you.
For I am the Lord your God,
The Holy One of Israel, your Savior..."

Those are the Words I long to hear, to have spoken to me most, apart from John 1:1-5 and the Psalter.  So, I made them out of bits of songs that I can understand, that I can hear, without fear or thoughts of condemnation.

But ... sometimes ... I put "Evening and Morning: The Music of Lutheran Prayer" on repeat and let the voices of those who recorded the offices of prayer fill the bathroom or bedroom or kitchen ... wherever I am.  Over and over and over again.

I do not know the offices of prayer for the Catholic church.  I do not know what they were in the 50s.  But I wonder if the real life Sister Monica Joan savored the words of Psalm 141 sung in Evening Prayer:

Let my prayer rise before You as incense,

the lifting up of my hands 

as the evening sacrifice.

O Lord, I call to You;

Come to me quickly;

Hear my voice when I cry to You.

Let my prayer rise before You as incense

the lifting up of my hands 

as the evening sacrifice.

Set a watch before my mouth, O Lord,

and guard the door of my lips.

Let not my heart incline to any evil thing;

let me not be occupied in wickedness with evil doers.

But my eyse are turned to You, O God;

in You I take refuge.

Strip me not of my life.

Glory be to the Father 

and to the Son 

and to the Holy Spirit;

as it was in the beginning, 

is now, and will be forever. Amen.

Let my prayer rise before You as incense,

the lifting up of my hands 

as the evening sacrifice.

When the darkness seems too great for the Light, when I have no words, two tunes run through my head and to them I struggle to cling, even as I fear the devils within me will win the battle of the day.  One is that written above.  The other is the tune for the verba, for the Words of Institution:

Our Lord Jesus Christ,

on the night He was betrayed took bread.

And when He had given thanks,

He broke it and gave it to the disciples and said:

"Take eat.  This is My body, which is given for you.

This do in remembrance of Me."

In the same way also,

He took the cup after supper

And when He had given thanks,

He gave it to them saying:

"Drink of it, all of you;

this cup is the new testament in My blood,

which is shed for you for the forgiveness of sins.

This do, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of Me.

I wonder, when all else is gone from my mind—if, as I suspect, my body outlasts my mind—if something of those two tunes, of those bits of God's Word, will remain.

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!  

Passed on...

Robbie Lewis: He drew that in a mere 60 seconds. It was as if he didn’t even need to look at me, just one glance.

Laura Robson: I’m not a psychoanalyst.

Robbie Lewis: I wasn’t going to quote you in evidence. Just wanted a second opinion. Could the lad be ... I don’t know ... autistic?  Is that the word? I only know what I’ve seen on TV documentaries that I wasn’t watching.

Laura Robson: The trouble is that all these words are dangerous: autism, dyslexia, bipolarity, schizophrenia. We throw people into those boxes and we tell ourselves that we have explained everything and solved the problem. And we’ve done neither.

"And the Moonbeams Kiss the Sea," Inspector Lewis (2008)

I have been watching a lot of television shows, to pass the time, to help endure.  And to encounter words.  I miss words.  I miss engaging with them. I miss delving into them.  I miss chewing them over with others. I miss thinking.

I have been watching old shows new to me and newer shows old to me.  Since I gave up cable in my new life of having little, I had to wait on the 7th season of Doctor Who.  When I saw that it was up on Amazon, I decided to re-watch seasons 1-6 to get ready for the new part.  Whilst doing so, I re-watched an episode I saw recently when introducing the show to visitors:  "Vincent and the Doctor."  That episode is one of my favorites.

I believe it is an exquisite exploration of mental illness and art and wonder and acceptance.  In it is one of my favorite quotes.  Amy is devastated when she learned that their time with Vincent Van Gogh and taking him forward to the future so he could see the impact of his work did not keep him from killing himself.  The Doctor tells Amy:

The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. Good things don't always soften the bad things, but vice versa, the bad things don't necessarily spoil the good things or make them unimportant.  And we definitely added to his pile of good things.  

Two other scenes stand out.  The first is where the Doctor, Amy, and Vincent are all lying in a field looking up at the night sky.  Vincent describes what he sees and in so doing, the night sky is transformed into his painting Starry Night:

Van Gogh: Hold my hand, Doctor. Try to see what I see. We're so lucky we're still alive to see this beautiful world. Look at the sky. It's not dark and black and without character. The black is in fact deep blue. And over there! Lights are blue. And blue in through the blueness, and the blackness, the winds swirling through the air... and then shining. Burning, bursting through! The stars, can you see how they roll their light? Everywhere we look, complex magic of nature blazes before our eyes.

The Doctor: I've seen many things, my friend. But you're right. Nothing's quite as wonderful as the things you see.

The second scene is where the Doctor and Amy have taken Vincent to one of his exhibits. The Doctor asks a curator his opinion of Van Gogh and his work, so that Vincent might hear the answer:

The Doctor: I just wondered, between you and me—in a hundred words—where do you think Van Gogh rates in the history of art?

Dr. Black: Well. Um, big question, um, but to me, Van Gogh is the finest painter of them all. Certainly the most popular great painter of all time. The most beloved. His command of color, the most magnificent. He transformed the pain of his tormented life into ecstatic beauty. Pain is easy to portray but to use your passion and pain to portray the ecstasy and joy and magnificence of our world. No one had ever done it before. Perhaps no one ever will again. To my mind, that strange wild man who roamed the fields of Provence, was not only the world's greatest artist, but also one of the greatest men who ever lived.

I love the episode because of what I learned about Van Gogh's work, appreciating it in way I had never fathomed I could or would.  I love the episode because of how his mental illness was not covered or lessened or even explained away.  It was a part of his life, his struggle.  Simple.  Matter of fact.  I liked how you were proffered the idea that his mental illness was not a hindrance to his art.  Quite the opposite.

And I loved, too, how hard the art director worked to incorporate Van Gogh's paintings into the sets, so that watching the episode was like walking through his art.  Good stuff.

I think quite a bit about that episode.  Were I still a literacy professor, I would use it in a class or two or three.  The text—visual, oral, expressive—is a great example to explore the transactional theory of reading and secondary worlds.  But I am not ... still a literacy professor.  I am alone with words and struggle to think the things I wish to think.

I think that the quote from Inspector Lewis has layers of meaning.  And the heart of it can be found everywhere.  Dr. Robson's words are, sadly, all too true.

I know someone whose child with special needs was turned down for a spot in her church school.  I know another parent whose child with special needs was turned down for a spot in her church daycare.  The easy response is to say, "We are not equipped to handle your child's needs."

Why not?  I mean, any daycare should expect a certain number of children with special needs.  Any school should as well.  But, as with the world, church run institutions/business reserve the right to refuse service.  No shirt.  No shoes.  No service.

Addiction.  Abuse.  Mental illness.  No service.  Oh, because those labels mean you are the problem of others.  Experts are better equipped to handle your label.

Read the Book of Concord.  All throughout it are references to the anguished soul, the anxious conscience, the burdened, the terrified.  All throughout it are declarations that it is for these the Gospel exists.  They are the ones expected.  Ones to be served, not passed off to experts.

Addicts, abuse survivors, the mentally ill are not merely their labels.  All are the created of our Creator, beloved, and some are the sheep of the Good Shepherd, in need of spiritual care and the service of their neighbors.  Service for which God has equipped them ... with His Word, with the sweet, sweet Gospel.  A Word more powerful than all the sins and ills of this world.  A Word performative, creative, healing, sustaining.

A Word that needs to be heard.  

Again and again and again.  

By all.

By me.

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

If I could change one thing...

It would be those in agony of spirit are not left alone by the church or brothers and sisters in Christ or neighbors or family or ...

I said this day would be hard.  To many.  I said I was afraid.  Afraid of the pain of the appointment.  Afraid of the shame.  Afraid of my weakness.  Afraid of myself.

I said it.
I blogged it.
I posted it.
I messaged it.
I texted it.

No matter.
I was still alone with the agony of this day.
Not a word of encouragement, of prayer, of the Gospel.

I should have expected that.  I was alone with other ... days.  Even so, I was caught off guard.

The pain was so hard to bear the doctor was counting down for me in a very loud voice.  The failings of my body is so often cruel to me.  Nerves making things already hard for me nearly impossible.  But it was more.  My doctor asked about my father's history of something and I started wailing.  Wailing. Oh, how I was caught off guard.

I tried.  I tried to manage how I felt and the lingering pain and the unexpected question and all that arose from that by getting my blood draw done and trying to schedule the three referrals and the mammogram. Only it took nearly an hour to understand where I could go for the latter and then when I tried to schedule an appointment for the thing that would be nearly as hard as this day, I couldn't.

I couldn't because they wanted to know about my history, which has a bit of bother in that area, and so wanted to know the date of my last one and where to get my records.  The woman on the phone asked if I had one here.  I don't know.  Surely.  For a while they were three months and six months apart.  Surely.

I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.

I tried to give the place in Alexandria, so my records could be sent, but it wasn't in my phone.  I have all my older doctors in there and all the facilities.  I have been systematically adding them. I even wrote the imaging center a letter when I was applying for disability since all medical records were somehow necessary.  Yet the address, the information, was not in my phone.

It wasn't just that I don't know, but that I struggled to answer questions.  Is this a normal screening?  Yes.  No. I don't know.  Do you have a history?  Well, yes.  At one point I was sent to a surgeon.  Then, suddenly, after all that bother, the imaging was nothing to worry about.  Two years?  Three?  I am not sure.  I know the name of the surgeon I saw ... because she was kind.  Very kind.  A woman who did not mind a quivering patient, a teary patient.  I know, though not when, that the first imaging center I was at abruptly went out of business so all my ... bother ... was transferred to another one.  And I know the last time I was there I threw up in the parking lot trying to face the fear and the shame.  The overwhelming, all consuming, blinding, bewildering, crippling shame.

But was that the last time?
Did I have one here?
Of course I would ... wouldn't I?

I don't know.

I don't know and I couldn't explain.  And I couldn't explain that neither the surgeon or my regular doctor probably didn't know any of that because I probably had never brought it up.  Even with my family history.  That was then. I was trying to face the now all those months where I was trying to utilize the last of my insurance.  

I couldn't understand what the medicare insurance woman was saying and then the imaging center personnel I ended up contacting couldn't understand what I was saying.  In my head, there was sense.  But that sense could not come out my mouth.

That happens more frequently.  Of late.

I could not schedule the other appointments, for one because, somehow, I can see a doctor if I drive to her office in another city, but I cannot see her at her office here in town.  I do not understand that.  The next was a general referral; I have to choose a cardiologist.  How do I choose?  How do I find one  who is familiar, to some degree, with Dysautonomia and how it impact cardiac function? I know it should be an electrophysiologist-cardiologist, but even then there are no guarantees.  I just don't have it in me to go through doctor after doctor after doctor, as I did before my insurance ran out here.

I said as much, when my doctor today asked about the reactive hypoglycemia.  I told her the third endocrinologist I saw flat out said he could not help me because he could see Dysautonomia was affecting my reaction to my blood sugar levels, but did not know how or know what to do ... other than to keep taking the drug I use.  Thus, the referral to the out-of-town doctor who is, actually, practicing on the floor above, I believe.

The cardiologist referral came promptly after mentioning the POTS episodes and the increasing shortness of breath.  When she asked why I didn't have one here yet, I started weeping again.  I tried.  I tried for 18 months of COBRA.  I tried to find help.  But medicine is NOTHING like it is on television.  There are no doctors out there who welcome challenging cases, who will stand by your side and fight for you, leave no stone unturned. Spend 5 minutes reading Dysautonomia forums and you will see that.  But even before that wretched diagnosis.  Malaria.  Tuberculosis.  Both come up on my chart and become problematic.  That was then.  I care about now.

The surgeon said that she wished for a better quality of life for me.  She meant it.  Though even she said she was not sure I would find it ... medically.

I tried to make it through this day ... unscathed by my own flesh.  I did not.  Not by my hand. Not by my mind.  Not by my emotions.  And not by my body.

After the long day, after my failures, a migraine.  I shut down, taking the meds and turning off light and sound.  But when that began to ease, the innards writhing began.  The swelling, the pain, the rolling around on the tile floor, wanting to badly to let Amos near me, but unable to even bear the touch of cloth on my abdomen, much less the attentions of my puppy dog.  I whimpered.  He whimpered.

I am, thankfully, on the down side of the writhing.  The swelling is diminishing, though I still cannot bend my torso without terrible pain still.  I am, thankfully, belching fetid gas and signs are that the foul food left too long in my stomach is moving on ... a different sort of agony for later.  But between now and then a bit of respite.

And, hopefully, some sleep.  In a few hours ... when my innards finish ... punishing me.

I do not mean to twist Scripture in a way not intended, but, to me, I feel like the poor man, lying in the doorway, covered with boils and begging for scraps.  Scraps of the sweet, sweet Gospel that are so oft elusive to me and yet others seem to have in such abundance.

And, it seem to me, that sores born of an agony of spirit or anguish of the mind are somehow more offensive than sores born of more understandable things such as a known illness, the death of a believer, a job loss, a large home repair, or some sort of disaster.  Sores of addiction, sexual abuse, mental illness ... those, well those you walk past.  Yet the same Gospel is balm to all sores.  The same Gospel will sate the hunger, sustain the needs, of all wounds, all illness, all loss, all anguish.  

I thought that being brave and bold and honest and vulnerable about this day—this that day is still going on for me long into the night—I would not be alone.  I was wrong.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me! 

Gospel Harmony Joy Note 16...

With those parables concluded, Jesus and his disciples leave.  Their departure is in Mathew 13: 53, 8:18, 23-27; Mark 4:35-41; and Luke 8:22-25.

I found it interesting that each author/scribe began the story in a different place, but all agree they left in a boat, there was a storm, the disciples were afraid, Jesus calmed the storm, Jesus asked why they would be afraid, and the disciples were awed at One who could command nature.

Mark is the only one who included the accusation of the disciples: "Teacher, do You not care that we are perishing?" (v. 38)

I can easily envision such a cry spoken to Jesus.  They were dying after all!  And, if I remember nothing else about the disciples, I remember their proclivity to think of their interests, their needs, their futures first.  They are men of flesh, after all!

Yet, this is one of the very reasons I love the Psalter so.  Those prayers have the same cry.  Psalm 77 is a perfect example, but there are many psalms where the petitioner asks God when He will remember him, how long it will be before he is rescued, etc.  And, I would proffer, some of the listings—detailed and or lengthy—listings of sorrows and afflictions and persecutions are, on some level, the same cry:  Do You not care that all of this is happening to me?

To me, Jesus calming the storm, was showing that He did, very much, care for them.

By this I mean, Jesus knew what was ahead for Him. He knew of His trial and suffering and death and resurrection.  For these He was born. No storm was going to kill Jesus first, drown Him first so that we would not be saved.  How silly!  No, how sweet!  Sweet, sweet Gospel.  Calming a storm for you.

I am trying, ever so hard, not to read these verses as rebuke to me:

And He said to them, "Why are you timid you men of little faith?" (Matthew 8:26)

"Why are you so timid?  How is it that you have no faith?" (Mark 4:40)

And He said to them, "Where is your faith?" (Luke 8:25)

Am I not the very epitome of timid?  Do I not struggle with fear and doubts and despair?  Do I now have the weakest of faith, at times?  Do I not spend the times writhing in agony nearly insensible?

Yet ... I noticed ... the word "rebuke" is used for how Jesus addressed the elements, the wind and the water.  It was not used when Jesus asked His disciples about their faith.  Nor, I noticed, was there any recordation of a back and forth, a continuing of a discussion of their faith.

In one account, Jesus calmed the storm first, before asking.  In two accounts, the question came after.  Thinking about that, I thought about Jesus asking the question if it is easier to tell someone his sins are forgiven or to heal a person and then saying healing the paralytic so that others might know who He was.

So, was the storm not an opportunity to assess the disciples faith, to test them and see if they were yet faithful enough, but rather another opportunity for they and mankind to know that Jesus is God.

Thinking, too, about ours being a received faith, I thought that is was Jesus faith that kept calm in the midst of such turmoil, calm enough to sleep.  It is that faith I have received.  So, when I am timid, I still have His calm, His faith.

For me.


Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

Pronouns matter...

I have said many a time a favorite bit of liturgy of mine is the "Agnus Dei" from Divine Service Setting III:

O Christ, Thou Lamb of God, that takest away the sin of the World, have mercy upon us.
O Christ, Thou Lamb of God, that takest away the sin of the World, have mercy upon us.
O Christ, Thou Lamb of God, that takest away the sin of the World, grant us Thy peace.

For nearly four years, the pronoun "that" being used for Christ has bothered me, the ex-literacy professor.  Back when I was at a church that uses the setting regularly, I would always note what I thought to be an error and struggle a bit, wanting to sing instead:

O Christ, Thou Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the World have mercy upon us.

In a way, I had forgotten about the pronoun, since, when I am able to get to church, I hear the "Agnus Dei" from Divine Service Setting I:

Lamb of God, You take away the sin of the world; have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, You take away the sin of the world; have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, You take away the sin of the world; grant us peace.

I prefer the words and the form and the tune of the former version.  In part, I do because of that semi-colon.  It seems to be a command more than a petition.  To me it does.  No matter if it makes no sense to you, but it is the same as how I feel about receiving the Lord's Supper, rather than taking it.  I want the pastor to give Christ's body and blood to me, rather than to take it from a paten or mini-cup holder.  I do not even want Christ's body placed in my hands.  I want no part of the taking, for then every doubt begins to assail me.  I want the external; I want someone else deciding that it is meet, right, and salutary that I, the wretched sinner, be gifted so.

I read—see—the latter as saying:  "You are God.  So, do Your job."  I read—see—the former as pleading for mercy, not demanding it.  Yes, I am probably a tad nuts in holding that stance.

But it is not altogether strange that I was bothered by the pronoun.  People are "who" and "whom;" objects/concepts/things are "that" and "which."  Always.  So, I had a certain sense of grammatical outrage that the editors of the hymnal would refer to Jesus as not a person, but as a thing!

However, last Tuesday, when my pastor came to talk with me, to hear my confession, and to bring me the good gifts of Christ, he used Divine Service Setting III, because he knows that I prefer it, that I savor the words and the Word in it.

There I was, laying in the GREEN chair, eyes affixed on the bread and the wine—as they were for much of the visit—singing the "Agnus Dei "when the reason for the pronoun "that" suddenly struck me.

Jesus the Lamb.
Jesus the sacrifice.
Jesus the substitute ... for me ... to take away my sin.

I wanted to ask the pastor to stop singing for a moment. I wanted to savor the reason, the purpose, the utter rightness of the pronoun. But, of course, I did not.  Though, in my head ... and my heart ... I was rejoicing.

Back in the days of being the teacher, the professor, the writing tutor, I would always tell my students that pronouns matter.  Teaching proper pronoun antecedent agreement is a key part of learning grammar.  Grammar is not only about proper writing, but about clarity of meaning.  As a part of making meaning, pronouns matter.

Here, oh, how it mattered!  To me.  For me.


Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

Fear is a funny thing...

I find it strange that fear can drive us from our place of safety.  It would make more sense, that if you were afraid, you would seek that refuge.  But, perhaps, it is not really fear at all.  Perhaps it is shame.

Amos is my shadow.  When resting, he drapes himself about me as if I were one of his siblings.  He has his chew bones sessions atop my abdomen.  He often sleeps with his face pressed against my and his paws about my neck.  If at my side, he clutches my arm.  When I shower, he lies beside the antique tub, often rising to perch at the end and nose aside the curtains to see if I am still there or okay or whatever is going through his mind.  When I am changing sheets, he climbs on the bed to join me.  When I am working in the basement, he perches on the bottom step watching, if I am walking about, or curled up at my back if I am in a single spot.  When I am washing dishes, he will lie on the rug with his chin resting on my foot.  No matter where I am or what I am doing, Amos wants to be with me.  Near me.  His body touching mine if at all possible.

Ever since the pit bull attack, I have been Amos' refuge.  Me.  My shoulders.  My person.  When he is afraid, he climbs atop my shoulders.  If I try to just hold him, he will still struggle to get up there.  When he is merely afraid, he will beg to be picked up and then settle himself against my body, legs dangling down, head resting on my shoulder.  If I hold him long enough (which is getting to be too difficult), he will go to sleep.

In short, I am almost never alone when in the house.  Neither is he.  I am his refuge. And he hides himself in me whenever fear takes him.

A few days ago, I realized that Amos had left the back of the couch, where he perches when I am writing.  I usually lean my head back against his body, but I had been squinting at the computer screen. I called his name.  Nothing.  I gave the command: Come.  Nothing.  Amos has actually gotten very good at that command, so I was surprised.

I will admit that fear raced through me at the moment.  I am afraid of losing my constant companion, my fluffy white comfort.  When I take the trash out, turn back around, and fail to spot Amos in the yard, I call his name immediately.  I am always afraid someone might have left the gates open and he would get out.  I do not know if, given the opportunity, Amos would run away.  But, since I am unable to run or give chase myself, I do not want to find out.  In Alexandria, I had people cut through my yard and eventually locked the gates using the hole in the latch.  But I do not have those locks anymore. I forgot them when I moved.  I try to remember to check the back and side gate before I open the door, but remembering is one of my poorest skills now. So, despite my better sense, whenever Amos is not at my side, fear begins to rise within me.

However, when Amos did not come at command, I remembered that he had leapt off the couch and walked around a bit whilst I was working. I did not remember if he asked to go out, but I knew he had. I knew he had because I suddenly knew why Amos was absent.

Dragging myself off the couch, I looked first on the parlor carpet (because no fetid oder had wafted my way whilst typing) and then I climbed the stairs.  Sure enough, where my last visitor's dog had had several accidents was a small pile of poop.  I called Amos' name, but he still did not come.  So, I decided to clean up the mess before searching him out.

I am not sure where Amos was hiding, but when I looked back up the hallway after flushing the poop in the toilet, I spotted a nose peeking around the corner from the main stair case.  I finished cleaning, whilst keeping an eye out for my puppy.  But he did not move.  When I walked over to the stairs, I saw that Amos was stretched across three of them, his chin resting on the carpet.  He just looked at me.

Amos knew he had done something wrong.  But, instead of seeking out his refuge, he fled.  This was not the first time this had happened ... perhaps the third.  However, it just dawned on me that I am fairly certain Amos was thinking about the consequences of what he had done.  Was he afraid?  Was he ashamed?  Both?

I do not hit him or anything.  As I have blogged before, I have worked hard to control my reaction when he has accidents from fear of strangers in the house.  And if he has an accident because I did notice his asking to go out or if I try to do something on the way to the back yard and he is not able to wait I also hold my tongue.  After all, if he asks, it is my responsibility to provide for him.

This running away and hiding ... this prolonged absence ... is new with him.  He has actually had an accident right in front of me.  Not so much an accident as just relieved himself.  But we are really past that.  He asks.  Unless a new workman or visitor has really scared him, Amos only has accidents when I have failed to notice or—with my short-term memory loss—forgotten his requests.

Now, we just had a house guest with a dog that is pad trained and that had many accidents, confusing Amos mightily.  During that stay, Amos had several indoor incidents, but I worked hard with him on that and once they were gone, we were back to proper behavior.  In a way, I don't blame him.  How could he possibly understand that one dog can tend to business inside and the other must do so outside?

Anyway, all of this is to say that, in that moment, I realized just how much alike Amos and I am.  When I am aware of my sin, when its weight is bearing down upon me, I am afraid of the very refuge where I spend so much of my time:  The sweet, sweet Gospel.  Christ crucified for me.

Of course, for me, there is an element of shame mixed within my fear.  I am ashamed that I have not honored all that Jesus has given me ... and the patience.  I know that might not make sense, but when you struggle with the same things again and again and again, even you weary of your struggle, your fear, your shame, your doubts, your despair.  You begin to wonder just how many times you can be forgiven.  Surely not again.

It is a terrible thing to want something so much and be afraid of it at the same time.

Afraid your refuge will be gone.
Afraid your forgiveness will be no more.
Ashamed that you would need it again.
Ashamed that you would want it.

I wonder why Amos hides from me.  When I am at an appointment or at the store, Amos is besides himself upon my return.  Jumping up and down until I stop and pick him up.  Normally careful not to entangle himself in my feet, he will walk all around me as I set my things down, as if assuring himself that I am really home, that I am really hear with him.  For him.  So much am I his world and yet he runs away and hides when struggling with his shame and fear.  He runs away and hides when all he knows of me is love and acceptance and care and defense.


Longing and fearing.
Fearing and yet knowing.
Knowing and yet fearing still.

The good gifts of Christ sustain me, heal me.  Again and again and again.  Not once has the Living Word failed me.  Not once has Christ's body and blood hurt me.  The Promise is still  for me.  No matter how much I fear.  No matter how ashamed I am.  The Psalter is overflowing with just how much God knows us, knows our fears and sins and longings, and yet forgives and saves and shelters. Why cannot the knowing be stronger than the fear?


Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

Gospel Harmony Joy Note 15...

I am going to repeat a bit from my last entry, so that all my harmony of the Gospels thoughts are together.

I have left off reading my beloved A Harmony of the Gospels because the parables were starting. When I read them, I see Law, hear Law, taste Law, become crushed by Law. My first thought is: Okay, what is this parable telling me that I should be doing? That is how I learned them. That is how I learned nearly all of the New Testament: Jesus, the new and improved Moses.

Because this was going to be a hard day for me anyway and I was struggling to sleep, I cracked open the book. Immediately, I found myself floundering and worried ... very worried. What soil am I? Surely I am either the dirt on the side of the road (because Satan plucks the Word from me so very easily) or I am the thorns (because the cares of my life choke out the Word). Maybe I am both. Surely I am both. Alas, I have failed at being soil, being good soil, being the receiver of the magnificent, powerful, truly awesome gift that is the Word of God.

I emailed my friend Mary, the gentle Gospel giver, my despair. She emailed me back Jesus. Jesus is the soil.

Now, why didn't I think of that?

I mean, have I not learned that Christianity is a life of reception, that the very faith I have is that which I have received from Jesus Christ through the Holy Spirit as He works in Word and Sacrament?

I actually did not receive her email before my pastor came by to bring me the gifts of Christ. The gifts I was rather almost certain he should not be bringing me, given the struggles I have been mired in of late. I mentioned my despair of soil and he asked me what the parable was about. Without thinking, I answered, "the Word of God being sown." Jesus. Again.

The parable is not about soil, but about the Living Word taking root and bearing fruit, which is promised to do and to do so in those who are His sheep.

So, the parables. SIGH.  I must be brave, right?  Not fear them so?  I must, with the example given, try really hard to see Jesus in them, not Moses.  I must at least try ... and then send my frenetic emails to Mary.

So, I left off at Matthew 13: 1-23, Mark 4:1-25, and Luke 8:4-18

Soil.  If the parables are about the Living Word, then of course the soil is Jesus.  We receive faith, His faith.  But what else did I notice as I continue to read.

"He who has ears to hear, let him hear." (Matthew 13:9, Mark 4: 9, and Luke 8: 8)

Of course, you know, this calls to mind the Psalter.  Have the Word in our ears, in our mouths, on our tongues, falling from our lips.  All about hearing.  Hearing because faith comes through hearing.  

The thing that has long bothered me and distressed me is that terrible habit of encountering a bit of Scripture and set about figuring your place in it or, to put it in current terms, to determine its life application for you.  

Jesus is not the new Moses.

Jesus is not the new Moses.

Jesus is not the new Moses.

If He is not the new Moses, then the message is about Him, about who He is, why He has come, and what that means.

I laughed at the disciples question:  "Why do You speak to them in parables?"  Me, I'm there right with them. 

But in the middle of this—literally and figuratively since Mark is in the middle column in the parallel presentation—in verses 21-22, Jesus says, "A lamp is not brought to be put under a peck-measure, is it, or under  bed?  Is it not brought to be put on the lamp stand? For nothing is hidden, except to be revealed; nor as anything been secret, but that it should come to light."

Of course there, already, is Jesus.  There is the promise that His Words will be revealed, that He will not remain hidden.  But, for me, what flitted through my mind was the song "This Little Light of Mine" and all the terrible pressure behind chastising folk about keeping their lights hidden about cajoling folk to go shine their lights for others.  We are not the light. We are not the light.  We are not the light.  Jesus is.

Ah, that beautiful, fantastic Psalm 18 again!  [You know, I have had people tell me that they do not like Psalm 18!  How could that possibly be??]  Jesus is the light of our lamps.  Look right there in Mark, is says so again.  Not me, not my faith, not my obedience.  Jesus.

So after the soil and sowing, is lamps giving light and those who will hear and those who will not.  

Then comes Mark 4:26-29, which, to me, emphasizes the work of the Holy Spirit.  By this I mean, we read that "the soil produces crops by itself; first the blade, then the head, then the mature grain in the head."

Following that is Matthew 13:24-30, which is about the tares growing in with the wheat.  It struck me that the slaves inclination was to go rushing in and get rid of the tares, get rid of the bad things.  It made me think about how quickly we make judgments about bad things, bad influences, bad people.  It is not that being around the wheat, growing up amongst it was going to change the tares, but if I am focusing on Jesus, then the parable would remind me that Jesus is the Lord of the Harvest.  

That one, at least, I believe I read through the lens of the Gospel for Matthew 13: 36-43, which in the parallel Gospel comes a bit later, tells us that the field is the world, the tares are the sons of the evil one, that the enemy sowed them, and that the harvest will come at the end of the age.

In between, whilst I was thinking about those slaves, are two parables about the kingdom of God, the parable of the mustard tree, which confused me for I only remember verses about faith and mustard seeds, and the parable of the leavened loaf, which I understand not at all.  But at the end of the latter parable, in Matthew 12: 35, Jesus quotes: "I will utter things hidden since the foundation of the world." Paul told those people (who I cannot remember) that Jesus was the hidden God.  

Mysteries.  Paul also wrote that they were the stewards of the mysteries of God.  I've written before what solace I find in that.

If there are mysteries of God, then there are things of God that we will never know, in this world.  We are not meant to know them.  It is not needful for us to know them.  We know what is good to know.  That does not mean that we know all from the beginning or that the Holy Spirit will not reveal the things to faith to us, but it does mean that not every answer to all things is for us to know.  There is rest in that. There is peace in that. There is refuge in that.

The section finishes with the parables of the hidden treasures, the pearl of great price, the dragnet, and the householder.  The parable of the dragnet is like the parable of the tares, separating the children of Christ from the sons of evil at the end of the age.  I do not understand the others. 

In fact, at the end, Jesus asks the disciples if they understood everything and they said,"Yes."  I sighed, and thought, Good for you!

But is is good.  I read the first section of parables (are there more to come) and saw some Jesus and did not focus on what I should be doing, how I can be more faithful.  I wonder ... could reading the Gospels again and again and again and again, the way that I have the Psalter, help me to see Jesus and not Moses, the way that I see Jesus all throughout my beloved psalms?

Jesus came.

Jesus came to serve.

Jesus came to be our soil.

Jesus came to sow the Word of God.

Jesus came to teach.

Jesus came.

For me.

Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

Two things—or is it three...

Maybe it is four.  Or one.  If it is all Jesus, then it is just one thought to capture before it passes from my compromised mind?

I have left off reading my beloved A Harmony of the Gospels because the parables were starting.  When I read them, I see Law, hear Law, taste Law, become crushed by Law.  My first thought is: Okay, what is this parable telling me that I should be doing?  That is how I learned them.  That is how I learned nearly all of the New Testament:  Jesus, the new and improved Moses.

Because this was going to be a hard day for me anyway and I was struggling to sleep, I cracked open the book.  Immediately, I found myself floundering and worried ... very worried.  What soil am I?  Surely I am either the dirt on the side of the road (because Satan plucks the Word from me so very easily) or I am the thorns (because the cares of my life choke out the Word).  Maybe I am both.  Surely I am both.  Alas, I have failed at being soil, being good soil, being the receiver of the magnificent, powerful, truly awesome gift that is the Word of God.

I emailed my friend Mary, the gentle Gospel giver, my despair.  She emailed me back Jesus.  Jesus is the soil.

Now, why didn't I think of that?

I mean, have I not learned that Christianity is a life of reception, that the very faith I have is that which I have received from Jesus Christ through the Holy Spirit as He works in Word and Sacrament?

I actually did not receive her email before my pastor came by to bring me the gifts of Christ.  The gifts I was rather almost certain he should not be bringing me, given the struggles I have been mired in of late.  I mentioned my despair of soil and he asked me what the parable was about.  Without thinking, I answered, "the Word of God being sown."  Jesus.  Again.

The parable is not about soil, but about the Living Word taking root and bearing fruit, which is promised to do and to do so in those who are His sheep.

Which is the second point.  I am actually, in reality, a very good sheep.  I am stupid. I wander off and get lost. And I have no real accomplishment to speak of. Sheep are sheep because they are created as sheep. Sheep are dependent upon others to care for them, to guide them, to guard them, and to rescue them.  So, frankly, I get top marks as a sheep.

But what makes a sheep a part of a flock is the shepherd.  So, the point of talking about sheep is not actually the being stupid or smart, wandering off or being a super follower, or growing really thick, luxurious wool for harvest.  The focus of talking about sheep is actually considering the shepherd.  Jesus.  Again.

I don't know.  Maybe that doesn't really make sense to you, but being a white sheep or a black sheep or a lost sheep or a found sheep does not really matter. It is not the point.  Sheep exist.  They live and breathe and move and have their very being in the shepherd who tends them.

Even as a veritable torrent of tears were pouring down my face, I laughed.  I am a sheep.  I am a sheep of the Good Shepherd.  I can be the muddiest, scrawniest, most lagging behind and most often lost sheep, but I am His sheep.

Then a while later, I took the time to thank a pastor on Facebook for a post he wrote, a honest, raw acknowledgment of one facet of the world in which we live.  And he wrote back.  Jesus.  Again.  [Good stuff that will be published eventually.]

What he wrote made me think of this bit from Luther: Letters of Spiritual Counsel.  The book had been recommended to me several times and in my distress I thought I would seek some counsel.  I have not, for the large part, found it comforting.  I find it full of accusations of lack of faith and admonishments to live in faith. I find it full of references to suffering and illness and anxiety being God's discipline.  I find it triggers within me a rather frenetic desperation to be the good child of God so I will not be so ill or suffer so much in spirit.  I find myself, again, wanting to figure out what lesson it is that I need to learn that God has been trying to get through my thick skull by beating me with the rod of punishment.

Today, when I read some of the distressing bits to my pastor, what he told me is that he did not hear my name in those letters.  Of course, it took a while and further explanation for me to understand, but what he was saying is that Luther did not write them to me, Myrtle, and that Luther is not Scripture.  I showed him the one part that gave me pause and the one letter I had found that was all consolation of the Gospel and not a prescription for getting better.  He said to stick with those things of Jesus that I saw and that, maybe, later, if I wanted, I could go looking for more. More Jesus.

Our Lord and Saviour Jesus left us with a commandment concerns all Christians alike, namely, that we should preform humanitarian duties or, rather (as the Scriptures call them), works of mercy in behalf of the afflicted and oppressed, visit those who are sick, try to liberate those who are captive, and do other things of this sort for your neighbors, whereby the evils of our time might be somewhat alleviated.  Our Lord Jesus Christ has himself given us a very clear example of this commandment when, out of his great love for humanity, he came down from the bosom of his Father to share our miseries and captivity (that is, our flesh and wretched life) and took upon himself the penalty of our sins in order that we may be saved.  It is as Isaiah wrote in ch. 43, "Thou hast made me to serve with thy sins, thou hast wearied me with thine iniquities."  Whenever remains unmoved by so clear an example, and whoever is not driven by the added authority of the divine commandment to perform such works of charity, will in the Last Judgement deserve to hear the voice of the angry judge saying:  "Depart from me, thou cursed one, into everlasting fire, for I was sick, and thous visitedst me not.  Ungrateful as thou art for all the benefits which I have bestowed on thee and the whole world, thou wouldst not so much as life a little finger to help thy brethren—nay, to help me, thy God and Saviour Christ, in thy brethren."

When, therefore, I learned, most illustrious prince, that Your Lordship has been afflicted with a grave illness and that Christ has at the same time become ill in you, I counted it my duty to visit Your Lordship with a little writing of mine. I cannot pretend that I do not hear the voice of Christ crying out to me from Your Lordship's body and flesh and saying, "Behold, I am sick."  This is so because such evils as illness and the like are not borne by us who are Christians but by Christ himself, our Lord and Saviour, in whom we live, even as Christ plainly testifies in the Gospel when he says, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."  Although it is our duty to visit and comfort in this fashion all those who are of the household of faith, for Saint Paul clearly distinguishes betwen those who are of the household (bound to us by some necessity) and those who are not, Gal., ch. 6. [emphasis mine] (pp 26-27)

Luther goes on to say that he had other reasons for the duty of care, given that he is one of Elector Frederick of Saxony's subjects.  But, for me, the letter was already finished.  What did he mean that Christ was ill in him?

Perhaps this is already crystal clear to you, but it is not to me.  Only it seems as if all these Bible verses are suddenly shifting within me.  The ones Luther quoted, the one I alluded to (Acts 17:28), all of those Paul writes about our lives being in Christ.

I cannot pretend that I do not hear the voice of Christ crying out to me from Your Lordships' body and flesh and saying, "Behold, I am sick.

My pastor read to me from Mark, but I do not remember where.  He read to me about Jesus coming to serve us.  In reading it, he stressed that Jesus did not come to be worshipped.  So, today, Jesus had come to, again, serve me, despite my distress and despair and doubts.

Oh, how I long to be the goodly suffering saint who praises God for each and every moment of misery.  Before, I wanted to be able to do so in order to know that I am saved.  But to know that I have only to ask if I am baptized.  And, when I doubt even so, I have only to ask if God will not recognized His own Son, His Son that is in my body, given for me, shed for me.

I long to be the goodly suffering saint not for assurance of salvation so much as to honor the gifts I have received, to honor the priceless treasure of the Psalter, if nothing else.  But what my pastor was telling me is that Jesus did not come come so that I could honor God.

He came to serve.
To serve me.
Even now.


Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

Neither one is pleasant...

I have found that when I post things most important to me on Facebook, they largely go ignored.  Like this one:

One of the trials of Dysautonomia is POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome). Diagnosis of Dysautonomia can often be a discouraging, despairing, arduous path. I literally had no idea what my diagnosis, soon to be exactly 3 year ago, actually meant even though I had already faced chronic illness for over a decade. Even if I had some understanding of the condition, I could not have fathomed what it would mean for me. Sadly, Dysautonomia is not only an adult condition. Even very young children are diagnosed with Dysautonmia, and even they face doctors and medical personnel who doubt and even ridicule their physical misery and accuse them of making things up or trying to seek attention. As an adult, I've been on the other end of that and barely survived the hurt and additional burden that brings. I cannot imagine children having to do the same.

Below is a post from a parent who spent four years trying to discover what was wrong with her son, even when the medical community was an obstacle to her efforts. She has an answer now and is searching for ways to help him, an 8-year-old who is facing an incredibly debilitating, incredibly complex, and largely unknown condition. 

"Does anyone have any tips on helping a very young child recently diagnosed with pots , my son is 8 we've been fobbed off by local hospital for the past 4 years saying were over reacting and our son is attention seeking after yet another collapse which are very frequent (had 4 yesterday) we decided to go private and travelled some 300 miles round trip and got the diagnosis of pots, finally we feel believed as u start to doubt your self were happy we have a name and our son can start getting to grips with the syndrome and what it means but more to the point how the heck do we help our child ??? I'm slowly gathering knowledge but these info sites aren't as good as asking others who live with it on a daily basis so any advice however small will be gratefully received , thanks in advance." ~ posted by Kimberley Watkinson on the Dysautonomia FB page.

Celebrate with me the courage and persistence of parents who refuse to give up searching for answers and for help for their children afflicted with Dysautonomia, when medical personnel go from being unhelpful to an actual hindrance. And pray with me for this mother, this little boy, and for all the parents and children who have to face this battle, often with little or no support.

Lord, have mercy upon the children who must face both the bewildering and debilitating things happening to their minds and bodies and the doubt, disbelief, and even disparagement of such by those in the very vocation who should be serving them. Christ, have mercy upon these children. Lord, have mercy upon them.

Lord, have mercy upon the parents of children who are suffering so who stuffer themselves in both witnessing the bodily and mental anguish of their children and face a lack of help, outright opposition, or both in their attempts to get help for their children. Christ, have mercy upon these parents. Lord, have mercy upon them.

Tomorrow marks three years since I received the diagnosis of Dysautonomia.  I had no clue, then, of the turn my life was going to take, or how quickly and abruptly it would.  And something else happened that day which makes that day all the harder for me.

But part of it being hard is wanting so very much for people in my life to ... well ... share this burden with me. If I were to say that I was starting to struggle with POTS in addition to NCS (Neurocardiogenic Syncope or more commonly known as orthostatic hypotention or vasovagal response), I want someone to understand without my having to explain and I want someone to remember after the explanation.

I have very much disliked the sensations of when my blood pressure and heart rate plummets upon standing or even sitting up from lying down. Setting aside the fainting, the sensation of something being so terribly wrong and feeling as if I am fading away ... or the world is fading away ... at the same time is just so overwhelming and so difficult to bear ... each and every time.

Now, though, with prolonged standing, POTS has become another burden to bear.

I am not sure if it is because there is so much other stuff going on or if it is just me and my heart, but when I become tachycardic, I do not recover as quickly as I can from NCS.  Lying down pretty much solves the low blood pressure and my heart rate will either stop falling or rise back to normal.  However, once the POTS starts, my heart rate remains elevated for long periods of time and I struggle to breathe.  I am also dizzy.  Even lying down.  The sensations and illness are as all consuming and debilitating as migraines, though in a different fashion.

Light and sound do not bother me, but I cannot read or watch television or even enjoy music.  Instead, I am trapped in this heightened state of anxiety (another symptom), with a racing heart and dizziness so great that the slightest movement of my head brings on another wave of dizziness.  All that is horrid, but I struggle to endure the shortness of breath.  In my head, I know that air is there for me and I will continue to breathe, albeit in a struggling fashion, rather than getting to a point of not being able to do so like with the asthma attacks.  I will not worsen over time, but neither will using an inhaler make it better.  Mostly, it is about waiting.  Enduring.

Enduring feeling anxious and breathless and dizzy, with your heart rate skyrocketing.

The odd thing is that I can feel it starting.  And, as yet, I have failed to acknowledge the danger zone in which I find myself and promptly go lie down.  No, instead, I try to finish whatever I am doing. I strive for closure.  And in so doing I race pass the tipping point and fall off the proverbial cliff.

And keep falling.
Alone.
Frightened.

Follow the link and read about POTS.  It is just horrid.  Overwhelming.  Almost too much to grasp.

For this reason, I weep, at times, for the children facing Dysautonomia and for their parents facing the suffering of their child.  In the quote I included in my post, the mother writes about how they spent four years seeking help for their little boy, all the while being told he was fine and just seeking attention.  Oh, how that angers me!

I would venture that 100% of adults struggling with Dysautonomia face the disbelief of real suffering and the condemnation for attention-seeking at some point.  In fact, I would proffer that most of them experience that much of the time.  But the thought of a child having to face and endure all these bewildering and debilitating symptoms and be chastised over his/her response to such, over wanting to be helped, just infuriates me.

I commented on the mother's post on the Dysautonomia Facebook page, primarily because no one else had done so.  I was afraid to do so, since I am not a parent and I have not been struggling to help and to find help for a child suffering from Dysautonomia.  However, I decided to write to her the things I would do if I were here, including the things I wish I had in my own life from someone helping me face and endure this devastating condition:

If you are Googling, you probably have found some of the practical advice, such as ensuring that he is hydrated and getting plenty of sodium. Eating small meals many times a day is also helpful. And naps are great friends.

But there are a few things I think that you could do for him, beyond the practical you will surely find online:

1. Tell him often how brave he is for facing this, being sure he hears that being brave is not about feeling brave, but about getting on with facing POTS even when he is feeling frustrated or confused or sad or tired of it all. Courage is continuing on with your journey, even if you are weeping and despairing as you drag yourself along the ground. Remind him that even grown-ups struggle to face POTS.

2. Stress with him how very mercurial and idiosyncratic POTS can be, so trying to predict and plan for how days will go is not really possible. Even though it has to do with autonomic nerve function, which is a discrete description, how that dysfunction is played out, even in the same body, is never discrete or predictable. "Going with the flow of my body" has to be his motto, above and beyond what others might be telling him to do or wanting him to do.

3. Read how others describe their symptoms and help him come up with words to tell you how he is feeling, both physically and mentally. That way, he knows that you know how he is doing. Think of it as developing a code of sorts that you can use to communicate when he either cannot focus on doing so or does not feel like doing so.

4. Help him identify things that make make his symptoms worse. For example, raising my arms while doing something makes doing that sometimes many, many more times difficult. Between the work of standing and the work of washing my hair, taking a five-minute shower can leave me breathless and shaking, as if I have just completed a marathon. But it took me a long, long while to realize that washing my hair with my arms raised up was as hard work as standing. Bending over is another activity that is sure to make me near-faint or faint upon straightening up. Bending over is such a natural response, a natural activity, that I still do so even though I know it is a problem. My best friend often reminds me of things that are "triggers" for me.

5. Help him come up with a list of things he can do to help navigate the emotional storms that come with facing chronic illness. A Go-To list or basket of things that can help, ranging from passive to active: listening to music, watching something, playing a game (card, board, or computer), reading a book, making a list of things to do on a better day, naming three achievements from the day before, an art activity, singing, being read to, making models, etc. People's lists can be different, but the items on them all have the same goal: to help focus on the external, rather than the internal, to focus on something other than what is happening in your body and/or in your mind. The key to a successful list is to have a variety of things so that there is at least *something* that can help you get through the bad moments.

6. Help him come up with simple sentences to explain to others the things that are happening with his body, so that he can talk about POTS and how it affects him. That way, he can make it real for others, helping to dispel to some degree both the ignorance and the disbelief he will oft encounter.

His mother responded with deep gratitude, saying that she had found the practical, but nothing on how to help him cope mentally.  

Therein lies the rub.  It really is as much a mental battle as it is a physical one. By this I mean, not only are you mentally affected by symptoms such as cognitive dysfunction and anxiety, you are also affected by mental fatigue, the fatigue that comes from facing this wretched condition, this failure of your body's autonomic functions, each and every day.  It never ends.  Some days are better than others. Some days have fewer symptoms than others.  But none are good days physically.  None.  All of that has disappeared.  And somewhere deep inside—for me at least, though I suspect for many others—there is a part of you cataloguing the symptoms, marking the decline, staring down the inexorable path to place where even your "good" days are ones you would not wish upon your greatest enemy. 

How in the world does a young child handle this?

I have been struggling, mightily, with the realization that I just cannot walk about where and when I want to do so.  I can never be far from a wheelchair if I want to be out and about.  Oh, I can—as I have unwisely done—gather myself together and work on some physical project, such as helping someone with his or her house or yard.  I will work for a spate of time, holding at bay the pain and fatigue and failures of my body.  Then, I go home and collapse.  For days on end.  I sleep and sleep.  For a recent helping project, I was so weak afterwards that for three days I could not lower myself down on the toilet.  All I could do was fall on it.

I realized, recently, that to cope with what is in my mind and my heart over watching what is happening to me—and being so utterly alone with it—that I think I disassociate from toll the labor is taking upon my body so I can accomplish something, so that I can be helpful just one more time.  Even now, I know that those instances of "just one more time" are rapidly coming to a permanent end.  Just as I cannot walk my way through grocery shopping anymore, I know that I will not be able to power my way through weeding or painting or burying a drain pipe.

I absolutely, utterly loathe POTS more than anything that has entered my life in the past few years.  I will take the fear that accompanies the vasovagal response and fainting gladly rather than the terror that is the inability to still my racing heart, spinning head, or labored breathing.  To be forced to just endure the symptoms and the sensations and the feelings and the thoughts that accompany them.  To endure them with only a puppy to help me.

But it is not just enduring POTS because I have stood too long.  It happens when I have been sitting too long.  When I have not been resting enough.

And then there is the fact that the gastroparesis is now an almost daily battle, as is small bowel bacterial overgrowth (SBBO), both from the slowing and periodic failure of my digestive system.  My abdomen is always swollen in some fashion and it is now always painful to some degree.  Sometimes the pain from this is so great that all I can do is lay on the floor and writhe and whimper.  I never fathomed how overwhelming and even violent mere nausea can be.  I oft faint when bowel movements are nearing because of bulk passing by the vagal nerve.  And I oft scream actually having a bowel movement because other nerves have become ridiculously sensitive.  The nerves in the back of my head are so sensitive now that I need ice packs to even lie in my recliner, much less try to sleep at night. I am so tired that I am often two tired to fall asleep.  The pain from the permanent tendonitis in my elbows, particularly my right elbow, from the muscular weakness, flairs frequently now, not periodically.  I faint and fall more frequently.  I am more confused.  I leave the doors open and the stove on more often, even with the signage I have about the house.  I struggle to figure out what day it is.  And so much of what I can cognitively process is delayed, which means I am often correcting problems after the fact rather than preventing them.  I have more instances of aphasia.  And if I do not remember to keep the day's medication 4-part compartment by my side, I will miss every single dose, forgetting that I even have pills to take all the day long.

I am changing, lessening, disappearing.

I see it and I frenetically try to look away from it.

I mask and pretend.

I hide.

And I am afraid.

I am alone with these things and very, very frightened of them.
Of me.
Of what is to come.

I dared to respond to that mother's plea because I rejoiced that that little boy is not alone, that he has people in his life intimately familiar with his condition, his symptoms, and his battles, who are fighting for him when they can and are championing him when there is nothing else they can do.

He is not alone.

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!