Like having a child. Still waiting for that, though. Due date’s in three days, so any day now they can come!

Anyway, I am still here, still in ministry, still pondering how to do this thing and live life in a God-honoring way. And still reading books. Just not the ones I have in the sidebar at the moment…that’s the next update!

Hopefully, I’ll post more later. In the meantime,  back to whatever it was I was doing before.

I’m pretty sure that this book is destined to be one of those that I read and reread over the course of my life. It serves as a good reminder of the depth of sin, the bleakness of it, the need to eradicate it from our lives. Surely such a thing would be obvious to those of us who identify ourselves as Christ followers, who have sworn our lives to serve the One whom we believe died for our sins. And yet it is so easy to forget. I’m not sure why. I just know that, having finished reading this book for the second time (I read it in college for a class), I am newly inspired to pursue a Christ-like life that can be described as pursuing holiness. I want it. And right now, I am even willing to get up at 5AM every day to demonstrate that.

Unfortunately, 11 hours from now will be a real test of that passion, and that’s just sad. That my life is challenged by that, and not defined by that. I am a Christian. A “little Christ.” I am part of His body. A hand or a foot or a little toe or a hair that protects from cold or something – I’m a part of His body. And I don’t live it. I have as my job the training of other members of His body. And I don’t live it.

It takes me a week to read a 158 page book about it, too. Arg.

I definitely need to reread this one once every few years, if not more often.

I am struck by a couple of aspects. One, that she praised God at all. I’m sure it was a pretty normal thing in the culture of the day to praise a deity for the gift of a child, particularly of the male variety. I guess she thought that since Rachel was barren (apparently), and she now had four sons for Jacob, that he status was secured, even if Jacob never loved her as he loved Rachel. In a way, I guess the praise feels “left over.” Like an afterthought or something. Especially since, when Rachel hands over her maidservant, the competition starts all over again with renewed vigor.

The other thing that strikes me, and contributes to the “left over” feeling, is that it took her to son number four before she gave praise to God. The first three were all about Jacob. Even her fifth and sixth sons she counted as wages due her by God for some action she had taken – something God provided for her on account of her circumstances, rather than an undeserved blessing for her simply to be thankful for.

And I guess I’m struck because I have the same tendency. God is down on the list. I eventually think of Him and even thank Him for the good things in life – the blessings. But it’s after they are here for a while, and I’ve enjoyed gloating over them or showing them off to someone else. It’s about me getting my status right first. Then I’ll give God the glory and the honor. Once I’m set up the way I want to be set up, then I’ll turn over the praise.

More ramblings that probably have little or nothing to do with what Rachel and Leah actually were dealing with in their lives. Besides, there are so many reasons that I cannot understand or comprehend what they were going through…beginning with my chromosome set.

In any event, the thought went on to ask the question about the reader’s own first encounter with God. What was it like? Jacob set up conditions (“If God does this, then I will do this”), but also set up the altar that he called Bethel (“House or Dwelling Place of God”).

I don’t know if I remember my first encounter with God. In fact, I’m sure that I do not. I remember when a tropical storm (or minimal hurricane, not sure which) went over the house we were living in on the Gulf Coast, and Mom gathered us in her bedroom and prayed to God to protect us. I was young then, maybe four or five. We were fine, as was our house. Is that an encounter with God? I remember flickers of what I call my salvation experience…being in my parents’ bedroom, talking with our church’s pastor, being baptized. Is that my first encounter? I can look back and clearly see places and times where God guided me, protected me, steered me, put me in the precisely right place at the precisely right time. Are any of these my first encounter? I remember as a senior in high school, ten years after that time in my parents’ bedroom, pacing up and down the street in front of our house, trying to figure out what to do with my life (so that I could finish my college application – singular – by writing down a major), and having the assurance that I would be in full time ministry. Without a doubt. Though I had no clue what that looked like (pastor? missionary? professor?). Just that ministry was it. Because I was 18, it’s probably the most vivid encounter with God that I can remember. But I wouldn’t call it my first encounter.

I guess my first encounter came before memories started sticking in my brain. Probably my mother singing to me or praying over me (or for me, in another room). I do know that my life is different from the lives of others in the world who have not encountered God in a significant way. While I often take detours down the paths of consumerism and commercialism and materialism, I’m always drawn back. Jacob was a conniving liar who stole from his twin brother and spent the remainder of his life cowering from him, but God still chose him and always drew him back into His plan.

Sometimes I wish I had a dramatic instant-change testimony like I sometimes hear at meetings or conferences or read about in books. But then I count myself lucky that my encounter with God is lifelong, ever present. I have, at times, flirted with doubts about God’s existence or providence, but never for long. He is always with me. Just like God promised to always be with Abraham, with Isaac, with Jacob, with their descendants. He is always with me.

That’s my Bethel.

I found that I was nodding my head a lot in agreement, so I don’t think the book is wrong in any of what it says. But I’m not sure that it will change anything. I know of one older Boomer who started reading it, but hasn’t gotten past chapter 2. I don’t think he is sure what to do with the material. His attitude is more like, “If it’s that bad, what hope is there?”

I guess I’m not sure whether to recommend the book or not. I suppose it is best for someone who wants to understand where the younger generations are coming from, or for a member of the younger generation who wants to balance a traditionally conservative expression of Christianity with the thinking of his/her peers and professors.

Thanksgiving, Christmas, and our annual church business meeting have all come and gone and my ministry seems to have been largely unaffected by those events back in November. I consider myself very blessed to be in the community of faith in which I minister. The people proved to be very understanding. Large numbers of the congregation came up to me to encourage me by their own tales of having to face professional councils or exams multiple times to be certified for their careers. It was a relief.

We may have another go at the ordination thing come late spring. We’ll see…other things may get in the way of that. Initially, I piled up large stacks of books from my library to help me rework my ordination paper and retool my arguments. But they have mostly gathered dust. Orders of service, choir selections, Sunday school classes, and the many other details of ministry have come to the forefront, as it should be.

In the end, I am pretty sure that I just pushed too quickly. I brought up the idea for the ordination council, even though I have long believed that ordination is a function of the church, not the minister. Therefore, it should be the church that presses the issue, not me. And there are many other things that I pushed through that I probably would not do the same way, and would have regretted had the ordination gone through. God is gracious, even in the muck and mire of misery. Family, friends, and congregation members all hold me and my wife up in their prayers, and the effects are noticeable. I am not nearly as bitter as I thought I would be, and that is a blessing all to itself.

I hope to get back to writing more. Thanks for your prayers, whoever reads this.

And for now I’m only reading thirteen books. Thirteen books that I have started and intend to finish. Some day. When my princess comes. Wait, that happened three years ago….

Anyone need some books?

Then we boarded the plane this morning and arrived at our local airport. A couple from church picked us up, even parking in the lot ($7.00 for 45 minutes) and waiting for us inside the terminal. They offered to take us out to eat, which we gladly accepted, not having a clue what we had food-wise in the house. We had a good visit. And then just being in our house with the familiar surroundings – so many things we left in the middle during our rush out to the airport earlier this week.

It’s just so nice to have a home, and to be here at it. To be in the familiar. The comfortable. To return to normal after the extremely abnormal.

It is my prayer that you, too, have a place that is home for you.

It’s weird being a minister at a family funeral. It’s like no one knows what to do with me. I suppose I wouldn’t, either, if the roles were reversed. Cousins that joke with my sister and her boyfriend apologize and “straighten up” when I show up, or they remember what I do for a living. It’s almost humorous to watch.

And then there are the things that I just don’t know what to do with, and I think I don’t know what to do with them because I am a minister, I’ve been to seminary, I’ve studied Greek and Hebrew and pastoral counseling. Like my uncle who said that he saw two – no, he corrected himself, four – angels in my aunt’s hospital room. One was my deceased grandmother and one was possibly my grandfather. And the whole (immediate) family – including my father – tears up as he is telling this story around the breakfast table. My wife (who also went to seminary) and I sit and continue munching on our breakfast, not really sure what to make of it or how to respond. It felt weird to keep eating. I’m sure it would have been worse if we had stopped and tried to fully engage the story.

The pastor of the church my aunt attended is around my age – possibly a little older, possibly a little younger. He was at the wake last night. It was awkward watching him do his thing. He is clearly an MBTI extrovert (I am very much an MBTI introvert). The style of ministry and comforting is very different. Being with family made it all very different, as well. He prayed his prayer, and I spent the time analyzing his theology.

45 minutes into the three hour wake (we’d been there longer, with the family), my wife and I left. My parents told us we could. But this morning I wonder if it was the appropriate thing to do. My cousins were staying. My sister and her boyfriend were staying. But I, a minister by trade, left the family and friends that were streaming through to their grief. We went to Wal-mart, got some TV dinners to heat up in our motel room’s microwave, and watched two episodes of CSI and an episode of Without a Trace before we realized that it was well past time for the wake to be over and my family to be back. We thought they would call. They didn’t.

It’s just all weird. I don’t know my place. I don’t grieve for my aunt; I empathize with my father. I feel like I should be shedding more tears. I should be offering some kind of comfort to my family. I should be more than a fixture sitting on a sofa for less than an hour of the three hour ordeal last night.

A week and a half ago, she drove hours to a larger metropolitan area with a good hospital system to be vetted for a possible liver transplant. Just this past week, she found out that she made the cut; her name is on the list for a new liver. She went back to work, tried to learn how to use a cell phone so she could be contacted when the organ became available.

Friday she couldn’t go to work.

Saturday she couldn’t move at all.

Sunday she went into the hospital. With a stomach infection. And kidney failure. The kidneys, not the liver. Quickly, unexpectedly, out of the blue. They called the family. She stabilized some. We’re still waiting.

Through it all, I’m wondering what I should pray. I feel desperately that I should know what to pray, that it is my responsibility to know what to pray. It’s not how – I understand that part. It’s the what. What do I come to God asking for? For her to live? She knows Christ and what He has done for her. Certainly the other side of death is better. Do I pray for comfort? For peace? For energy? For strength? For assurance? For health? For wisdom? For ……………..
In James, we’re told that the sick were to seek out leaders of congregations, righteous men, so that that they could pray over the sick and the sick could be made well. In Ecclesiastes, we’re told that to everything there is a season – to be born, and to die.

I come to the “closet” and silence confronts me. I have no doubt that it is full silence. That the Holy Spirit is working and groaning where words fail me.

What to pray? I don’t have the faintest clue. All I know is that I am to pray.